By a Spider's Thread - Faisalliot - Harry Potter (2024)

Chapter 1: A Curious Question Indeed

Chapter Text

The novelty of entering St. Mungo's had died a quick and dishonorable death somewhere around Harry's third time marching past the mannequin that guarded it.

Frankly, something about the bloody thing had morphed from extraordinarily ugly to straight unnerving, he thought, as he bustled through the cool, invisible veil into the reception room. He tried not to, but he found himself stuck thinking about its one eyelash-less eye again, and the eerie, dustless look of the cotton dress it modeled. It was like a bizarre, visible time capsule.He rolled a shudder out of his shoulder, wondering how long it had been there. So many things in the wizarding world seemed frozen in time.

He let the security bloke, or whatever the wizarding title was, check his wand, and peered back at the mannequin in the distance. Who had made it? Had it been a muggle, or a mage? Who had sat down and taken the time out of their day to actually construct it? Were they alive? What was the purpose of what they had made? Had it been intended to be exactly what it was―a model...or was its creation a shell all along? Maybe it was always meant to guard the wizards in St. Mungo's.

But what Harry wondered most was why? What was it about the mannequin that had made a mage look at it and think, “ah, yes, this will be the perfect cover for a magical hospital” and enchant it?

And what was the story of the dress it was covered with? It marked the appearance of something people passed by every time they were on the way to see someone in a hospital. Was there any significance to the dress or who had sewn it together? Had it been sewn by a human hand at all? Or machine? And how had it gotten pulled over the mannequin’s body and left there? Where had all the tiny pieces of material come from? Where had the buttons come from, the buckles, the threads? Where did it all come from?

Thoughts like these had been plaguing Harry for days now, because this was quite honestly the last line of defense he had against an encroaching nervous breakdown.

He ignored the prod on his back, an unwelcome courtesy from Moody, and made faster, purposeful strides towards the first floor. Yes, if Harry did not think of ridiculous, theoretical things like all that instead of the current state of things, he would just worry, and if Harry worried, he would have to stave off yet another meltdown. He rather thought that he'd had enough of those, but lately, his body had been doing everything in it's power to prove him wrong.

So now, life had become an ongoing game of "what can Harry think about to distract himself from the fact that the world is burning?" and while the lot of it really was just a bunch of useless fluff to block out the heavier things he wasn't equipped to deal at the moment, useless didn't mean ineffective. Some of his more recent victories had been found in the cracks in the walls of Grimmauld Place and where, exactly, they had come from, the logistics of fairy lights in the wizarding world (he still wasn't quite sure how they worked here), and how snow gave no sh*ts about the things it covered, like that boot he'd watched get buried beneath it the other morning. It had taken three hours.

Unfortunately, as useless yet effective these thoughts were, they weren't enough that morning.

Hence why Harry was at St. Mungos for the third time, on his way to visit Mr. Weasley again, and feeling a bit stupid the entire way.

The receptionist behind the desk coughed as he passed but said nothing, and he dodged a speed-walking, green-berobed healer with a mumbled apology. Moody made a strange rumbling noise behind him, like he was trying to surreptitiously dislodge a bit of hair from the back of his throat, and Harry tried to relax his shoulders, reminded uncomfortably of Vernon. Vernon was someone who was more than sick of Harry, and Harrydidnot want to think about that, because then he'd think that maybe Mr. Weasley was sick of him too, and whether or not that was true wouldn't matter, because that might honestly be enough to make him cry today. Which was firmly not on his itinerary, thanks.

This morning had been stressful enough as it was. He'd woken from what felt like his millionth nightmare about Mr. Weasley getting jumped by Nagini, which was the best testament to just how much Harry couldn’t get the attack out of his mind. The whole experience had rattled the hell out of him, and done so much better than anything else had before, because even now, weeks later, the memory of it was enough to send him scampering here just to make sure that Mr. Weasley was...y'know...doing alright. He didn't want to think of the feeling of fabric gliding past his lips, the coldness of the floor, the godawful crunch of a shattering bone beneath his teeth, or the warm tang of gurgling, hot blood…ugh. It all made him nauseous...and scared. And veryangry.

And Angry-Harry did very stupid things, like border on hyperventilation in the bathroom at five in the morning. Loud enough, despite his best efforts, for Mrs. Weasley to wander in, bleary-eyed and concerned, to pull the toothbrush out of his mouth and mend his furiously bleeding gums. Which was what had been making him panic more in the first place, because his own stupid brain had convinced him that he was tasting Mr. Weasley’s blood again.

Yeah. Try as he might, he couldn't stop thinking of it. And as he'd long-since learned, he wouldn't be able to, not until he saw Mr. Weasley with his own eyes, and his mind got the memo--yet again--that all these sensations had happened weeks ago, and were no longer a problem.

And so, here Harry was, bothering Mr. Weasley for the third time with the flimsy excuse that he might appreciate the company on Christmas Eve.

If he was being perfectly candid though, his little meltdown in the bathroom that morning had very little to do with his decision to swing by again. Well, not little, but when lumped in with every other reason he was here, it was slightly less substantial. For one thing, the growing tension in Grimmauld place was unbearable― Harry swore he couldn't walk more than three paces without seeing someone wringing their hands. Christmas spirit who? Not in Grimmauld, it wasn't. Not only that, but Kreacher’s general lurking was putting him on edge, what with his constant mutterings in the hall―it reminded him terribly of the Basilisk sometimes, but less about eating mudbloods and more about being pissed about them being in the house. Understandably, Harry was not on board with thinking about snakes right now. And on top of that, Sirius was being too lackadaisical just as much as everyone around him was treating him like Grandma’s precious china, and―and Fred and George were both freaking him out with all of the goddamned apparating--and he couldn’t sleep to save his own life because he couldn’t stop thinking of Mr. Weasley--and Mrs. Weasley was about to drive him up the Eiffel Tower with her smothering―

―Ugh.

Harry felt like the stress of it all was about to swallow him. He was three steps away from blowing up at any given moment, and that was a can of hurt he wasn’t keen on opening. Especially now. Not with―not with everything. It was just too much.

He finally made it to the ward Mr. Weasley was in, and pushed open the door. He peered around, trying to remember which bed was Mr. Weasley’s, and had a brief moment of panic where he wondered if Mr. Weasley had been moved somewhere else (if he'd died in the night, and no one had said anything, what if--). He calmed down ever so slightly once Mr. Weasley caught sight of him before he did, and immediately beamed, waving him over.

“Harry!”

...Phew.

Harry let a smile crack his lips and abandoned Moody, hurrying over a bit faster. “I’ve come to bother you again,” He said, nodding amicably to Matthew Cork, the werewolf in the opposite bed who had busied himself with a newspaper, and sank into the chair next to Mr. Weasley.

“Ah, you never bother me.” Mr. Weasley pulled himself upright with a wince, sighed, and prattled on with, “Quite the opposite, actually―here I was, just thinking about spending this Christmas Eve all on my lonesome, and here you are. You’ve splendid timing, Harry, truly.”

In return, Harry gave Mr. Weasley a tight sort of smile, which was the best he could muster at the moment, and felt his stomach sink a little when Mr. Weasley frowned a bit and seemed to search his face. Harry already knew he was done for when Mr. Weasley’s expression softened, but that didn’t stop him from feeling embarrassingly close to screaming when he said, very gently, “Alright?”

Seeing no point in feigning perfect health, Harry sagged a bit and brushed Mr. Weasley off with a passable,

“Just didn’t sleep much, ‘s all.”

It felt rude to outline any of his own problems when Mr. Weasley was the one between the two of them who was cooped up in a hospital bed, and it wasn’t as if he was lying―really, he had barely slept. What did it matter if there were nine other things that were wrong too? Tiredness was enough of an excuse, and Mr. Weasley looked satisfied by it―relieved, even, which was good because that was exactly what Harry had wanted.

“Oh, what’re we going to do with you, son?” Mr. Weasley sighed, leaning over with some difficulty to cuff Harry on the forehead, though it was far less of a cuff and more of a gentle, familiar bonk.

It cheered Harry a bit, though, just enough for him to send Mr. Weasley a more genuine smile, which made the man look pleased. Nothing to say came to mind, and that was all well and good because Mr. Weasley turned to crack a bit of a joke at his wolfy roommate, Cork. “Honestly, out of all the kids, he’s the only one who’s bothered to show up more than once so far. Those knuckleheads better turn up tomorrow for Christmas, or I’m going to give ‘em the ol’ one-two.” Mr. Weasley laughed raspily, and went to continue, but he was cut off by a rather loud, indignant snort from Cork. Upon noticing the ill-timing of that, Cork straightened a bit with a light flush, and cleared his throat.

“Sorry about that.” He nodded down to the paper with a grimace and said, “It’s just that this edition of the Prophet is pure insanity. I mean, honestly, it just smells like bullsh*t, and it’s not helping that they’re really taking the mickey out ofyou with this one, Potter.” He turned the paper around and pointed to show off what he meant.

Harry could’ve groaned at the bolded sentence he was indicating on page three. “ ‘Up to ‘Snow’ Good: Flabbergasting Festive Fables Worthy of the Boy Who Lived’ .” Cork read scornfully, and laughed in a bitter sort of way as he recounted, “The whole thing is just a bunch of outdated Christmas parables and random fluff filled with thinly-veiled insults about you. Honestly, you’d think they’d have found something better to do than slander a teenage boy by now. S'ppose they're just milking it for content at this point--I mean, there's only so many ways to write your outrage about unicorn hair prices.” And then he proceeded to recount one of the stories just to mention it’s little quip about him at the end, which apparently said something about the story being odd enough to make, “even Potter’s own head spin with questions”.

It was obnoxious that the Prophet was still taking defamatory digs at him, and it was the absolute last thing Harry had wanted to hear about, but the welling anger in him was--for once--completely drowned out by confusion. A Burglar’s Christmas was the title of the story Cork had picked out to read, and apparently, the whole bit was about some bloke wandering the south side of Chicago on Christmas Eve, living in poverty after cutting himself off from his wealthy family, who just decided to be a burglar on the fly and...wandered into someone’s house to steal their things, no plan in mind. It was only mid-robbery that he noticed that all the things he was grabbing were familiar, just in time for his mom to walk in and hug him. Willa Cather was apparently the one person on earth who sat down and thought, “Yeah, I’m going to make this bloke rob his own house” and actually did it. At least the article’s insult here had a grain of truth for once―Harry really did have questions.

Apparently the mystification had shown up on his face, because Cork looked him over and started laughing. “Yeah, I don’t know either. Muggles write some crazy sh*t sometimes. They must be very bored, huh?”

Mr. Weasley, however, was just shaking his head. “I don’t know if that’s just a muggle being a muggle, Cork. If it was really written in the 1800s, that seems pretty par for the course to me. All old stories sound barmy in one way or another―like, er…the tale of Babbitty Rabbitty and the Cackling Stump? Remember the whole thing where the muggle was trying to teach the king magic, and it was really just two muggles waving sticks about?”

Cork lit up and he added, “Yeah, personally, I found the whole bit with Babbitty talking behind the stump weirder. How loud can a rabbit be? And why didn’t any of the muggles notice the rabbit in the first place? Surely they were in something of, like, er, a half-circle form, y'know the one we all stand in for conversations―at least one of them must’ve noticed something off.”

Mr. Weasley and Cork kept prattling on from there, talking about golden statues and axe strokes, but Harry was entirely bewildered. What were they talking about? The bit about the golden statue sounded cool and all but Harry hadno clue what they were talking about, aside from the fact that this was a story of some kind. He didn't usually interrupt conversations to ask questions, but this was one of those rare, benign occasions where he just had to know, so he tapped Mr. Weasley’s forearm, kept the confusion on his face for emphasis, and asked,

“What are you two talking about?”

Mr. Weasley exchanged a slow look with Cork, and then murmured after a moment, “Ah, of course, of course you wouldn’t know…”

Well, yeah? That had been a bit obvious. Just as Harry was thinking that observation was a bit thick, Cork said:

“He hasn’t heard of Babbitty Rabbitty?” And ah, corn starch.

Mr. Weasley clasped a hand on Harry’s shoulder in a friendly gesture, and explained to Cork before Harry could do it himself, “He was raised by muggles.”

Cork frowned, went to say something, and, annoyed with being spoken about as if he wasn’t there to talk for himself, Harry broke in, “Yes, I have no idea who Babbitty Rabbitty is and yes, I am a poor little boy who was raised by savage muggles with no knowledge of our culture. Are either of you going to explain?”

Mr. Weasley and Cork seemed to consider him for a while, then exchanged a pitying look that made Harry want to bristle, but then Cork shrugged and began to launch into the story, starting off with a promising, “Okay, so, basically this stupid muggle king character wants to kidnap wizards to try and steal their magic, and—" but before he could get much further, Mr. Weasley made a peculiar “buh-buh-buh!” noise and held a hand out, effectively halting the start of Cork’s explanation.

Harry and Cork stared.

Some of Mr. Weasley's freckles disappeared in the flush that overtook his face. “Listen, er, this was one of my favorite stories to tell my kids when they were younger, and I just about have it memorized since they’d make me do it so often since they—er—since they always preferred it when I read. Would you―would you two humor me and let me tell it?”

Cork paused, looking amused and a smidge incredulous, but inclined his head towards Harry all the same. “What do you think, kid?”

Harry felt like he might find it a little too baby-ish for him, but he figured that he couldn’t find a reason why Mr. Weasley shouldn’t, 'specially because he looked so eager, so he gave the go-ahead. He had nothing better to be doing with himself, and if it could forestall how long it'd be before he had to go back to Grimmauld with more people who didn't seem to think he could speak for himself either, far be it from him to stop it.

Mr. Weasley, bless him, did a happy little hand-pat on his legs and off he went, starting off in a dramatic, wizened tone of voice, “A long time ago, in a land far away, there was a kingdom ruled by a foolish King who decided that he should be the only one to have magical powers. He formed an army, which he called the Brigade of Witch-Hunters, and armed them with black hounds to hunt the wixen of the world down, hoping to make their magic seep into the Earth and make it's way back to him. To use it, he wanted an Instructor in Magic, so he made calls for any mage from one of the nearby villages to teach him, promising jewels, gems, and riches alike. Of course, nobody was foolish enough to dare to volunteer, except for a cunning Charlatan who had no magical powers to speak of, but a wit strong enough to compensate. He convinced the foolish King that he would be able to teach him by performing a few simple tricks. Cards between his fingers and coins behind ears, things of similar ilk. And so, he was then ceremoniously appointed as the Grand Sorcerer in Chief, the King's Private Magic Master.”

“What a git,” Harry muttered under his breath, thinking of Dudley's friend Malcolm's own sleight of hand tricks, but leaned in all the same.

“Once firmly in position, the Charlatan began to make outrageous demands of the King. "I need money to purchase a magical wand!" he decreed. The King obliged him. "I must have the finest rubies in the land for my charms!" he cried, and the King obliged him. "My potions can only be stored in fine silver chalices!" He ordered, and still, the King obliged him, unknowing that these were little more than tricks and the Charlatan only wanted the treasures for himself. He stored them in his house little by little, massing a massive fortune, and returned to the palace in secret time and time again, unaware that he was being watched."

"I like this uppity voice you've given the Charlatan," Harry commented, propping his head up with his elbow.

"Thank you, Harry." Mr. Weasley said pompously, swoggling his head. "Right. Well, Babbitty, the King's washerwoman, had watched the Charlatan for quite some time, well aware of the quack he was, but when the Charlatan snapped two twigs from one of the King's trees and disappeared into the palace,” Mr. Weasley waved his hands about as if pretending to hold a wand, and Harry fought a laugh. “She couldn't help but watch him more closely, wondering what on earth his plan was with them. Soon, after carving them into quite pretty twigs indeed, the Charlatan gave one of the twigs to the King, assuring him that it was a powerful wand. A wand, however, that would only work when the King was worthy of its powers. Each morning, the King and the Charlatan practiced in the grounds, shouting nonsense whilst waving around their wands. One morning, Babbitty was watching their foolishness from the window of her little cottage. She laughed so loud that the King could hear her. "WHO IS THAT LAUGHING OVER THERE?" The King bellowed, halting his chants, red in the face with embarrassed anger. "No one, your majesty!" The Charlatan told him, nervous, but his attempts of quelling the King's upset helped none. The King's mind was made up. He was fed up of practicing and wanted results."

Harry, who knew very acutely just how well that usually went, suppressed a snort. Forcing magic―if you had it, that was―was never a good idea. Seamus had learned that lesson many, many times in first year, what with all the times he'd lost his eyebrows. Harry's lips quirked at the memory, but the small smile died a quick death when he remembered how Seamus had been treating him this year. Right...

"And so, the King decided that the next day he would invite all the court to watch him perform magic―with the help of his talented teacher, of course. The Charlatan tried to back out, since he knew neither the king nor himself knew any new magic. ‘I have to go out of town!’ He cried, but the King told him his trip could be delayed. ‘I must tend to my family,’ The Charlatan tried again, but the King was not impressed, knowing that he had none. ‘Foolish man!’ The King told him. ‘Should you leave, I’ll send the Brigade of Witch-Hunters after your hide!’” Harry huffed a laugh at the voices, which had picked up in gusto here. By now, Harry was pretty sure he knew why everyone had preferred him to read aloud. “Now sufficiently stuck, the Charlatan despaired as the King told him when they would perform, and listened in horror as the King decreed that should anyone laugh while the King performed, the Charlatan would be beheaded. In desperation, the Charlatan ran to Babbitty's house the moment he could get away from the king in hopes of spying on her and uncovering something to distract the King and get her fired for the misfortune she had brought upon him, but to his own luck and amazement, he saw the King's sheets washing themselves in the wooden tub behind her. He knew at once that she was a witch―a real witch. And so, the Charlatan tore into her house, thrust a finger forward, and he threatened Babbitty that if she did not help him, he would reveal to the King that she was a witch and ensure that the Brigade would hunt her down!”

Cork shook his head. “Bastard!” He cried, and then laughed at himself. "You really do have this memorized, don't you, Arthur?"

Mr. Weasley sent him an amused look, but did not reply, choosing instead to continue. “Amused, Babbitty agreed to help the poor Charlatan. He instructed Babbitty to hide behind a bush the next day and make it seem as if the King himself could do magic. And so, she did―while the Charlatan and the King performed, the crowd was astonished by the disappearance of a hat and a levitating horse. For a moment, it seemed the Charlatan would be saved, but then, one of the members of the brigade asked if the King could make his dead dog return to life. The King tried, but Babbitty did not even bother with raising her wand, knowing well that no magic, no matter how deep or dark, can truly raise the dead.” The way Mr. Weasley said the closing sentence had an air of importance to it, which was only exacerbated by the noticeable pause afterwards before he continued again. “The crowd began to laugh and laugh at the King, and the King demanded to know why the spell wasn't working. In a fit of desperation, the Charlatan pointed to the bush, and told him that a wicked witch was blocking them in an attempt to save his own hide. When the Brigade released their hounds to chase her, Babbitty fled from the bush. She reached a low hedge and vanished from sight.”

“Vanished?” Harry echoed, nudging Mr. Weasley’s arm.

“Think about the title of the story, Harry.” Mr. Weasley hinted gently, and oh, rabbitty. Babbitty probably became a rabbit. Seeing that he’d worked it out, Mr. Weasley continued, “When the assembled crowd caught up, they found the hounds barking and scrabbling around a tree. The Charlatan, now frightened, told the crowd that Babbitty turned into the tree, and that the tree must be cut down, because she was an ‘evil’ witch. The crowd went wild, and by the end of the madness, the tree went toppling down to the ground. As the crowd started to leave, suddenly, there was a cackling coming from the stump. Babbitty told all of the people that a true mage could not be cut in half, and she suggested that they should try to cut the Charlatan to prove it. To this, the Charlatan, now thoroughly bedraggled and twice as afraid, confessed all of his wickedness, and he was brought to the dungeon to be punished. Babbitty then uttered a curse, declaring that for every witch or wizard who was harmed, the King would feel the stroke of an axe in his back.”

Harry winced. “That’s...kind of brutal. An axe stroke?”

“Babbitty was a little barbaric.” Cork said simply, and shrugged. “I dunno, it just made sense when I was a kid.”

Mr. Weasley laughed a bit at that, and shook his head. “I remember the twins being particularly enthused by that bit. One of them, I can’t remember who, sprained their wrist on their bedpost by mimicking the motion of swinging an axe. It wasn’t very funny then, but it is now that they’re older. Anyway, er...how did it―? Ah! The King, fearful of such a curse, henceforth made a proclamation declaring that witches and wizards were to be protected and that they must not be harmed. Babbitty then demanded a statue be built of herself, to remind everyone forevermore of what had been decreed. The King promised that it would be done, and thus erected a statue of her made of gold. Soon after, an old rabbit bearing a wand in her mouth appeared out of a hole in the stump with a wand in its mouth, revealing that Babbitty had been hiding in her Animagus form, and she left the kingdom, unscathed and unbothered. Forever after, and even today, the statue of Babbitty remains on top of the stump, and no witch or wizard has ever been hurt in that kingdom ever again.” Mr. Weasley finished softly, and Harry must’ve been making some sort of face, because when they locked eyes, his own broke into a little grin.

Harry was unsure of what to say. He’d never considered the notion of wizarding fairy tales. Not out of ignorance, but more because such a thing had never come up. It wasn’t as if he pranced around Hogwarts waxing poetic about Cinderella or Peter Pan. But...well, he had liked the story! He could even pick up on the lessons it was supposed to be teaching just by how Mr. Weasley had recited it. ”Babbitty did not even bother raising her wand, knowing well that no magic, no matter how deep or dark, can truly raise the dead.” It was a bit disappointing to hear, but taught children a good, practical lesson. Don’t attempt necromancy, as it will go poorly. And of course, there was the outcome of all the lying―don’t lie or you’re going to get beheaded! Maybe not that extreme, but it showed consequences of lying. And, of course, it pushed the message of “be wary of muggles for your own safety”. It had been a good story, and Harry...well, he wanted to hear a couple more, provided that Mr. Weasley could recall them. He wasn't sure how he ought to ask for such a thing though, and figured it'd be bothersome anyway, so he pushed down his own longing and hunched in his chair.

He settled, ultimately, on saying, “I can see why everyone liked it when you told the bedtime stories.”

“Me, too. You should volunteer at a muggle library, Arthur, I’m sure they’d love you.” Cork joked dryly, and then inadvertently made Harry’s life a lot easier by asking, in ruder terms than Harry would've ever dared, “D’ya remember any other stories? I’d like to pass out soon, and I’m sure I could manage it if you kept going.”

Cork earned a bland look for that one, but Mr. Weasley looked at Harry, using his face to ask permission. Harryreally hadn't been planning on asking, but this was an opportunity, so he nodded immediately, and from there, in between interrupting conversations and other distractions, Harry became very educated on wizarding fairy tales...most of which were significantly longer than Babbitty's tale.

Mr. Weasley managed to get through “The Warlock’s Hairy Heart” before Moody came back to collect Harry, but a well-aimed look and no small amount of cajoling got him to piss off for a while longer, though not without an exasperated, one-eyed glare. Mr. Weasley prattled on and on, reciting “The Wizard and the Hopping Pot,” and, true to his word, Cork was down for the count about halfway through “The Fountain of Fair Fortune,” which was all well and good because Mr. Weasley had some difficulty in recalling it anyway.

By then, Harry was sufficiently spellbound and a bit drowsy himself, so he hunkered down on the bed, laying his upper-half on the mattress and gazing at Mr. Weasley as he spoke. They had to take a break in the ending bits of “The Raindancer’s Heel,” (a story of which was apparently not part of the Tales of Beedle The Bard but still a classic) because a Healer trainee came in to check over Mr. Weasley and Cork, and after being forced to listen to their conversation by proxy, Harry had to spend a solid thirty minutes frantically dissuading Mr. Weasley and the Trainee from making an attempt at stitches. He was only fifteen, yes, but he knew damn well that putting stitches in venom was not a super smart idea. It had been a losing battle for the most part, andHarry was honestly convinced that the only reason he'd won that argument was because it was interrupted by Moody, who had come into the ward again to make another attempt at collecting him. Poor Moody had found himself stuck right in the middle of Harry very nearly screaming, "Idon't know how to explain to you that you should not put metal in venom, alright, I'mnot a healer but come on, that's just logic―" and stood there, looking very awkward, before Harry had finally noticed him and broke off. They had exchanged a very long look, and by the end of their impromptu stare-down, Moody's patience finally wore thin enough for him to make a supremely disgruntled face, throw up his hands, and announce that Harry could just “stay the bloody night for all I care!” which led to Harry realizing that it was almost midnight. The interruption distracted Mr. Weasley and the trainee enough for Harry to all but physically shove the Trainee out of the room with instructions to read a bloody book on when it was appropriate to use stitches, and after Mr. Weasley finally stopped laughing at that, he polished off the rest of”The Raindancer’s Heel” and then launched into “The Tale of the Three Brothers.”

Harry had found himself rather delighted by each story, and had grown sleepier and sleepier between them. Logically, this story should’ve followed the same pattern...and yet...this story felt different. He listened closely, startlingly awake and aware. He’d been hovering so close to sleep before, but something about this particular tale had Harry’s complete attention. Cork’s snoring faded into the background as Harry focused on each and every single one of the words spilling from Mr. Weasley’s mouth.

“But though Death searched for the third brother for many years, he was never able to find him. It was only when he had attained a great age that the youngest brother finally took off the Cloak of Invisibility and gave it to his son.” Mr. Weasley intoned in a lyrical sort of way, before his voice lowered and he whispered, finishing the story, “And then he greeted Death as an old friend, went with him gladly, and they departed this life as equals.”

Mr. Weasley’s voice had sounded so soothing, but Harry could not shake the most peculiar feeling that someone had trodden over his grave. It was a very distressing sensation. Mr. Weasley looked at him then, and seemed very surprised to see Harry alert and watching him intently, wide awake.

“Hm.” He hummed, thoughtful. “I thought you might like that one, but I guess not…?”

A strange sort of anxiety welled up in Harry’s chest and he found himself unable to express it, so he just shook his head.

Mr. Weasley seemed to pick up on it anyway, and peered at him for a while. Harry couldn’t quite judge for how long, but it must’ve been at least a full minute before Mr. Weasley reached over, and placed his hand on top of Harry’s head. Perhaps he was a bit more freaked out than he thought, because Harry flinched away from the touch before he could stop himself.

“I’m sorry.” He said quietly, and shook his head, nearly dislodging Mr. Weasley’s hand.

“Don’t be, Harry, you did nothing wrong.” Mr. Weasley pressed his lips in a line, and after a moment, he heaved a great sigh. “I’ll admit, that was the last of Beedle and Bard, and I’m not confident in my memory of some of the more obscure things…” He trailed off, seeming pensive, before he slowly nodded. “But I can't send you off to sleep scared stiff, now can I? There is one story that I never forgot, and it’s―it’s funny too, because,” He huffed a humorless, short laugh, “Well, I was your age when I overheard it.”

“So, it was the Dark Ages.” Harry said suddenly, trying to fix the mood he'd inadvertently created with a jolt of humor, and got the desired effect when Mr. Weasley turned away to hide an exasperated smile. “Impressive memory, Mr. Weasley.”

“I’m not that old.” Mr. Weasley insisted loftily, and affirmed, “Seriously!” when Harry made an unconvinced face. “But the person I heard it from...she was.”

“How do you mean?”

Mr. Weasley noticed him leaning in, and Harry looked askance, trying to look unimpressed. “What I mean is that this is a story that I heard from a ghost.”

Harry blinked. “What?”

He supposed this shouldn't be surprising, what with how weird the Wizarding World was and how willing the ghosts at Hogwarts were to prattle on about their...death story, so to say, but Harry could say this much; he'd never heard something like a bedtime story from a ghost. Unless you counted Nearly Headless Nick's midnight tales of "boys nights" with his laddies "back in the day" but those weren't always PG nor necessarily appropriate for sleepy time―Harry himself had only been privy to hearing them because of the nights he snuck out of Gryffindor Tower to screw around in the corridors. Nick had always insisted on accompanying Harry at those times, and... er. 'Focus, Harry.'

“When I was around your age, I was doing my rounds as a prefect one cold, snowy night. In fact, I do think it was around this time of year. Nothing was amiss and I figured I’d turn in for the night, but no sooner than I turned the corner to head to the courtyard, I heard a voice. At first, I was sure it was a female student, and went towards her to reluctantly take house points and send her off to bed. But as I got closer, I noticed the wispy glow to her, and the way the moonlight shone through her body. Out of curiosity and a desire to not startle her, I leaned against the wall and tried to listen to what she was saying.”

“Which ghost was it?”

Mr. Weasley shrugged. “I’m not sure. I never saw her face. I do remember this, though―even from behind, she was beautiful. Long, flowing locks of silvery hair, a shimmering, floor-length dress with sleeves down to her elbows, and translucent, glowing skin. And her voice was lovely. It had a rich, deep sort of cadence to it, and it echoed nicely down the corridor as she spoke to nothing but the empty courtyard. I couldn’t help but listen.”

“Very...romantic description, there." Harry said dubiously, and at the glance he got for that, he joked half-heartedly, "...I won’t tell Mrs Weasley. Er. What was she saying?”

“I’ll tell you. All alone in the hallway, she told a story. One that I’ve never found written down, or heard anywhere else. She said, ‘Some speak of a ring,’” Mr. Weasley began, speaking in a low voice, “‘that lies nestled on a dark, crumbling twig in a clearing in the woods. The woods are dark, unforgiving, and many are warned against going within the trees―some might even say it's forbidden,’” He winked at Harry then, who couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

“So, it’s a fairy tale about the Forbidden Forest.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Said Mr. Weasley, and straightened with a slight wince to tell him firmly, “and I know you’ve got a history of tromping around in there, so I’m telling you now, do not go back in there to look for rings. Bad idea.”

Something about this felt uncomfortably significant.

They stared at each other for a moment and Harry, wanting to dispel the strange feeling that had come over him, muttered, “Well, I wasn’t planning on it, but now that you’ve told me not to, I’ve got to do it on principle now.”

“Harry.”

The boy in question held his hands up in surrender, and, going face-down, sighed into the mattress, “I'm joking. Honestly, every time I go there, things try to kill me. Why would I want to go in there?”

“You’ve an extraordinary knack for finding things that want you dead. I’m just telling you not to actively pursue them this time around.” Mr. Weasley said, but he looked appeased. “Let’s try this again, er...I’m going to have to ad-lib a little since I only heard this once, but from what I can remember, the story goes…”

Harry relaxed in his chair, and settled in to listen.

“Some speak of a ring that lies nestled on a dark, crumbling twig in a clearing in the woods. The woods are dark, unforgiving, and many are warned against going within the trees—some might even say it's forbidden. One day, a man ignorant of such cautions ventured into these very woods in search of an animal to slay for his dinner. He wandered for hours, snacking on the various nuts and berries the woods had to offer, and was just about to give up and return home when he found himself facing down a glimmer of golden light. It was quite a distance away, but, enchanted by its beauty, the man stumbled through the leaves and roots, and soon enough, came crashing into a clearing. The clearing was filled with all sorts of briar and bramble, mainly a scattering of dark twigs embedded in the frost-mottled grass, stuck upright like gravestones that grew into jutting, cutting bushes. And in the middle of it all stood a series of five, winding branches, protruding from the earth like a perversion of a hand. And on the second finger, there lied a ring, bathed in an ethereal, beckoning light.”

“Something deep inside of the man, buried in his instincts, came hurtling to the forefront of his mind. Something raw. Something primal. Something that spoke to the very marrow of his bones and lit aflame something old―ancient, even. He took a step, through the undergrowth, and felt not the bite of ferns nor the crunch of pebbles beneath his shoes, but a deep, yearning pressure inside of him, that which pulsed a soothing, homely heat beneath his skin, as if he was stood in the middle of a womb, uncaring and ignorant of any other world.”

“The air was perfectly silent, as if holding its breath in anticipation, and filled his lungs with cool, encouraging urgency. There were eyes on the leaves of every tree and in every raised root, and the creatures hiding in the thick shadows watched, and waited. No birds chirped, squawked, or even rustled the branches of the uppermost trees, nothing dashed between the grass blades around him, and no insects chittered in the dirt. There was nothing alive here, except for him and the ground beneath him.”

A weird energy settled over the room, and hoping to dispel it, Harry blurted suddenly, "Sounds super ominous. Definitely trustworthy." He huffed a laugh through his nose at the withering look he got for all his troubles, and unbidden, Mr. Weasley carried on.

“The man, finally, stood before the ring, and stared down at the branch that cradled it. A strange tingle prickled his palm, and the man pried the ring away from its resting place. Without thinking, without feeling, and perhaps against his own better judgement, the man placed the ring onto his finger to see how it fit. It fit perfectly, but as he tried to return it, he found the task to be impossible. It didn't hurt, it didn't even pinch, but in his struggle to remove the ring, the world seemed to move beneath his feet. It took him quite a while to notice he was no longer surrounded by trees.”

“So he...put on a creepy glowing ring and moved somewhere else? Like a portkey?”

Mr. Weasley shrugged his shoulders. “I suppose it could be likened to that. And yes, he did put on a creepy glowing ring. It’s a story, did you expect him to just walk away?”

“I mean, I would’ve.” Harry said. “Learned that lessonvery well when I came stumbling out of the Chamber and one of the first things I heard was you telling Ginny to never trust anything that can think for itself if you can't see where it keeps its brain.”

“When I―?” Mr. Weasley furrowed his eyebrows, then his face slackened in realization. “Oh! Oh, yes, I remember. That was quite the eventful year for you, wasn’t it? Between me tackling Mr. Malfoy and the whole debacle under the school, you must’ve picked up on a few valuable lessons.”

Boy, wasn’t that the truth. “Yep,” Harry said, popping the ‘p’. “Lesson number one―do not piss off huge snakes if you have no magical bird with you. It will end poorly.”

Mr. Weasley made a bemused face at that, as if that wasn't quite the answer he'd been expecting, and seemed to shrug it off in favor of yawning. “Alright, we’ve hardly started. Don’t you want to know what happened to the man?”

Feeling significantly calmer than he had after the Tale of Three Brother, Harry leaned forwards to toe off his trainers, scooted his chair a little closer to the bed, and collapsed his upper body on top of the mattress once more, getting comfortable. “Go on.”

And so Mr. Weasley did. “It took the man a moment to gather his bearings, but as he gazed around, his weathered eyes recognized the home of his childhood. And, to his flabbergasted astonishment, his mother came ambling out of the front door. Under other circ*mstances, this would be normal, but here it was not―for this man’s mother had passed just months ago from the chill of a snowstorm she’d been trapped in. The man may have appreciated this more, if he did not, at once, fall to the ground into a deep, exhausted sleep. When the man next awoke, he much expected for the encounter to have been a dream, but to his amazement, he opened his eyes to, once again, see his mother’s lovely face. He reached up so as to cup her tender cheek, and in the sunlight, there it glittered―the ring from the clearing.”

At this point, Harry found himself filled with a strange, secondhand longing. He could only imagine the astounded relief the man felt at seeing his mother, as the closest thing he could liken such a feeling to was the disbelief of the moment he’d stumbled across the Mirror of Erised. He averted his eyes from Mr. Weasley for a moment, and shut them to distract himself from the sudden sting within them. Then, he found them slightly difficult to open again.

“From there, the man spent two blissful seasons by his mother’s side once more. They tended to the garden, ate the sweetest of berries and most savory foods, and roamed the pebble-strewn beach he used to wander as a child together." It was around here that Harry stopped listening a bit, letting descriptions of the man's time with his mother fade into chatter in his ears. He tuned back in eventually when Arthur's tone changed. "Times changed, though. As winter came in with snow on its gelid breath, the man found a certain anxiousness rising within him, and when one night his mother did not return punctually, he found himself bounding into the bitter chill in search of her.” Mr. Weasley’s voice lowered suddenly, and after a moment, he continued, much slower and deliberate than before, but the words began to mix and meld in Harry’s ears anyway. “And search for her he did―for hours on end, he tore through the ice and snow, desperately looking for the barest hint of her auburn hair within the white, when finally, to his great relief, he pulled her from the depths of a snowed-in cave. Then, he hurriedly carried her cold, shivering body home, and warmed her by the fire until the flush returned to her cheeks. He nursed her back to health for weeks on end and when she once again stood and embraced him, strong as ever before, he came to realize with a jolt that he’d saved her from her own untimely fate. Joy filled his chest in a rush, and he lifted her into the air to spin her, failing to notice the growing golden glow in the house."

'Oh,'Harry thought dimly. 'I don't think that's any good.'

"No sooner had he gently placed her back down that the ring, which had laid dormant beneath his knuckle for six months time and become a seemingly permanent part of his person, slid from his finger and clattered to the stonework.”

Harry could hardly hold his eyes open anymore, the cumulative exhaustion of the week finally catching up to him as Mr. Weasley worked to finish off the story.

“The world shifted beneath the man’s feet for a second time, and to his horror, he felt the warmth of his mother leave him just in time for his feet to sink into snow. He gazed around, and found himself in the clearing once more, the ring gone from his finger.”

It was silent in the hospital ward, save for Mr. Weasley’s slightly raspy breaths, and Harry’s own quiet, level ones. Somewhere in the distance, Harry could make out the sound of baubles tinking against each other, swaying in the ambient magic of St. Mungo's.

“After a moment of incomprehension, the man crashed to his knees in the snow, and wept for what he had lost for the second time of his life. He pondered bitterly what would’ve happened had he held on for just seconds longer before sleep claimed him. He awoke days later in the home of one of his dearest friends, who wept with joy upon his return to consciousness. There, the man learned, to his amazement, that just days after he’d found the ring, a terrible flood had swept the lands near his own home and washed it away in the crashing sea, leaving the village in ruins and the denizens dead. This friend had assumed the death of the man, and was quite relieved to have found him safe and sound.”

Though he was now hovering near the brink of sleep, a jolt of cold comprehension crossed Harry’s dozing mind, the urgency of the thought hindered by the temptation of rest.

“Now without a home or a mother, the man sunk into the depths of despair, wallowing in the pain of it all until he once again could find the strength to stand, and spent the rest of his days healthy and happy. Never once did the man think to return to the clearing, the devastation the thought brought him proving too much to bear. But had he been able to withstand it, the man would’ve found the ring once more, glistening on the third branch and lying benignly in wait for the next person to change fate.”

Mr. Weasley’s words closed off with a note of finality, and as Harry expected, he spoke no more. With great effort, Harry pried open his eyes a bit and looked up at Mr. Weasley, who was rubbing his face and twisting his shoulders to crack them.

“Mr. Weasley?” Harry murmured, intent on saying what had crossed his tired mind.

“Yes?”

Harry promptly forgot what he was going to say, the importance lost in a brief yawn. He tried to no avail to remember what he'd actually been planning on saying, doing his best to puzzle out a way to articulate what he was trying to say. even though it was gone. Slowly, haltingly, Harry spoke.

“All magic...has a price. There’s, er...blood, energy, time...what was the price? Of the ring? What was it trying to do?"

Mr. Weasley humored him with a thoughtful hum. “You’re right―all magic does have a price. Even the every day magic; something is taken in exchange, and the deeper and darker it is, the more the magicks take. And a magic like the ring? Well, of course, there must be some sacrifice. How curious. I'm afraid to say that I’m really not sure, Harry." Against his own will, Harry’s eyes slipped shut, and the bed moved a bit beneath him. "Any ideas?"

He mumbled something, not even sure of what it was, and fell asleep before he could even bother trying to get the rest of his words out.

Arthur looked down at Harry pensively, who was ignorant of the gaze, and grabbed his long-forgotten wand from the bedside table. He spared Matthew a glance, who had been woken by a Healer a bit ago that had quietly rubbed a salve on his wounds from his latest transformation, and got a nod back. Scratching the growing shadow on his face, Arthur glanced at the clock on the wall across the ward, and saw that it was nearing half-past one. Christmas had come over an hour ago. Dully hoping that the rest of his family would be there to join him and Harry in the morning, Arthur pulled back his own blankets, raised his wand, and levitated Harry into the bed with him, figuring it would be better for the poor kid’s neck in the long run.

"Damn. Didn't realize you two were close like that," Cork mumbled, an odd note in his voice.

Arthur shook his head, scoffing. "Oh, we're not. This is uncharted territory." Harry didn’t so much as twitch, and Arthur took a moment to admire the boy’s stillness in sleep. The worry lines on his face were still there, just faint traces. Arthur frowned. "But he's dealing with a lot, Cork. And I don't think there's anywhere he thinks he can turn. The least I can do is this. Actions speak louder than words, after all, and I think this'll do him some good." He glanced up at Cork, and took in the sad, weighted look he was receiving from the man. Arthur just co*cked his head, and joked gently, "And hey, seeing him freak out in the morning'll be half the fun, anyway."

Cork huffed out a laugh that sounded a little half-hearted, and leaned back in his bed. "Yeah, theydo get squirrely about affection when they're older, don't they?"

Arthur didn't respond, knowing it was a rhetorical statement. “Happy Christmas, Harry.” He murmured to himself as he tucked Harry into the blanket properly, and then dimmed the light over his bed. Then, he himself hunkered down, ready to turn in for the night. He started a little when Harry rolled over, but when the boy just pressed into his side a bit, seeking his warmth, Arthur relaxed. With some careful maneuvering, Arthur managed to get an arm around the boy comfortably, telling himself it was just to give his own neck wound some space to breathe and stretch. Wandlessly, he tugged both Harry's glasses and his own off, and only settled once both pairs settled on the nightstand on the right.

The room fell silent for all of a minute, until: “So, when are you going to get around to insisting that he calls you Dad?”

Arthur sighed, long-sufffering. "I think we’re going to have to work up to ‘Arthur’ first.” He replied, and smiled wryly. “He’s very insistent on sticking to Mr. Weasley.”

There was a pause, and then, “...You’re a good father, Arthur, you know that?" Matthew murmured in a strange, wistful tone from the opposite bed.

“I hope so.” Arthur mumbled, squeezing Harry's shoulder. He could sort through his worries later. "Good night, Matt."

"Good night." He heard back.

He hoped Harry had a good dream.

The die had been cast, the first stone laid. Fate fractured and only It remained.

Chapter 2: For Her

Chapter Text

Tom Riddle sat up in his dormitory.

His bed curtains swayed in a warm, summer-y draft and he frowned, glancing out of the porthole that looked into the deep. The lake water rippled peacefully overhead, a pointed contrast to Rosier’s loud, unsilenced snores, and though nothing appeared amiss and the sounds remained the same, he stayed stubbornly awake.

Somewhere, though he knew it not, a butterfly had turned left.

He frowned in a bemused sort of way, peering around the room in search of whatever might've been keeping him up, but he found nothing. So, he gingerly lowered himself on his mattress, back aching the whole way, and he squirmed downwards until his tilted head lined up with the gap in his curtains. He gazed pensively out into the black water. A mermaid swam past, her stringy, pale mane trailing behind her shoulders. Bioluminescent, he recalled the word dimly. He watched her scaly tail run along the glass. He wondered if it felt cold. And then she was gone again, swallowed by the unfathomable blackness that surrounded his room.

Indeed, a butterfly had turned left, and he had no idea of this, but he knew one thing for sure: something had changed. He looked into the darkness of the lake water, and quietly, softly hoped that it was for the better.

A force beyond Harry, beyond Tom, beyond fate, beyond time, was watching closely. It waited. It came forth, made a small, barely-there prod, and retreated again. Still watching. Still waiting.

Harry had been praying that his yule break would continue on with no more major catastrophes, but as seemed to be the case with most things in his life, this was not to be. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting from the world, but he'd figured he'd get a bit of a break before the next one. This was also not to be, because his return to consciousness was heralded by Mrs. Weasley cooing loudly. And the amused faces of Ron's family. And then some more people, just to add insult to injury. All while he was cocooned in the arms of Mr. Weasley, someone else's dad, like a child.

You don't appreciate how nice bed curtains are til you wake up and see that sh*t, because let Harry tell you, it made for a pretty mortifying ordeal.

"Why, good morning, Harrykins." said Fred, with the sort of smile on his face that promised merciless ribbing in the future. "Fancy seeing you here."

Harry, who could distinctly feel his own ears burning, quickly detached himself from Mr. Weasley and sat up, getting tangled in the sheets and pointedly not looking either the man himself or his wife in the eye. Oooh, he'd definitely overstepped here somewhere, though he wasn't quite sure of how he'd wound up in the bed. He glanced up and caught Ron smiling at him in the same way Fred was, and knew he was screwed. sh*t. sh*t, sh*t, sh*t.

"Good morning," He said stiffly, surreptitiously kicking his feet under the mattress in search of his trainers, which he'd kicked off at some point during Mr. Weasley's impromptu story-telling party. Escape was absolutely a necessity at this point, but he couldn't up and skedaddle without shoes, because while Harry had no clue what sort of things could be lying around on a magical hospital floor, socked or not, he didn't want his feet to be privy to an inevitable discovery.

"Yeah, good morning to you too, kid. You eat a pepper imp or something?"

Harry jumped, and jerked to look at Cork. "You're awake." He said dumbly.

"Bit hard not to be when your whole family comes tromping in here at...good God, folks, it's only nine." Cork rubbed his eyes and yawned, grinning just a bit. "Couldn't you lot have come here a couple hours from now? I'd have rather liked to be dead to the world until at least noon."

"Ever the morning person, aren't you?" Mr. Weasley said dryly but not without humor, and Harry stiffened when Mr. Weasley clapped him on the shoulder and said lowly, "Why don't you go freshen up, Harry? One of the healers moved your shoes to the foot of the bed, by the way."

Ah, he'd not been as sneaky in his search for them as he'd thought.

Nodding quickly, he snatched them from the floor and jammed them on his feet, not even bothering with attempting to fix his socks. He could do that once he wasn't being cooed at like a toddler who'd done something particularly impressive from all angles, thank you very much. While everyone chattered amongst each other, he spared Cork a glance. He and Mr. Weasley were talking loudly now, drawing the rest of their group into the conversation, which Harry found rather surprising. He didn't think Mr. Weasley would be so peppy, nor did he think Cork would be either; the latter man had been fairly stiff the previous night. But he guessed Cork must've loosened up a little once Mr. Weasley really got underway with all the stories. Perhaps the fairy tales had just softened him a bit. He looked at the man consideringly, but shrunk when he and Cork made eye-contact. Cork didn't comment, though: he just widened his eyes a bit, and subtly co*cked his head towards the door.

Harry, unsure of what Cork was indicating, just nodded to make the man look away and stood, avoiding bumping into Mrs. Weasley and edging around the veritable cloud of gingers. Ginny gave him a passing glance and he went rigid, but she seemed to dismiss him after a moment and he resisted the urge to sigh. And then―

"ARTHUR SEPTIMUS, YOU TRIED WHAT?!"

Mrs. Weasley's damning shriek froze Harry right in his tracks, less than a handful of meters away from the door. He made eye contact with Mr. Weasley over the woman's shoulder, and caught a flash of terror in them before Mr. Weasley, like Cork, nodded towards the door. Before he could make his escape, the room fell completely silent, and the visiting Weasley's all turned to look at him. Hermione had a strange, proud look about her and Ron looked like he was trying desperately hard not to laugh.

"That wasn't something I was s'pposed to tell her, huh?" Cork said uselessly.

Harry didn't know what on earth Cork could have possibly told her that had her racing towards him with tears in her eyes, but he had no chance to back out before she was scooping him into her arms and clutching him to her breasts as if she were a particularly aggressive variant of Virgin Mary. "Oh, Harry! You clever, clever boy! Thank you, thank you, thank you!" And, to his mounting horror, she started peppering wet kisses all over his head.

He could hear Fred and George losing their sh*t from all the way over here, and could've died on the spot. What the hell was going on? And then his question was answered as she turned her head and snapped,

"Honestly, Arthur! Muggle stitches!?" And ah, now this was making sense. "I can't BELIEVE you, going so far as to attempt to try―to try something so primitive as that, with all the venom still―!" Her volume amped up and up by the second until she began to devolve into a full-blown shout. "You are SO VERY LUCKY Harry here was SMART enough to talk you out of it, and I―!" Oh boy. Harry tuned her out from there, wriggling out of her grip while she was distracted.

He nearly fell flat on his face in the corridor in his haste to get away, and before she could call him back in, Harry speed-walked away and went to look for a restroom if only so he could wash his face and hide for a minute. He was sure he'd be safe from there, but just as written before, as was the case with most things in his life, this was also not to be, for he'd gotten no further than a couple staircases up before he ran smack-dab into...Gilderoy Lockhart, of all people.

The bones in his right arm twitched, as if they were having trauma flashbacks.

The less said about the conversation he had with the addled man, the better―the point was, because of Gilderoy Lockhart's harassment and Harry's utter inability to say no loud enough, Harry was now staring down the barrel of further mortification via the presence of Augusta and Neville Longbottom.

Lockhart was busy screwing around with something across the room, and as Augusta stared him down, Harry watched, helpless, as Lockhart seemed to forget about him entirely and instead fiddled with the fringed end of a blanket. Neville looked very much like he wanted to die on the spot, and Harry tried to be polite and excuse himself, backing out of the room as Augusta's stare seemed to harden. Oh, God. 'How do I get myself into these situations?'Harry thought despairingly.

"Hullo, Harry," Neville called weakly, as if Harry trying to melt himself into the doorframe was not enough of a hint that he was trying to disappear.

"...Hi." Harry said meekly, gaze still locked with Augusta's.

The silence stretched, and so focused was Harry on the cold face of Augusta Longbottom, that he hardly noticed the ambling shadow approaching him until she was already facing him down.

And that was how Harry met Alice Longbottom.

"Oh, jeez," He murmured under his breath, barely making out a glimpse of Neville within her drawn face.

He’d seen Alice in photographs before, and though he'd known on a logistical level that she'd no longer look like the person within them, not after what Bellatrix Lestrange had done to her, seeing it for himself awoke a new understanding inside of him. Barty Junior had been rather explicit in the memory trial, yes, but seeing the reality of her fate face-to-face made his heart drop like a stone in his chest just as much as it made it harden. He looked to Neville, and looked back to Alice, almost breathless.

She looked so different.

No longer was she that formidable, plump-faced woman he’d seen in his album. Her face was thin and worn now, giving the impression that her eyes, wide and misty, were overly large and protruding. There was a certain far-awayness to her, evident in her moon-like eyes. It sort of reminded him of Luna, actually, but further, if that made a lick of sense. Much, much further. She regarded him blankly, seeming to not see him at all, and then, defying his own thoughts, she tilted her head as if she’d seen him before but could not place him. Slowly, he removed his gaze from her, and looked again to Neville.

If I win this war, he thought to himself suddenly, but did not dare say, This is who I would do it for.

Because no one...

Harry looked at Alice, trying to keep the growing sadness off his face. She swayed in place, gently, like a rocking boat. Her arms were curled towards her chest. He wondered if Neville had ever been held like that. If she'd hummed in a little nursery, her baby in her arms. Swaying. Wondered when the last time might've been. He looked at Neville, throat tightening.

No one deservedthis.

Augusta broke the thoughts by clearing her throat, and she looked between the two of them, her gaze shrewd. “So I suppose he’s not told you, then?"

Silence rang in the room, and Neville looked up at her, terrified.

"Have you no pride for your family, boy?" she snapped, her grip on his shoulder visibly tightening just as much as her voice did. Her gaze flickered to a drawn bed-curtain, and she said, "Everything your parents gave up for you, for everyone, and you don't even have the decency to tell their story?"

Harry looked between her and Alice’s slack, pale face, and then panned to Neville, who looked like he wanted to melt into the floor. Coming to a quick decision, Harry lied through his teeth and said, “No, no, please, I―Neville did tell me.”

There was a pause. “He did?”

“―I did?” Harry sent Neville a look that screamed ‘not helping!’ hoping that he’d get the memo, and thankfully he did, because he fell quiet and then said, in false-remembrance, “Oh! Yes, Grandmother, I did.”

They were both looking at Harry now―Augusta looking for some clue of confirmation, and Neville screaming with his eyes for Harry to say something, so, figuring that he was already deep enough, Harry cleared his throat and said, “Just last year, it came up. He told me about how Bellatrix Lestrange―” Neville winced at the name “―used the Cruciatus Curse on them until....well…” Harry gestured helplessly to Alice, who was staring blankly at him with her head still tilted, as if she were deep in thought, and finished off with a pitiful, “Yeah.”

To perhaps both his and Neville’s relief, Augusta looked appeased by this, and nodded primly. “Good.”

“Er.” Neville looked at Harry. Harry looked at Neville. He was pretty sure they both wanted to run and hide, but neither made a move to.

And then, as if a bulb had lit suddenly in his head, Harry jerked and without thinking, he said, “Walk...walk with me, Neville?” He spared a quick glance to Augusta. “If that’s alright….?”

“Yes, I had to have a word with Frank and Alice’s healer anyway. Go on, then, Neville.” She said curtly, and turned to click away to a hovering attendant who―now that Harry was looking―was untangling Lockhart's fingers from the fringed end of the blanket that he'd decided was more interesting than Harry. Bastard.

Harry made eye-contact with Neville, and inclined his head towards the door with a wide-eyed grimace. As he did so, he suddenly understood what Cork and Mr. Weasley were trying to do with him earlier, and felt belatedly stupid. He pushed off the thought as Neville nodded jerkily and, gaze flitting to his grandmother once more, scurried over to Harry and followed him out the door. They fell into step together and walked down the hallway, and though it wasn't immediately obvious, Harry could feel the mutual discomfort amping up by the second. He didn’t start a conversation―he figured Neville would want to make the first move, since Harry had known about his parents and they both knew Neville hadn’t actually told him. Surely he wanted answers? This idea was quickly challenged, though, because Neville didn’t engage him in anything. Just as Harry was starting to worry that Neville was waiting for him to say something, the boy in question looked at Harry nervously for the fourth time, and finally spoke, just as they passed a quick-moving healer,

“Why….?” Harry waited, and Neville set his jaw. “Why are you here?”

“I was just, er...I was just visiting Mr. Weasley. Ron’s dad.” Harry said lamely, not expecting this to be Neville’s first question.

“He’s still here then?” Neville flushed a moment later, seeming to notice that that hadn’t been the brightest question when he caught the look on Harry’s face, and quickly added, “I’m just surprised—I figured he’d be out by now. It was quite a while ago that you scared us all half to death with that dream of yours. Though that...wasn’t quite a dream, was it?”

Harry thought about how he'd barfed on the floor right in front of everyone and flushed a bit. “No.” He said stiffly.

Not quite a dream indeed.

"I won’t ask what it was about." Neville muttered, and squeezed his own arm with the opposite hand. "I don't know, I was just―I was surprised to see you here, I guess? Much less watch you get dragged into the room with Professor Lockhart hanging off your arm. Bit funny that he’s here, isn’t it? I can’t escape him―matches up with my luck, right?” Neville was rambling now, clearly skirting around the topic, and Harry sighed.

He wanted to crack a joke about his right arms' bones and flashbacks but shoved it off―it didn't feel like a good time, so he cut to the chase and said, point blank and non confrontive, "“Listen... I've known about your parents for..." He chewed out the time in his head and settled with, "A pretty long time.”

Neville went rigid, and said nothing.

Harry sucked in a fortifying breath. “I never said anything because I didn't think you wanted me to know that sort of thing. It felt personal, and, er, it felt intrusive, you know? Since I learned about it without you being the one to share it." Harry glanced at Neville's stony face and cracked a small joke. "I, er...I guess I had an ounce of tact for once. Frightening, yeah?" Neville's face had not changed. Harry scratched the bad of his neck. "Right. So. I―I knew that there was no way you would want to talk about your parents if you hadn't already brought it up, so I figured I wasn't supposed to find out.”

"And said nothing." Neville said tonelessly.

Harry shrunk. "...Yeah."

Silence reigned supreme for a couple more steps before Neville suddenly diverted and sat down heavily on a nearby bench, leaving Harry floundering in the middle of the hallway. Unsure of how to proceed, Harry looked around, and edged towards him. Then, Neville slapped his palm onto the space next to him―a clear invitation. Oh, boy. Harry slowly, gingerly sat down, and tried not to squirm.

Finally, Neville spoke. “No one was.” His voice was quiet, but sounded like distant thunder in the silent corridor. "Supposed to know, I mean." He clarified after a moment, then leaned back with his head tilted. The back of his cranium thocked gently onto the plaster wall, and Harry just about held his breath. “Gran says it’s selfish, but―”

Harry stopped him right there because, “No, I―you don’t need to explain―er―justify yourself to me or anything, I get it, and I’m not going to hold it against you or anything.” Harry felt like he had to make this exceptionally clear, and was rewarded when Neville’s shoulders relaxed. Neither spoke again for a moment before,

“How long?"

“What?”

“How long have you known?” Neville co*cked his head to look at him, and said, "And don't say ‘a pretty long time’ again, Harry. I want the truth."

“Since...mid fourth-year.” Neville made a punched out sort of noise, and Harry quickly added. “Yeah I know, I know, I didn't say anything, and I probably should have, but like I said, you hadn't brought it up, so I figured you wouldn't want to…want to―talk about it, I mean.”

“How?" Neville asked helplessly.

It took Harry a second to work out what he was asking. “It wasn't...it wasn't a targeted sort of thing, Neville. It's not like I sat down and thought, ‘Oh hey, I should find out what happened to Neville’s parents and invade his privacy,’ it just...sort of happened. A while before the Third Task of the tournament, I ran into Krum and we found Crouch before...y’know." Harry made a kaput noise, and slid his finger across his neck. "Some things happened and I ran upstairs to go let Dumbledore know about Crouch. He, er, he left me alone in his office, and there was this weird...glowing thing.”

“A glowing thing?” Neville raised an eyebrow, and looked like he didn’t quite get what Harry was trying to convey, which was all well and good because even Harry knew that wasn’t a very specific description, even if he was planning on elaborating in a moment.

“It was weird, as if I couldn't look away.” He said quickly, continuing the story. “I got the strangest urge to look into it, so I did, and I saw the trial of Barty Crouch Jr. It was awful, really―he was pretty vocal about what happened to your parents and that's how I found out. I was a little shaken up by the end of it, Dumbledore pulled me out, explained that what I had been looking into was a Pensieve, which is a funny magical thingy that holds memories and―”

“―I know what a Pensieve is, Harry.” Neville said shortly.

Ah. Pureblood. Sometimes Harry forgot that. He shoved off a brief mental image of Neville standing around like Malfoy, nose upturned. Eugh. A little thrown off, Harry just hunched a bit and finished quickly,

“And, er, that was that. He told me not to confront you over it, I listened, and er...here we are.”

Neville didn’t say anything for a long time, but eventually, he said, “Thank you.”

Harry blinked.

“What?”

“Thank you,” Neville repeated, looked at Harry’s confused face, and elaborated, “For being honest, and for...not spreading it around. It’s not...that I’m ashamed about them, or anything, no matter what Gran says, it’s just―”

“―It’s upsetting to think about? And explain?”

“Yes, exactly.” Neville said quickly, and straightened back upright. He fiddled with the end of his sleeve for a while before he said, very slowly, “Harry, can I say something that sounds...sort of bad?”

Harry frowned, getting the niggling suspicion that he was about to be subjected to something whoa-worthy, but he owed Neville at least this much, so he said, haltingly, “Yeah...fire away, mate.”

Neville looked like if he could chew the words up and roll them around his mouth to taste them, he would’ve. “I don't talk about them not just because―yes, it hurts to think about them, but also because…IthinkthatIdon'tmissthem.” Neville got out in a rush, head sinking down towards his shoulders, and he looked at Harry worriedly.

Oh sh*t.

Oh f*ck.

They were going to have this kind of conversation.

Harry took a single look at the expectant fear on Neville's face, thought about his omission-lying about the bloke's parents, and decided promptly that, f*ck it, he was a Gryffindor, and he was going to put on his big boy panties. It was time.

So, Harry tried not to let the panic show on his face, and instead prompted, “How do you mean?”

Neville searched his face, and Harry held his breath, but Neville seemed to find what he was looking for and the discomfort in his figure seemed to evaporate. “It's not―it's not that I don't love them or that I don't want them around, nothing like that, but I―I never knew them. I don't know who my mom is, or―or who my dad is―they never existed in my life.” Harry’s heart thudded to a halt in his chest. “Not for as far as I can remember, that is. When I look at them, I don't think of parents. All I see are just two shadows of the people who made me...if that makes any sense.”

Ah.

Harry was not a fan of this.

Because the whole bit about whether or not it made sense, well...that was just the problem. It did make sense, and Harry wished very dearly that it didn't. He didn't want any part of that to make sense to him, because if it did, Harry knew damn well that the looming feeling of guilt would wash back over him, and he'd send himself spiraling.

“And I feel guilty―I feel so guilty for it, because all these people tell me about how great they were, how much they loved me, and they all talk about how much they miss them, but I don't feel the same. It's like everyone I know misses them, but all I get to miss is the idea of them. Do you know what I...?” Neville turned to look at Harry again, and something must’ve been showing on Harry’s face because Neville suddenly turned away and said, very fast, “No, no, never mind, forget about this. This was a bad idea―I'm sorry, I shouldn't talk about this.”

And that was when Harry stopped and thought, which was a feat in and of itself. This was a chance. A chance of catharsis, of sharing a moment with someone who'd understand because just from that spiel alone, Harry knew very suddenly that Neville would. So, he came to a quick decision, and said, “No.”

"No?" Neville echoed, looking at him anxiously.

“I know...exactly what you’re talking about.” Harry looked at Neville and felt as if he was seeing him for the first time. “And I push thoughts like that away. A lot. Because they make me feel guilty too."

Neville was looking at him in much the same way now. “...They do?” He said hopefully, and seemed to realize his tone was a little inappropriate and went red. “Not―that’s not a good thing, but―!”

“It’s good that someone gets it?”

Neville nodded, eyes wide. “Yeah, exactly that. It’s just like―everybody seems to have an opinion on how I should be feeling about all of this, you know?" A flash of anger flitted across his face, and it was so very familiar because Harry had felt the same way more than once before. "I should be more proud, I should be more grateful, I should be sadder, I should be angrier, but no one―”

“―Actually bothers to ask about how we're actually feeling." Harry finished softly. "and when we say it, how we feel is somehow wrong."

Neville looked at him, carefully amazed. “...Right."

They looked at each other, sitting in silence for a moment while Harry processed the newfound kinship he was finding in Neville. He’d known about Neville’s parents and how similar they were in that regard, but never once had he considered that, perhaps, Neville felt similar to him too. That seemed so foolish now, because of course. Of course he would.

Harry leaned back on the bench, his shoulders pressing into the wall. He'd never given himself a lot of space to think about this--he never really had time--but now was as good as one as any. Harry supposed that there'd been a time that he'd idolized his parents, hung on to every word about them. Part of him still did. Part of him still relished hearing little tidbits about the two wonderful people who'd given him life. But some time ago, the worth had faded, and now...Harry would always wish Lily and James Potter had survived. He'd always dream of a world where he had two people in the world who loved him, unconditionally. But the need was less acute. It was smaller. And that had invited room for making them human.

Humans, Harry had found, were strange, horrid little creatures. It seemed Neville knew that too. It seemed that Neville also knew how hard it was for the people you idolized to become human. He knew how much it could sting.

In a voice no louder than a whisper, Neville asked him,

"We're not wrong, are we?"

Harry huffed a laugh, a humorless sort of one, and shook his head. Trust Neville to find the root of things. He was a fledging Herbologist for a reason. "Anyone else would say so, but I won't. No, we're not wrong, Neville."

Something like relief washed over Neville's entire body, and Harry watched as he slumped down on the bench. He seemed to abandon propriety then, and drew his knees up to his chest. After a moment, he muttered,

"You'd think we'd be the authority since we're the ones with no parents," And then, face scrunching, he said strongly, "And now I've just decided that we are. Anyone who tells us otherwise can suck an egg from now on."

Harry laughed, and scrubbed a hand across his face. "You get ‘em, Neville."

They sat in silence for a long while, letting the words hang calmly between them for awhile before, unexpectedly, Neville sighed and continued, “This whole thing sucks even more, because people always tell me about how great my parents were, but they don't tell me about who they were. They always say the good things but the bad things never come up, and I know there must be something, but no one ever tells me. So how do they all expect me to miss them if I don't know who they were? All I’ve got is this picture-esque, beautiful image of them. How am I supposed to miss that?"

And then, even quieter than before, Neville looked to the floor and said,

"It’s not like what’s left of them tells me much...just gives me bubble gum wrappers.”

Harry felt his heart crack a bit.

“People don’t even realize how lucky they are." Harry said after a beat, and put his hand on Neville's shoulder. "They all act like what they think you should be feeling is the truth, when they’ve actually got no idea what it’s like. Ron, Seamus, Dean...they can try, but they’ve no idea how incredible it is that they’ve got parents, and they’ll never know until they’re gone, and even then…”

“It won’t be the same.” Neville finished bleakly, saying the words Harry couldn't speak.

"I suppose we ought to be glad for that, though." Harry said grimly. "I don't want anyone to have to know what this feels like, even if it'd make certain things easier."

“Me too." Neville agreed, and then mumbled, "It’s not their fault that they don’t know, and I’m not blaming them for that, but sometimes I just can’t help that jealousy in me when I see those three prats getting letters from their parents, or―or just calling to them for help.” Neville spared him a glance, and said sheepishly. “I’m even jealous of you sometimes. Not only because you look like you’re handling this all so much better than me, but you’ve got the Weasley’s on your side, y’know? My family isn’t...very nurturing. Not like them.”

Cold shock rippled through him, but Harry wasn’t necessarily upset, knowing where Neville was coming from. “I’m...lucky. They’re very supportive and all that, and I’m grateful for them but I’m...not family. Mr and Mrs. Weasley aren’t my parents, I―I don’t belong. I’m a guest. A very loved guest, I suppose, but...I’m not family, Neville.” The admission made his heart clench with an old sort of pain, and Harry pushed it down quickly.

"Who's the first person you think of when I say ‘dad’?" Neville asked, voice flat, and Harry pointedly did not think about how quickly Mr. Weasley sprang to mind.

"Oh, but that's right," Neville smiled wryly a moment later, which made the indignation in Harry rise a little higher. “You came with them to visit Mr. Weasley because you’re such a good friend, huh? My mistake.”

"Neville," Harry said warningly, resolutely not thinking about how he'd been with Mr. Weasley for the entire previous night either, and relaxed when Neville held his hands up in surrender.

"Harry, you know―" But whatever Neville was going to say Harry knew was unceremoniously cut off when they both heard,

“―HEEEEEEY!” The distinct voice of a toddler.

It came screaming down the hallway, utterly derailing their conversation. “YOU’RE BEING TOO LOUD!”

"Erm." said Neville.

There was the sound of tiny trainers slapping the tile, and a little boy appeared at the mouth of the end of the hallway, right in the middle of the intersection. His face was scrunched up and he was standing in a rather aggressive pose. He wasn’t facing them, though―he was looking down the adjacent corridor, where Harry caught sight of a skinny little girl, who made a series of annoying noises and took off.

“Riley Isabel Garrison, I swear to God―!” A girl with a strong American accent came sliding next to the little boy, and she took his hand, hissing, “And you! Stop the screaming, Graham, let’s go.” Another girl came trotting over, and the first girl said sharply, “Divide and conquer, watch him while I go get that one.”

"Her is being mean!" The supposed Graham insisted loudly, but he was ignored as he was passed off to the new girl while the first one went jogging down the corridor.

Graham, apparently, was not a fan of having his hand held, though, and ripped it away from his new handler. He started yelling, but the first girl turned mid-run, snapped her fingers with a threatening point, rage glowing in her eyes, and then turned again to keep running. The fluidity was rather impressive, Harry thought. There was a beat of silence before Graham started to kick up a fuss again. He exchanged an amused look with Neville.

“Sir, this is a Denny’s, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” The other girl said in a ‘duh’ tone of voice, as if speaking to an unruly customer instead of her presumed brother, and ushered him off with a half-second glance at Neville and Harry. “C’mon, let's go back to Mom.”

Harry stared down the distant corridor, and watched the older girl seize Riley from the middle. Riley, predictably, began to kick and holler.

"Riley, we are in a hospital! " The older girl whisper-yelled to no avail.

“Huh.” Said Neville, mouthing ‘Denny’s’

Harry could hear the girl cursing from here, which was rather impressive given the distance between them. “Wow.” He breathed.

Neville jerked with a sharp huff of a laugh, and shook his head. “Yeah. This is the greatest form of contraceptive I've ever seen.”

Harry burst into laughter, just as Riley bit her sister’s hand, who dropped her with a shout and then went to kick her before thinking better of it and lifting her back up into the air, this time, upside down. "Holy sh*t."

“I do sometimes wonder how the Weasley’s survived seven children.” Neville continued laughing quietly. “Suppose we both ought to be grateful.” He turned to look at one of the clocks on the wall, and frowned. “With that said, though, I really should get back to my grandmother. She’ll want to have a big family lunch, I expect.”

Harry was still busy laughing at Neville's comment, but got his sh*t together long enough to say, “Yeahah, get out of here. I’ll see you in school, then?"

Neville turned to face him, and after a moment, nodded. “Yeah. I’ll write, though.” The mirth in Harry finally died away as the corridor fell silent once more, and they looked at each other for a short while longer. Something seemed to pass between them before Neville said, quietly, “Thanks for listening.”

“Same to you, mate." Harry returned, and then proffered, "Happy Christmas?”

“Yeah, Happy Christmas.”

With that, Neville turned heel, and plodded back down towards the ward that housed what was left of his parents. Harry stayed on the bench for a little while longer, and came to a realization as he sat there alone, with only the ticking of a nearby clock to keep him company.

He'd visited the graves of Neville's parents before his own.

Something sunk in his chest, and Harry thought of the Weasleys, all curled up around Mr. Weasley, and decided he'd very much prefer to be with them rather than alone in the dim, silent corridor. So, he stood, and moved to go back to them. His footsteps clicked on the tile as he walked, and he caught a glimpse of Alice Longbottom through the door window as he passed by the ward she lied in. He stopped, and looked into her luminous, empty eyes.

Nothing in her face changed.

The untraveled path rattled, ancient bones rumbling with the weight of feet pressing on the stone, sensation long forgotten.

Chapter 3: In All But Blood

Chapter Text

Yuletide break continued its ambling chug with little fanfare. Except for, of course, the whole bit of “hey, the professor you literally hate more than anything is going to essentially violate your mind for two nights a week, cool? Cool” which Harry had been anything but pleased by.

If he were a lesser teenager, he’d probably complain about it a hell of a lot more than he already was, but another visit to Mr. Weasley at St. Mungos had the man impressing the importance of him learning Occlumency upon him, so, he was just going to have to suck it up and deal with it.

Not that he was planning to be cooperative about it―because he 100% was not. Snape didn’t seem any more enthused about the future debacle than Harry was, so it was pretty clear that he wouldn’t be particularly nice about it. Harry would simply dish back out what he was given, nothing more and nothing less, since this wouldn’t be a legitimate class and he technically wouldn’t get into detention if he told the guy to go f*ck himself. And if Mr. Weasley frowned at him disapprovingly over this plan during yet another round of Go-Fish, which the man was terrible at, so be it.

Disapproving looks aside, Harry's visits to Mr. Weasley were some of the few blessedly-calm points of his life, and they were especially nice because―perhaps to everyone's surprise, including the bloke himself―Cork had made a habit of swinging down just to check up on how things were going with Mr. Weasley. He himself had gotten out just a couple days after Christmas, and had been acting shifty the last couple visits. Moody was worried the man was a mole, but as it turned out, Cork had some buddies in America who specialized in venom-removal (apparently it was a rampant issue in Arizona, which was evidently the home of many, many snakes, and wizards with too much bravado). So, to everyone's relief, Mr. Weasley was back on his feet and at Grimmauld Place the day before New Year’s Eve, just over a week before school resumed.

Harry was vaguely disappointed at the loss of the quiet peace of the hospital ward, but far more happy to have Mr. Weasley healed up and with a new friend to boot, so he couldn't complain. And neither could the mannequin that marked the visitor's entrance to St. Mungos, which Harry had developed an unhealthy vitriol towards over the course of his visits. He’d been contemplating exploding it, consequences be damned, and the horrid thing seemed almost relieved as he walked through the veil of St. Mungos with Mr. Weasley in tow, as if it could sense his animosity and was just as glad to be rid of him as he was to be rid of its ghastly sight.

Mark Harry's words though; one day, someday,fiberglass and plastic guts would be on his hands.

Mr. Weasley was very amused by this prospect, and so was Neville, who―true to his word―was now exchanging letters with Harry and had been duly informed of how much Harry loathed that mannequin, and had confirmed his suspicion that some wizard had stolen the mannequin from muggles and repurposed it for the entrance of St. Mungos. Thus, Waldo Strongbark was next on his hit-list after he eventually took out the mannequin, assuming the guy was still alive (seeing as he’d been born sometime in the mid 20s). Neville had been sharing a lot of odd facts about the Wixen populace in general, actually, and not only did the whole thing keep Harry entertained, but also kept him relatively sane in the dreariness of the house. So, with the means to keep up good spirits, by New Year’s, not even the growing migraine thrumming behind his eyes nor the dull pulsing in his left arm could keep him down for long.

Mind, he wasn't exactly pleased that those things were happening, but as it stood, he was chipper enough to shrug it off for the most part.

He stayed on his feet and partied for most of the night that lead up to 1996, but by 11pm, he was sitting in one of the squashy, dusty couches and blearily watching the proceedings go along while he nursed a glass of cool water. He watched in vague amusem*nt as Ginny tried to trip up one of the twins―George, if he could make him out from this distance―with her socked feet as she sat down and spun on the glossy hardwood in a circle. Hermione started yelling when George nearly mowed down Crookshanks in the process, and made a face when the cat made a running leap for Harry.

He caught the frenzied cat in his lap, wincing when he managed to shove his little cat paw straight onto the Basilisk scar on his left arm―which was, as it did on occasion, hurting at the moment―and quickly corralled him into settling in his lap.

"Oh, hush." He murmured in an undertone, scritching the area just above Crookshank's tail as he stabbed his leg with his claws, skittering in place anxiously. "I've got you, mate. He can't get you from here."

"Guard him with your LIFE, Harry!" Hermione called from across the room, face all scrunched up, and Ron started laughing next to her.

"That was the plan!" Harry called back dryly, and settled deeper in the crusty couch cushion, using the hand that wasn't petting Crookshanks to scrub his face.

He winced when the movement tugged on the scar tissue on his left arm and sighed, shifting his socked feet on the carpet and wishing very suddenly that midnight would come sooner. He stopped petting Crookshanks, figuring the bowlegged cat wouldn't mind his laziness, but this was quickly disputed as Crookshanks began to purr in his lap, as if to implore him to continue. Harry huffed a little laugh, resuming the scritching, this time between Crookshanks' ears.

"Sorry for the disrespect, your highness..." He mumbled, shifting his thigh to tip Crookshanks more towards his stomach.

Perhaps if they weren't interrupted, Crookshanks would've shocked the hell out of Harry and revealed that he could talk like a human, but alas, this was not to be, for Harry tilted to the side a smidge as the couch cushion pressed downwards with the weight of Mr. Weasley, who more fell heavily than sat down. Harry looked him up and down to make sure he wasn’t dying, more amused than concerned, and cracked a smile. Evidently, the man had been playing Exploding Snap, for part of his eyebrow was gone and there was the barest hint of a grey smudge along the left side of his face.

"You alive over there?" He tried to joke, but it came out a bit more tired than he was intending as he fiddled with one of Crookshank's paws.

"Barely. Crookshanks, however, looks like he's having the time of his life." Mr. Weasley said, wiping one of the scorched lenses of his horn-rimmed glasses with his sleeve.

Harry glanced down at Crookshanks, who was now batting at his hand in annoyance, likely since he was not a fan of having his paw held. "You could say that, yeah."

"I wonder what Matthew's up to for New Year’s. I'd have invited him over but, well..." Mr Weasley gesticulated to the general room, and Harry nodded in understanding. "He's not part of the Order. He's an honest bloke, though. I'll have to get a hold of Albus and ask about inducting him into this whole thing."

Harry quirked an eyebrow. "He's really nice and all, but that's a pretty drastic judgement. Are you sure?"

Mr. Weasley cast him a strange look, which Harry was rather confused by, but said nothing to explain it in favor of shrugging a shoulder. "He called in some acquaintances all the way in America to get me healed faster, and I did some prodding with him―he's no fan of You-know-who. Matthew's a good man. I think so, and I've always been a good judge of character. And, hey," He nudged Harry gently, "If he joins, Remus can have an ally with the whole werewolf-pack thing-a-majig. It wears on him, and it'd be good for him to have someone watching his back, don't you think?"

Well, Harry couldn't argue with that logic, mostly because it was very sound. He supposed it'd be fun to have Cork in the Order too―it'd certainly make things less boring. They'd just have to wait and see, then. Harry went to yawn, but cut himself off in favor of saying―"Ow!" when Crookshanks suddenly bit his hand.

Harry looked down at the cat exasperatedly, and moved his hands away from him. "You could've just told me you wanted me to stop. Jesus." He shook out his hand and, on a whim, tossed one the knit throw-blankets over Crookshanks to piss him off.

As Crookshanks struggled with the blanket in his lap, Harry and Mr. Weasley took to sitting in comfortable silence for a while. Mr. Weasley kept an eye on his kids and made comments every now and then to make Harry laugh, and Harry screwed around with Crookshanks intermittently as the clock ticked ever closer towards a New Year. By the time Sirius announced loudly that they had twenty minutes of 1995 left, Crookshanks was crouched in Harry's lap and had his claws stuck in his sweater. He was clearly not pleased by this because he was meowing very loudly and with a clear note of frustration. Harry sighed, and Mr. Weasley began to chuckle next to him.

"Well, maybe if you didn't decide the puffy things would make a good chew toy, we wouldn't be in the predicament, Crookshanks." Harry said mildly as he tried to untangle Crookshank's claws from his sweater without any serious maiming on either of their parts, and sighed again when Crookshanks went to bite at his knuckles. "I don't know how you expect to get free if you gnaw off my hands.” He made a hissing ‘tsktsktsk’ noise and frowned. “Quit it, already."

"That's the same tone I used to use on the twins when they were little," Mr. Weasley said wistfully, and admittedly used the same tone as Harry as he waggled his finger in a mimicry of his own past self, "'Boys, I don't know what you think you're going to get out of prodding that chicken, stop it."

"And what happened with that chicken?" Harry asked as he finally freed Crookshanks, who hissed at him for all his trouble and frumpily began to knead on his trousers. "Ow. Crookshanks, we've already got biscuits on the table, we don't need more."

Mr. Weasley gave him a look and laughed a little, grabbing one of Crookshanks' paws to make him stop. "If I do recall correctly, Harry, I believe dear old Hollie, god rest that poor chicken's soul, nipped at Fred's finger until it bled and he came screaming inside about how she'd bit off his finger. All he really had was a little cut."

Ah, the sweet smell of blackmail material. Finally, ammunition against the guy's quips about Harry snuggling with the man he was next to at the moment. Harry pointedly did not think about how nice that had really made him feel nor what Neville had said near the end of their conversation in St. Mungos (which is to say, Harry thoughtvery intrusively about those things and was not enthused by it). He laughed a little awkwardly, thinking of the rest of his conversation with Neville and those two kids that had marked the end of it.

"Kids are really dramatic, huh." He said pointlessly, and said, "Did I ever tell you about those two little kids who came screaming down the corridor on Christmas when I was hiding from Mrs. Weasley?"

Mr. Weasley still looked amused with him, and indulged Harry. "No, you didn't. Tell me about them."

And so, Harry iterated the tale of "YOU'RE BEING TOO LOUD!”, the cursing American girl holding the younger one upside-down, and some of the context thereof and by the time he was done, Mr. Weasley was flushed and wiping at his eyes, a broad grin on his face. "Oh, that reminds me of Bill and Charlie. They're both lovely boys and were great help when they could focus enough, but the twins really gave them a run for their money. I can recall a time Molly and I tried to take the boys out to the store to get out of the house while she was still pregnant with Ron, and by the end of it, Bill looked fit to cry, Molly was crying, and George was diaperless next to the unicorn hair."

“Oh my god,” Harry looked at Mr. Weasley incredulously, laughing quietly. And then he remembered what Neville had marveled in the hallway when they'd seen those kids and thought to ask, “How did you two manage to survive that many little kids?"

Mr. Weasley shook his head and blinked hard. "The twins were by far the worst terrors of the lot, just before Ginny, and while I'd love to say that it was perseverance and skill that got me and Molly through that, you're old enough for me to tell you that it mostly involved a couple shots before bed, Harry."

Harry laughed so suddenly and so loudly that he got a couple looks, and Crookshanks shifted in his lap, meowing in complaint.

Mr. Weasley was chuckling too, and he leaned back to let his balding head rest against the couch cushion with a loud, drawn out sigh. "Honestly, though, there were a couple big things that made it a lot easier to keep it together. The knowledge that they all had feelings just as big as mine, but condensed into a smaller body." He held up one finger. "That any pain they were experiencing was likely the literal worst thing they'd ever felt in their entire life." He held up a second finger. "That they were allowed to have bad days and it wouldn't be fair if they didn't." He held up a third finger. "That it was my job as their parent and caretaker to love them, no matter how annoying they were, because I was one of the only things they knew and could turn to," A fourth finger went up. "And that at the end of the day, I loved them and wanted to see them happy, and yelling at them or hitting them in excess wouldn't make that happen." He held up a final finger, and then put his hand down.

Harry went still, having not expected advice, and especially not advice like that.

Something settled into place in him, heavy and hard. Suddenly, Harry felt a little less happy. He looked down at Crookshanks, missing the worried face he got from Mr. Weasley, and he puffed a sigh. He could hear Sirius and Ron having a play-argument somewhere across the room and any other time, he might've tuned in to see what they were going on about, but now...well.

Mr. Weasley said nothing. Just put his hand on Harry's shoulder and left it there.

Harry let it rest, feeling like his chest was trying to eat itself. Mr. Weasley's hand was so warm, and though he wasn't sure why, how, or if it was okay, it made him feel better. It was almost embarrassing, but he ignored the feeling. He'd been caught. He knew Mr. Weasley had no idea why he had gone quiet, or why he might've been making the face he had to have been making, but the man was there.

It was nice that he cared. No one else ever really had.

Unbidden, Harry thought of his cupboard. He swirled his fingers in a circle on his trousers, a special sort of misery welling up inside of him, poisoning his high spirits and sending him spiraling back down to his own reality. He thought of Petunia’s soapy frying pan and looked askance, suddenly feeling a little sickened by it. He thought of the darkness beneath the stairs, the burning sun in summer, the gnawing hunger and bleeding thirst, and sunk lower and lower until he could feel his chin resting against the proverbial dirt. He barely registered it when the clock began to chime in 1996. 10, 9, 8, 7... Deep in his thoughts, just about none of them good, his arm pulsed harder and a migraine came creeping in, starting from the front of his head and pulsing backwards. He found himself feeling rather nauseous. 6, 5, 4... He prayed that the room wouldn't get any louder, but as they got down to 3, the volume increased in excitement, and then there was 2, and then 1, and then Mr. Weasley was clapping him on the shoulder he'd had his hand on for what felt like hours telling him Happy New Year, and missing his gasp of pain in the roar of the room as finally, finally, 1996 came.

"Happy New Year’s," He mumbled, blinking the spots out of his eyes as he cradled his left arm.

The basilisk scar ached just as hard as his head.

Arthur had been hoping to stay conked out until at least nine after he'd gone to bed at midnight, but he found that this was not to be when he found himself inexplicably awake at 6:14 in the morning.

He briefly wondered what the hell had woken him, but when he heard a rather loud, muffled meow outside of his and Molly's bedroom door, he suddenly understood. Annoyance flickered through him―goddamn that cat―but brushed it off quickly. Crookshanks was kind of stupid sometimes, but Arthur couldn't deny the cat had eerily shining moments of intellect, and thus knew that there had to be some sort of important reason as to why he'd foregone bothering his owner or Harry and gone for him or Molly instead. Of course, 'important' was an arbitrary thing for a cat, so Arthur, pulling himself out of bed, prepared himself for the possibility of having been woken because Kreacher was skulking around somewhere Crookshanks didn't think he ought to be or something equally inane.

He jammed his slippers on his feet and trudged towards the door, letting it creak open quietly so as not to wake his wife and looked down in disdain as Crookshanks wound around his feet in a figure eight once, before bounding down the hallway and looking back at him halfway down and meowing loudly.

Arthur blinked, rubbed the crust out of his eyes, and sucked in a long breath for the sole purpose of sighing it out. "You really want me to follow you? At this hour? It’s cold, y’know…" He said pointlessly, leaving the bedroom anyway as he spoke.

As if answering his questions, Crookshanks meowed, and then skidded down the hallway a bit further as Arthur got closer.

"If this is about Kreacher again, I'm tossing you at Hermione." He muttered under his breath, dragging his feet on the murky hardwood and huffing.

Arthur wanted to be grumpy, but as he followed Crookshanks, he began to notice a strange sort of anxiety about the cat, as though he were worried about something, and wondered what on earth could have him on the fritz like this. He didn't know what he was expecting to find―perhaps something like a particularly frightening-looking picture frame, a shiny cup, or a piece of ominous paper.

He certainly wasn't anticipating finding Harry curled up on the living room floor.

Ah, f*ck.

All traces of annoyance instantaneously vanishing, Arthur hurried down to the living room floor and hovered over Harry, looking at Crookshanks incredulously as he batted at Harry's shoulder and meowed.

"You―" He sputtered, and shook Harry's shoulder to try and wake him. "―Thanks, Crook. Hold on, now."

Harry made a punched-out, painful noise when Arthur shook him particularly hard, and he let go of the boy like he was burning. And then, he placed his hand back down, because Morgana and Circe, he was burning. Half of Arthur had hoped Harry had just had a strike of fancy and decided to sleep on the floor, but that was now well and gone. Oh, boy. He tugged Harry towards him until he was laying on his back, and pushed the hair out of his face, patting his cheek gently. Merlin forbid, had he fainted? He'd gotten letters from Percy— 'don't think about Percy, Arthur'—about Harry having some spells now and then, but he didn't know what could've—

"Hey, c'mon kid." He whispered quickly. "C'mon, now, talk to me."

To his great relief and equal concern, Harry's eyes cracked open and he looked blearily up at him, and then around the room, as if he wasn't sure where he was.

"Are you with me, son?"

Harry's eyebrows scrunched and his lips moved, but no sound came out. He looked vaguely frustrated by this, and tried to sit up, and Arthur jerked to help him. Harry's own effort was disconcertingly unhelpful in the process of Arthur tugging him up, and by the end of it he’d all but bodily lifted Harry onto one of the nearby couches. He murmured reassurances under his breath as Harry fussed a little, still blinking dazedly, and wondered wildly what on earth was wrong other than the fever. In a moment of stupidity, he looked to Crookshanks as if he could tell him.

He thought for a split second that Crookshanks had actually obeyed his wishes and spoken because a hoity-toity voice filled the room then. "That cat is much smarter than he looks." But then, who exactly was speaking clicked, and Arthur went rigid.

‘No way,’ he thought, but apparently there was a way, because as he looked back, he found himself looking up at the portrait of Walburga Black.

She looked him up and down as if he were the dirt on her non-visible boot, but he decided not to worry about it until later in favor of figuring out why the hell one of his kids was sprawled out on the living room floor at 6 in the morning. And it seemed Walburga, of all people, was inclined to tell him, because in a perfectly even, posh tone of voice, she said,

"He's been on my floor for over an hour now, and his magic started to get annoying. Filthy little half-blood that he is, I'm still not partial to corpses in my house, so I sent that creature to go get help. I had assumed he'd run to get my waste of a son, but it seems he grabbed you instead. Strange."

Arthur puffed up at the blatant insults Walburga was spilling, but again shoved off the anger to instead take care of the kid who looked fit to fall off the couch. "What's wrong with him? Is he hurt?"

Walburga looked at him disdainfully. "I'm a portrait, fool." At the look he sent her, though, her face twisted and in a very put-upon tone, she said, "He was clutching his arm earlier. The left one. And didn't look like he could see straight. He looked nauseous, too. Now get him out of my sight."

Arthur didn't need any more of a cue than that, because frankly, he didn't think Harry needed to be exposed to Walburga's vitriol this early in the morning anyway. He noticed the curtain to her portrait slowly slide shut of its own accord, and grudgingly thanked her for that in his head before refocusing on his kid. He patted Harry's face once more in an effort to get him aware enough to move. Harry, whose head had bonelessly lolled onto the back cushion, was unhelpful to the point of hilarity in this effort.

"Harry," Arthur whispered insistently. "Good Merlin, son, stay with me. Help me get you into a bed, at least."

Harry did not seem to find this an agreeable task and stayed stubbornly inert, only cracking his eyes open momentarily to give him a sleepy, baleful look and slump further into the couch, breathing raggedly.

Despite himself, Arthur nearly laughed and shook his head. "Am I going to need to take you to St. Mungos? Tell 'em that you're dying?"

This got a response out of Harry, albeit a disturbingly lackluster one: "W'n't they be pleased..."

"I will...I will carry you?" Arthur threatened weakly, trying to scrounge up something that could possibly make Harry get it together enough for Arthur to not feel the need to actually rush him to St. Mungos. Cork was right; once they get to around Harrys age, kids were squirrely about affection. Something about it being embarrassing. "I will! I will parade you across the house in my arms, like a damsel. No one will ever let you hear the end of it." Not that anyone was actually awake to see it, though Harry didn’t need to know that.

"Mffph." Was the only reply he got, and his stomach sunk unpleasantly.

sh*t.sh*t.Arthur floundered, goosebumps rising in the cold room. Right, then. St. Mungos was suddenly feeling like less and less of a bad idea, but he tried to shake it off—Harry would murder him, and…well, he’d had a point when he said “Won’t they be pleased”…politically speaking, putting Harry there might actually put him in evenmoredanger. And they had potions here…

sh*t.

Alright, but the living room wasn’t an acceptable place to leave him, not when it was this cold.Maybe carrying himwasn't a bad idea. Being out here on a hard couch in a truly frigid room couldnot be helping matters.

"Alright, you asked for it," Arthur said hesitantly, decision made, and hooked his hands under Harry's armpits to tug him upright and into a shoulder hold, as if he were a three year old instead of a grown―but frighteningly small―teenage boy. But, just as Harry's arms raised enough to get out of the way, his eyes shot open and he gasped.

Arthur hoped for a fleeting second that it was just awareness flooding back to him, but to his horror, Harry's eyes grew wet and he heaved, looking more and more distressed by the second. Arthur let him go in a flash and stepped back, looking for the damage and finding nothing. f*ck. f*ckf*ckf*ck. Harry curled into a ball on the couch and breathed out sharply, over and over again, face so warm that Arthur swore he could feel the heat from here. He had his left arm cradled to himself, clutching the forearm in a death grip, and Arthur could have hit himself.

Walburga had told him that Harry's arm hurt, but like the jackass he apparently was, he'd assumed it was just a minor pain and the real problem was the fever. Evidently not. Guilt clogged his throat as he crouched down next to Harry, rubbing one of his shoulder-blades soothingly while he shook with honest-to-goodness pain. After a minute or two, he sat down beside Harry on the couch, took him by the shoulders―this time treating his left arm very carefully―and sat him up to tilt him into his lap. It didn't matter that Harry was a fifteen year old boy—he was in pain, and this was all Arthur knew how to do.

They sat like that for a minute, Arthur murmuring soothingly into the crown of Harry's head, and once he stopped trembling, he stood, taking the boy up with him with little fuss. That was perhaps the worst part of it—the inaction. Harry was not used to being held, and once he was awake and aware, he did what he could to squirm out of it. Not this time. That clued Arthur in to more than words ever could. With a worried grimace, Arthur made his way towards the hallway, out of the frigid room.

He peered at Walburga’s portrait as he passed but she did not appear again, so he avoided the clutter in the room and plodded down the hallway as gently as he could, trying hard not to jostle Harry too much or wake the other denizens of the house. He momentarily thought of putting Harry down in the room he shared with Ron, but cast the idea aside quickly―Ron, bless his heart, was very loud, and he loved Harry a lot. If Arthur woke him by carrying Harry into the room, the whole debacle could only lead to shouted concerns and incredibly violent mothering on Ron's part, which didn't seem like something Harry would appreciate at the moment.

He wondered where else might be a good idea to get Harry settled, and the answer was so obvious that it nearly smacked Arthur in the head.

"Ooh, Harry, you're gonna hate this one, buddy." He muttered, worry only increasing when Harry didn't react at all.

sh*t. Crookshanks crept behind him as he walked, and he thanked his past self and the cat as Crookshanks used his flat face to prod open the bedroom door he'd left open in his begrudging haste to follow him just minutes ago. Molly stirred in the bed as he started to put Harry down, and rolled over to peer at him.

"Arthur?" She murmured, rubbing her eyes and yawning wide enough to show off her pretty, white teeth. "What's...?" She caught sight of Harry then, and went stiff. "Oh, dear."

He smiled at her wryly, watching in adoration as she immediately put on her mom-pants and started fussing. Harry's face scrunched up and he curled into the warmth of the bed, shying away from her hands as she felt his forehead, and he glowered at the wall. "Easy on him, Molly." He said, and she looked at him, hazel eyes wide and shining.

'Ilove my wife,' Came a thought, and Arthur smacked it down.Focus, dammit.

He nodded twice, and squeezed Harry's knee. "I brought him in here so the kids wouldn't harass him―it's still early, so they won't be up for awhile, but better safe than sorry." At the questioning look she gave him, he explained. "I didn't kidnap him from his room or anything―Crookshanks came in to grab me just a couple minutes ago, because he was sprawled out on the living room floor. It's freezing out there, and this is the only warm bed he's not going to be bothered in"

She looked very, very alarmed by this, but her face softened when Harry let out an exasperated sort of sigh. "Oh, and I suppose you fought him every step of the way here, then." She instead joked with him gently, rubbing a small circle on his back as he seemed to melt straight into the mattress.

He hadn't, though, which was exactly what had Arthur so concerned. "Keep an eye on him while I run down to the kitchen to get him a potion or two," He said, edging towards the door. "I won't be longer than a minute."

And it didn't―it was hardly any effort to scurry downstairs, grab a pain-relieving potion, and hurry back up to Harry and his wife. He barely noticed his surroundings as he went up and nearly bowled over Crookshanks as he went along, who was skulking outside of his bedroom. He shooed the cat inside as he went in, gesturing to the bed.

"Go on, keep him company." He said, and prodded Harry over so he could drink the potion without choking on it.

Harry made a face at the potion but seemed content to have Crookshanks with him, and took to petting his ears as Arthur measured out a bit of the potion and held it out to him. He gave it an angry look as he grabbed the spoonful with a shaking hand―Arthur nearly put his own out to prevent it from spilling, but Harry seemed to have it―and caught a look from Molly as Harry swallowed the thick-ish liquid down.

It took him a moment to work out why she was concerned, but when he did, he pointed at his own left arm when Harry wasn't looking and mouthed, 'hurt a lot'. She took his word for it and redirected her concern to Harry when he began to look visibly drowsy. Frowning, Arthur read the label of the potion he'd snagged, and realized it had a sedating effect to it. Ah, well, that was fine, Harry could use the sleep anyway.

It seemed, though, that as was a running theme with him, Harry wasn't about to go down for the count without a fight, which pleased Arthur greatly because that meant the pain-relieving potion was doing what it was supposed to―and quickly to boot. He crawled into the bed with him and Molly, and tugged Harry back into it by the back of his t-shirt when he tried to get up.

"Not so fast there, kiddo." He said gently, trying to make Harry roll over. "You're not getting away that easily, not after I had to carry you in here."

Molly made an alarmed noise at that, and Harry hunched his shoulders, looking embarrassed. "How'd you ev'n know I was on the floor?" He pouted, giving up on his struggle to leave the bed in favor of yawning.

Considering for a moment, Arthur crawled back out of the bed, pushed Harry towards the middle―not without extreme, mumbled, slurring protests―and took up the end of the bed Harry had been laying in before, leaving the boy sandwiched between him and his wife, sideways and facing her. There, no escape. Harry was on bed arrest, now.

Only then did he explain, very quietly. "Just as I told Molly―Crookshanks came to pester me."

There was a pause, and then there came a small, "'m sorry."

Arthur exchanged a sad look with Molly, and put his hand on Harry's shoulder. "Nonsense, don't be. I'm glad he did."

"But you w're sleepin’." Harry's voice dragged as he began to lose his fight against his own sleep―and wasn't that such a display of willpower, trying to struggle against an honest to goodness sedative?

"Yes, Harry, he was sleeping, but he was sleeping in a warm, comfortable bed, not shivering on the hardwood." Molly told him quietly, brushing his hair behind his ear. "I'd much rather have us both be awake a tad too early than have you suffering on the ground. Or, god forbid, have one of the boys trip over you. That commotion would wake half of London, I'm sure."

"I was fine..." Harry insisted, not sounding very convincing at all. "Crookshanks was good c'mpany, too."

"That doesn't change that you were passed out on the living room floor for a couple hours."

Harry tilted his head to peer back at Arthur, looking unsure of where he'd gotten this information from. Evidently, he'd not heard Walburga say her piece, which was probably for the best.

"I wasn't passed out for hours, I was awake sometimes.” He said petulantly after a moment, and Arthur's heart sank in his chest at the very thought. He locked eyes with Molly, and knew she was wondering the same thing as him―for just how long had Harry been alone, in pain, and aware of it?

"That...is so much worse, son." Arthur said softly after a moment, sidling closer to wrap an arm around Harry as if to shield him from further hurt.

Molly shifted closer to do the same, and he looked at her sadly as Harry seemed to shrink between them.

"...'m sorry." Harry said once more, and before Arthur could explain to him that no, he shouldn't be sorry, not for this, he went lax and breathed out, sleep finally overcoming him an admirable three-ish minutes after he'd been inadvertently sedated.

He and Molly looked at each other for a minute, neither speaking, before she heaved a sigh and squeezed Harry a little tighter, “He’s going to lose hismindwhen he wakes later, isn’t he?”

”Most certainly.” Arthur agreed, glad she was on the same page of keeping him with them (if only to keep an eye on him). "Oh, Molly. What are we going to do with this one?"

“...Hold him?” Molly said after a quiet moment, gazing down at him with watery, mournful eyes.

Well, that sounded like a start.

Arthur hunkered down a bit further, and looked at his wife, exchanging a sad look with her. Harry was going to be the death of them both at this rate. Arthur just put his hand on Harry's shoulder, and hoped against hope that he and Molly might just be able to squeeze the pain out of him.

That was just what parents tried to do for their kids. Never mind if that kid was the only one who didn't know they were their kid.

'Once for loss, Twice for luck, Thrice for love to make it unstuck.'

Chapter 4: Broken is Your Birthright

Chapter Text

A couple hours later and intermittent dozing saw their positions change a bit.

Molly pursed her rosy lips at Arthur as he held onto Harry, who seemed to have picked his favorite parent and was now sprawled across his chest. "Not my fault that you're not hip enough for him," He joked, and poorly hid a grin when she swatted at him.

She huffed, but didn’t rise to the bait, instead asking softly, “He’s not too heavy for you, is he?”

Truthfully, no, Harry wasn’t heavy at all. “It’s like having a particularly long toddler on top of me.” He said with a shrug, trying to make her laugh with a stupid description, and was hence rewarded with an amused little grin as Harry appeared to make a mission out of trying to physically merge with Arthur’s body in his sleep. “He’s small, Mollywobbles. Like one of those teacup dogs the muggles go nuts over.”

"I wouldn't exaggerate that much. I've not seen a teacup dog nearly as big as 155cm."

Arthur suppressed a mortified laugh, careful not to move too much so as to not wake Harry up. "Please tell me he's not really five centimeters shorter than Ginny."

“Believe me when I say he is, dear. Hermione started an argument about everyone's heights a couple days ago and I got to measure the lot of them."

"He's fifteen.”

"And he's 155 centimeters tall."

Whatever else she was planning on adding, it was cut off by a raspy, quiet, and undoubtedly disgruntled, "He's also got working ears, in case you hadn't noticed."

Oops.

Arthur laughed a little, feeling vaguely apologetic, and curled his hand up to cup the side of Harry’s head. He stroked away the hair and surreptitiously felt his forehead in the process. He felt a stab of concern through his own mirth at the heat that remained, and he lowered his voice into something a bit more gentle when he asked,

"How are you feeling?"

“Oh, yeah, just don’t acknowledge the short jokes, that’s fine.” Harry heaved an exasperated sigh, and as he shifted, he winced hard enough to make Arthur twitch. There was a pause, and Harry tacked on sheepishly, “Arm just hurts, 's all. I'm alive though, so...you can let go.”

"Not a chance," Molly said mildly, and Harry groaned.

"Why am I being heldhostage?"

Arthur didn't smile, though. Because he knew right then and there that something was very, very wrong. Harry was exceptionally lock-lipped about pain responses, to the extent that he―to his and Molly's horror―had once hidden a broken ankle for several days. That in and of itself had been no small feat, and when other pain was viewed under the lense of that context, Harry openly admitting that something hurt was...worrying.

Arthur exchanged a look with his wife. She frowned, before her eyebrows shot up in realization. There was a brief moment of stillness before Harry started pulling away, muttering something about how they were supposed to laugh at that. His elbow jabbed Arthur in the lung for the barest portion of a second before Arthur wheezed reflexively. Harry pulled it up as if he’d been burned. He looked, bless him, really concerned at the response to the unwitting and unplanned respiratory attack, but that wasn’t what Arthur was concerned about.

Yes, Harry’s care was very endearing, but what was not endearing was how Harry looked. He'd looked awful earlier, but he looked ashen, the warm flush to his brown cheeks utterly lost, and the bags cradled under his eyes looked suddenly pronounced. It appeared as if a particularly stiff breeze would bowl the poor boy over like a skipping stone, and the moment Harry managed to struggle his way out of the bed and was standing on shaking legs, Arthur immediately tried to tug him back. He'd already said he was in pain, and he looked like he was too. He needed to stay down, if only to soothe Arthur's heart.

“Hey,” he soothed, trying to corral him back into sitting down. “Come sit, you look like you’re about to fall.”

No such luck; Harry put his incredible talent of wriggling out of anyone’s grasp to not-so-good use, and proved he was still adept at the practice even when he looked like he was about to pass out. He went very still for a brief moment once Arthur got a good grip on him, and then, with a renewed passion, broke free and lurched forward. By the time Arthur or Molly were even standing, Harry was already halfway to the bathroom. He thought that Harry was under the impression that that was the way out of the room, but that was quickly disproven by the door slamming shut, a clink, a beat of silence, and then a retch. Mentally, Arthur added "nausea" to the symptoms list (which currently had fatigue, fever, and pain) and looked over at his wife, waiting for her input before he got up.

“Oh...” She fretted, wringing her hands and “I’ll—“ she made a start for the bathroom, stopped short, and after a handful of seconds, she instead went for the actual bedroom door.

“Molly?” Arthur called questioningly, shifting towards the bathroom.

“You got the last potion, er, I'll...yes, I'll get the next round, something to drink maybe.” She stammered, and was already halfway out of the door as she threw over her shoulder, “Go, Arthur, make sure he’s—“

And she was off. There was a tense moment where Arthur wondered what on earth had her in such a tizzy, and then he realized Harry'd never really been sick-sick with them before. Broken ankles were one thing―sickness was a whole new field. Just as she had done with the rest of their kids, she was acting like a loon the very first time they fell ill. Shaking his head, Arthur made for the bathroom, and then Sirius poked his head in.

“Molly looked fit to start popping out chickens,” He said haltingly, wincing halfway through his sentence when Harry gagged in the bathroom. “Oh, is that...?"

Arthur shook his head, and padded towards the master bathroom as Harry quieted a little more. “Yes, that's Harry. Did you need something?"

Sirius made a face at the bathroom door. "I was just about to ask if you'd seen him anywhere, but it looks as if I've had that answered. What's wrong with him?"

"Your mother told me about how he was on the floor for a couple hours earlier before she sent Crookshanks to go find help once she got annoyed with his presence. His arm is bothering him for a reason I've yet to figure out, he's running a fever, and now, apparently, he's nauseous." He explained tightly, and peered over at Crookshanks himself, who was basking in the morning light by the window. "Molly’s getting medicine; why don’t you hunt down some new nightclothes and his toiletries? I’ll get this.”

Sirius looked mystified. "My mother...?" Harry retched again, though, this time noticeably louder and Sirius just nodded, peering at the bathroom with a look of vague disgust. “Yeah, right then. All you, mate,” And then left, hopefully to go do what Arthur had prompted.

Arthur rolled his eyes and cracked open the bathroom door, catching a glimpse of Harry hunched over the toilet and looking like the epitome of misery. He kept his distance for a while, knowing how embarrassing it was for someone to hover over you when you were vomiting and knowing Harry would probably appreciate the solitude for a bit. It took a couple minutes, but soon it appeared as if the worst of it had passed, and Arthur crept closer.

“All done?” He called softly.

As if his body had been waiting for someone to ask something like that, Harry retched again.

“That’s a no, I take it.”

Harry paused just long enough to throw a baleful look over his shoulder and Arthur decided to forego leaving Harry alone in favor of providing some comfort instead, if only because the retching was starting to sound really painful. He prodded the door closed with his toe and padded further into the bathroom, coming to a stop next to Harry and crouching to place a hand on the boy’s back. Harry sighed shakily, and after a little while, dry-heaved once more. Right, Arthur supposed those handful of calm minutes had just been the eye of the storm, then.

Well, he’d feel like a co*ck if he backed off now, so Arthur settled in to just rub a soothing circle into Harry’s back and wait for it all to pass, ignoring the acidic stench of stomach bile all the while. It wasn’t Harry’s fault he was ill anyway, and he was being a trooper about it―now that he was thinking about it, Arthur was sure that Bill or George would be in tears by now. Harry was being disturbingly quiet about this too—he was so used to Charlie or the twins waking up the entire house with how loud they were about this, but truthfully, the only reason he’d known so quickly that Harry was sicking up in the bathroom was because sound carried so easily in there. Arthur smiled inappropriately, remembering how Molly had learned that the hard way and tried not to laugh. You’re a grown ass man, stop laughing at farts.

Some time passed before Molly finally came bustling back in with some medicine, toast, and water, and between Harry’s barfing extravaganza finally tapering off, shoehorning him into a chair, and getting him to eat and drink, no one paid much mind to when Sirius came tromping back in to deposit clothes and toiletries until he encouragingly clapped Harry on the back. Arthur was aware that Harry had to be in some sort of discomfort—he’d been wincing since he'd woken up, but it still came as an awful surprise when Harry cried out in pain.

Arthur knew right then and there that something was wrong―not only had Harry admitted that he hurt, but he made a noise. Alarm bells now ringing in earnest, Arthur immediately batted Sirius away, who had the decency to at least look apologetic, and took the water glass from Harry's hand before he could drop it. Harry hunched forward and breathed raggedly just like he had hours ago―Arthur crouched, cursed his old man body for the umpteenth time, and cupped Harry’s chin to make the boy look at him, trying to keep his hand from shaking.

“Where does it hurt, son?” He asked urgently, keeping his tone as non-confrontive as possible in hopes that Harry would actually tell him.

It'd been his left arm earlier, but now it seemed the pain had spread, which did not bode well at all. If Harry had been planning on explaining, though, Arthur would never know, because through the doorway came a halting, "Harry?"

Arthur's heart stopped.

Harry went rigid under his hand and, after a moment, he squinted at the door, where Ron stood.

Ron crept into the room, eyes flitting between the three adults crowding his best friend, and narrowed them. "Right, what's all this, then?"

Harry looked away, eerily still, and Ron looked down at him, prodding Sirius out of the way. Harry cringed ever so slightly as Ron’s stare lingered, and then Ron said, dangerously calm, “You told me it didn't hurt that badly."

"...Well, Ron." He said after a moment, not looking up. "Now I’m telling you that I am a liar. And also a scoundrel. Can't forget that part."

Sirius snorted a laugh but Ron didn't so much as crack a smirk, and neither did Arthur, who had picked up on the strain in Harry's voice. Arthur looked at his slightly-elder son, waiting, and watched him sighed angrily whilst putting his hands on his hips. 'He looks so much like Molly,' came an errant thought.

"I'm telling them."

Molly's hand tightened on his shoulder.'Tell us what?'

Harry let his head fall backwards onto the armchair. "Do not ." He implored weakly, but it was a wasted effort as Ron immediately snapped,

"No, I've made up my mind, and I’ve decided I’ve had enough of your sh*t. This has gone on long enough. You ought to feel lucky I'm not dragging you to the hospital by your ears. And that's saying a lot, comin' from me.” Then, he looked Arthur dead in the eye, and with resolute anger shining in his own, he said point-blank, "Harry's arm has been hurting like that since the end of second year."

Silence flooded the room in the wake of Ron’s words, sitting like a heavy pressure between them all.

Something in Arthur's head misfired.

He stared at his son uncomprehendingly for a moment, breath knocked clear out of his chest.

Shoulders stiff, he slowly looked up at Harry, who was glaring at Ron like he wanted to kick him, and he thought of Harry, tiny, twelve-year-old Harry on the ground and unresponsive with pain. And then he thought of that same kid dealing with that sort of pain for three years―three goddamn years― and never saying a word about it, and had to physically fight down the trembling in his hands.

'Where were the adults for that?' Arthur thought, almost desperate, and twitched when he thought muggles Harry lived with. He thought almost immediately of how they'd sneered at him when he implored them to so much as say goodbye to Harry back when the boy was still fourteen, and things started to come together very poorly around then. Arthur won't divulge to you the details thereof, because they weren't important then; Harry was. Suffice to say, this was the last straw for Arthur. Because surely, surely Harry would’ve told his caregivers about this if they had cared, right? Or―Orthey would’ve noticed him on the floor in the weeks he’d stayed home, right? Arthur made a mental note right then and there to...check up on just who these muggles were. Then, he swallowed very thickly, sent the cold anger rising in his throat down into his stomach, and with a carefully blank face, he nudged Harry's knee and asked, very calmly,

"Is this true?"

Harry searched his face, but after a moment he admitted meekly, "Yes, but it hasn't been... that bad for the whole time. Not like I was laying on the floor all this time, that's new."

The fact that it hadn't been the same level of pain he'd seen in Harry just hours ago soothed Arthur greatly , but at the same time, not very much in the grand scheme of things.

Evidently, Ron wasn't pleased by this description, because he added gruffly, "But this isn't the first time you've been on the floor, Harry. That part is not new. Where were you this time?"

"On the living room floor." Harry said quietly, and then looked at the ground and nudged Crookshanks with his heel. "I had Crookshanks with me, though, I was fine."

Ron made an aggravated noise and threw his hands up. "Crookshanks is a cat , Harry. He's a cat . What’s he going to do if you just up and die, huh? Purr on you? You've been downed by this since November!” Harry didn't say anything in the pause that came. "Look at me, dammit! And don't tell me this didn’t start getting worse then, because I was there, Harry.” Ron’s voice grew louder and brittle. “Do you have any idea how scary it was to find you sprawled out in one of the shower stalls? Not able to talk to me or tell me what was wrong when I shut off the water and shook you? You just--you justlied there, gasping on the tile! Do you have any idea, Harry?"

Arthur went rigid at the mental image alone, and the other two adults with him seemed to feel much the same. They watched the two of them go at it much like one watched a potion explode, frozen and letting the disaster happen. He caught a glance from Sirius, who looked rather ashen, and then panned over to Molly, who looked fit to start crying. Just when it looked ready to devolve into a shouting match, Sirius broke in.

“Is that true, Prongslet?”

His voice sounded so earnest and his eyes were wide with an almost lost, childish worry, and Harry looked to the side. Ron, flushed bright red now and very upset, said quickly.

"Harry's left arm has always bothered him after we got Ginny out of that stupid Chamber, but back in November, near the end of the month, it got so bad that he passed out in the shower and wouldn't―wouldn't respond to me for minutes . He got me to leave it alone but I made him promise to get help if it happened again," And then he looked over at Harry, "But you didn't, did you?"

"Ron."

"How many more times did it happen, then? Twice? Three times? Eight?" Ron shoved a finger in his chest. "We don't know what's up with you, all we knew is that it didn't kill you the first time! We had no guarantee it'd be a one-time thing, or―or that if it happened again, it wouldn’t . Are you trying to die?"

There was a pause, before Harry said, "No." Arthur didn't like the pause at all, but before he could think too hard about it, Harry groaned, and flopped against the armchair with his chin tilted up to the ceiling. "Can we just...not do this right now? Yes, I know, I'm a sick and dying little boy― what do you want me to do about it? Strut into St. Mungos like ‘hey my arm hurts suspiciously sometimes, look at this weird scar and tell me there's nothing you can do’?" Harry tilted his head back down just to visibly roll his eyes. "Look, I've already been to Pomfrey a bajillion times since second year and she's never said a word, and I think she's more familiar with my naked body than I am.” He looked vaguely nauseated as he said that part and shuddered. “I'm pretty sure she would've noticed something by now if there was something we could do about it. I'd rather not get labeled as more hysterical than I already am, Ron."

And.

Well.

That was a fair enough point, he supposed. Arthur had been a stone's throw away from picking up Harry and carting him to St. Mungos for real because honestly , November! But Poppy was incredible at her job, and Harry had risen a very valid point. But, still.

"Harry, if this has been going on for as long as Ron's said it has, I don't want you to just dismiss it. When you get back to school, you're going to go to Poppy, and tell her about the specific problem.” Sirius said insistently, and Harry’s head snapped over to look at him. At the protest already rising on Harry’s face, the man held out his hands and said, “I'm sure she screens the living daylights out of you every time you go to her, but sometimes, there are things that can be missed without specific scans. If nothing else, get it confirmed that this is some sort of strange, placebo thing or benign curse―though I doubt that’s what it is. Just get it over with, please. If not for your sake, for mine." Harry looked at him for a moment, but then slowly, grudgingly, he nodded. Sirius gave him a look, and then added, "And I'll be writing to Ron to make sure you actually go. And he will tell on you if you don't," He gave Ron a sharp look. "Won't he?"

Huh. That was perhaps the first moment of maturity that Arthur had ever seen from Sirius.

Ron was entirely on board with this plan, too, and said, "Absolutely. So, you better go, mate. I’ll even make Sirius tell Mum."

Harry cringed, and this seemed to satisfy Sirius, because he said crisply, "There, crisis averted. Don't think you're getting out of being mothered, though." And then he tilted his head at Molly, deferring to her. “Give him hell, Molly.”

“ Loving hell.” Arthur said quickly.

By the time it was finally time to send his kids back to Hogwarts, Arthur took Harry aside and reminded him, very firmly, that he was to see Poppy at the first available opportunity. He’d gotten a baleful glare for that, but it was softened as Harry, surprising perhaps the both of them, tugged him into a strong, lingering hug before he scurried onto the scarlet steam engine, face suspiciously darker than usual.

Arthur watched him go, struck speechless, and memorized the feel of his youngest son in his arms. It was the first hug Harry had ever initiated with him.

And though he didn’t know it then, it would be the last.

Soon enough after the whole debacle with his arm and the Weasleys―which Harry was still mortified about―Harry made his way back into Hogwarts and into the clutches of Umbridge, who’d he had the blissful fortune of mostly forgetting about during break.

Writing more lines with his own blood had been a very unpleasant wake-up call, but such was life...which, frankly, had sucked for awhile there. If he was being perfectly candid, half the time, all Harry had wanted to do for the first couple weeks back at school was hide in a closet somewhere and die. This hadn’t happened, though―for reasons that were, actually, entirely unknown even now. Mostly because Pomfrey had taken a deeper look at his left arm the day he’d gotten back to Hogwarts and grudgingly gone to see her, and then proceeded to scream at him for almost half an hour when she discovered literal shards of basilisk teeth fused with his goddamn bones.

Trust Harry, he wasjust as surprised as anyone else, no matter what Poppy had to say about it.

The woman was not only furious with herself for never picking them up in her scans, but furious at him for not coming to her immediately after the whole debacle in the Chamber of Secrets after he got bitten by the Basilisk. He’d tried to explain that he’d not died because Fawkes had cried on him and phoenix tears were an all-purpose healing agent, but if anything, she’d just gotten angrier.

“PANACEA NOTHING, HARRY JAMES! MEDICINE CAN ONLY DO SO MUCH WHEN THE SOURCE OF THE POISON IS STILL INSIDE OF YOU!” She’d screamed, and then yanked him all the way up to Dumbledore’s office to raise hell in there, too, once she learned that the man had taken a look at him all those years ago, blood-soaked and dirty, and told him to just go down to the feast.

Yeah. That had been fun.

At the moment, they were still waiting on some extensive, long-term tests from the f*cking Unspeakables to figure out whether or not it was safe to take the shards out, and what, exactly, they’d been doing to him all this time because―shocker―it was not normal to collapse unresponsively to the floor because your arm hurt. Harry didn’t know what the hell kind of tests took almost a full month to do, but if nothing else, he was just glad that Pomfrey had been so preoccupied with his left arm that she’d not even bothered looking at his right one, specifically his hand, because that would’ve opened a whole other can of worms that Harry knew he wouldn’t have been able to shoulder then.

And, of course, with all of the blood-writing and medical sh*t out of the way, Occlumency had come next, and at first, it hadn’t helped matters at all. As was to be expected, Snape took great zeal in ripping his mind to shreds, and prospects seemed rather bleak for a while.

It was many a night that had found Harry foregoing sleep in favor of tearing through a book on Occlumency, shoving down frustration and the threat of tears because he needed to learn it. If Babbitty Rabbitty could pull off something as batsh*t as making muggles mold her image out of gold, I can most certainly finish this book, Harry had caught himself thinking once in between the space of two pages of another nigh-indecipherable book on mind magic.

It was embarrassing to start thinking of fairy tales as motivation, but Harry figured that no one was there to admonish him for his unorthodox form of inspiration, and the fairy tales reminded him of who he was really doing this for. He had very nearly thrown in the towel and stopped trying multiple times, but every time he got close, he found himself thinking of that night with Mr. Weasley, remembered why he’d been there at all, and put back on his big-boy panties.

There were things that were more important than how he felt, and he’d found that one of those things was Mr. Weasley. His vision may have saved the man’s life, but if things had been different, it very well could’ve ended it, too. Whenever he thought of this, conviction welled back up in him, and he found himself attacking the Occlumency texts and working on the practice with increased vigor. Snape’s sh*tty teaching be damned, Harry was going to learn Occlumency whether the man bloody well liked it or not. Mr. Weasley was worth that and more, of this Harry had been certain.

So it was, perhaps, to both Snape’s and his surprise that his hard work had actually been paying off. Each minute of struggling and every frustrating second of practice had been worth it, because Harry got exponentially better and better at blocking Snape from his mind with every lesson. Truly, if he were slightly more foolish, he might’ve thought Snape was impressed with him. He could swear that, just a handful of times, he saw a flash of what looked like approval on the man’s sallow face, which was rather frightening to say the least. With his incredibly rapid improvement, however, Snape quickly increased their training sessions until it was every night of the week since he “clearly did not need a recovery period” and because it “wouldn’t do to dally and waste time when you’ve already got a strong grip on this, lest you lose it like the imbecile child you are.”

Harry would’ve been annoyed by this if he still had Quidditch, but alas, Umbridge. So, since he had literally nothing better to be doing, he went along with it without complaint. He spent many hours a week getting mentally assaulted by Snape and coming out relatively unscathed, which was all well and good because this was apparently speeding up how long they’d have to partake in the lessons. It seemed that Snape had been expecting these lessons to go on for much longer than they were actually shaping up to, and seemed just as relieved as Harry that soon enough, they wouldn’t have to spend much time looking at each other’s ugly mugs for hours every night.

Things seemed to line up with that good note. So far, the Unspeakables hadn’t raised the alarm on Harry’s arm, so that was one stressor out of the way. Ron had been appeased by him checking the arm out―Harry had not told him about the basilisk teeth shards and just told him it was a weird phantom-pain thing Pomfrey was taking care of―so everything was alright in that avenue. He didn’t even have detention with Umbridge anymore because he’d been so goddamned focused on the Occlumency thing that he’d literally forgotten to be an asshole to her, so now he wasn’t slicing his hand open every night. The D.A was doing just fine and seemed to be in high spirits, and they’d yet to be busted. His newfound friendship with Neville was flourishing, and the guy himself was panning out to have an incredible knack for Defense Against the Dark Arts under Harry’s tutelage, which was not only an ego boost for Harry, but also a source of pride in general because hell yeah, Neville.

So, of course, just when it seemed that things were starting to shape up, that’s when everything fell to sh*t in one fell swoop.

Because Snape had broken through.

At first, Harry wasn’t even sure what had happened. He’d been glancing off Professor Snape’s attacks, examining a crack in one of the wood shelves that held Professor Snape’s many salves, poultices, and reagents and making a mental note to point it out so the shelf didn’t up and collapse. The man had been in a particularly foul mood lately, and things always went wrong when you were angry, so he figured he’d alert him before the shelf could become Fate’s side-slapping casualty. But then, he’d turned, made proper eye-contact, and he’d snarled and pressed hard, ridiculously hard, like an anvil falling from a skyscraper, and Harry could only gasp before his walls were plowed inwards and he was sent, spiraling, into his own head.

He sat on the floor for a moment, and looked around, puzzled. He made eye contact with Snape who, frankly, looked just as surprised as him―which was saying a lot―and that was when he froze.

Because right past Snape’s shoulder, there stood Aunt Petunia.

There was a bare moment of incomprehension as she walked through Snape’s chest―he cursed loudly, which Harry would’ve laughed at any other time, and then she rapped on the cupboard door. A horrible, whinging little sound came out from the grimy vents that he knew so well, and he forgot to even try to push Snape out of his head, too caught up in the absolute horror of the moment.

Cold panic swept through him, leaving him breathless, and Harry staggered to his feet as Aunt Petunia, with a put-upon sigh, fiddled with clanking keys and began to unlock the door. And Harry watched, numbstruck, as his own emaciated little body flopping out of the cupboard and sprawling across the tile. Soiled and flushed with fever, delirious and in pain, struggling to stand while being stared down by Aunt Petunia.

“Look at you,” She sneered, “Just look at the mess you’ve made of yourself in there. Absolutely foul.”

His gaze flickered to Snape, wordless, and watched the man’s go so carefully blank, so perfectly emotionless. He looked down at his younger self, and watched as he began to cry.

“Don’t do that, don’t you dare.” Petunia snapped. “You should know by now not to cry―you’ll win no sympathy from me! It’s your own fault you were in there. We wouldn’t have had to lock you in there for so long if you’d just followed our instructions, but you just had to be―to be freakish, didn’t you?”

And Snape was looking at him now, as if he’d never seen him before, and a sort of hysteria rose up in Harry’s throat. No. No, no, no.

“It always has to be something with you." She prodded him with her foot harshly.

Snape’s face flickered.

―And Harry began to struggle.

Kicking―

―screaming―

―get out, GET OUT.

"Broken really is your birthright, boy, just like your waste of space parents.”

―This isn’t your memory, you CAN’T SEE THIS―

“Now up! Up! Into the shower with you!”

―YOU AREN’T ALLOWED TO SEE THIS―!

“And be grateful I’m kind enough to give you even that. Go!”

Snape opened his mouth, and that was when an awful, howling force burst free from Harry, ripping them straight out of the confines of his head and sending them both ricocheting away from each other. Glass shattered and wood groaned, light flickered and Harry was yelling, or maybe he wasn’t, and Snape hadn’t made a sound, and he thocked his head on the wooden door, and it all went silent.

Horribly, horribly silent.

Harry heaved for breath on the grimy, gray-toned floor, back pressed to the door. The office, gloomy and dimly-lit as ever, was fine in his vicinity. The shadowy walls were still neatly lined with shelves of large glass jars filled with slimy, revolting things, bits of animals and plants, floating in potions of varying colors. But straight ahead of him was nothing but wreckage with Snape blasted straight into the middle of it, out-cold on the floor.

Harry watched, numbstruck, as a trickle of blood trailed down Snape’s wrinkled forehead, and slowly, shakily clambered to his feet. Various ruined potion reagents littered the tile just ahead of him, shining dully in the light filtering down from the ceiling. Fleetingly, hysterically, he thought he wouldn't need to tell Snape about the cracking shelf anymore. He inhaled. Hard. The dark, smelly air sat heavy in Harry’s lungs as he gasped, nausea rising in him, because―because―

He could still see it.

His own emaciated little body.

Little, paper thin bones and wide, bleary eyes.

Struggling to stand, sobbing at her feet.

Broken is your birthright.

He shook like a leaf, fumbling for the doorknob as Snape began to groan, shifting among the guts and plants and blinking uncomprehendingly just mere paces away.

He’d seen.

They locked eyes.

“You saw.” Harry said quickly, chest rising and falling, faster and faster. “You saw, you saw it―”

He found the doorknob. Snape’s eyes flew to it.

“Potter, do not.” He said warningly, yellow teeth flashing in the light, but his words fell on deaf ears.

The door fell open, and before Snape could get out another word, before he could so much as wave his wand, Harry wasrunning.

'Shattered, broken, across space and time. Lost within the paltry rhyme.'

Chapter 5: Dead on Arrival

Chapter Text

Poppy read the letter from the head of the Unspeakables once. Then she read it twice. A third time, a fourth time, and a fifth time. Still, the words didn’t make any more sense than they had in previous readings.

She sucked in a long, steadying breath, and let it out slowly.

Wonderful.

Somehow, someway, the Basilisk teeth shards in Harry’s arm were apparently one of the only things keeping him stable―which was already a nightmare of a statement from the get-go, but she digressed. The point was, they couldn’t be removed without jeopardizing Harry’s continued health, as backwards as that sounded, so they were out of luck from that angle. Something about how his body had formed a unique symbiosis with them that “stabilized his core” and “worked to quell problematic fluctuations of MGRJ 7.67 levels”, whatever that meant.

Why he wouldn’t be stable without them in the first place was still a mystery they were trying to unearth, which was something Poppy didn’t even want to begin thinking about lest she feel like even more of a failure than she already did. You know, for not noticing, again, the basilisk teeth shards in his arm in the first place.

No, the only thing she had to worry about at the moment was how―let her reiterate―how the f*ck she was supposed to explain to a fifteen year old boy that his blood had become a panacea and that the Unspeakables were begging him to donate blood on the weekly for the sake of the Wizarding World. And then― because Morgana save her, there was a then― she had to worry about how to explain that he was functionally immune to poison to boot without the rebound effect of him immediately attempting what would be suicide for anyone else. Because Harry was a Gryffindor , and she could already imagine him eating something ridiculous like belladonna just because he could and inadvertently getting high off his arse or something equally stupid.

She pinched the bridge of her nose at the very thought, and resisted the urge to throw something.

“Harry Potter.” She muttered under her breath as if it were a curse, and stood.

She tiredly opened her well-used liquor cabinet, fished out a bottle and a shot glass, and filled it to the brim with firewhiskey. She looked morosely at the amber liquid swirling in it before she decided to leave it alone in favor of just taking a hearty swig from the bottle itself. Harry Potter indeed.

“Cannot believe I still work here.” She coughed raspily, and set the bottle down with a clunk.

Mental note. Ask―no, demand for Albus to give her a raise.

Unbeknownst to Poppy, she wouldn’t get the chance to relay any of this information to Harry. Not for a long time.

Because Harry, as per the usual, was on the verge of doing something incredibly stupid.

Mostly because he was panicking, though―as one would do once someone you hate discoveries a ginormous vulnerability through, oh, he doesn’t know, seeing the time you got locked in the cupboard for a whole f*cking week.

Harry would like to implore you to understand the terror of the moment, thanks.

As it stood, he was nearing full-blown hysteria in his deserted dorm room and wishing very dearly that he wasn’t. The room itself was even responding to this, which really wasn't helping matters―vials on the desks were rattling, the beds were trembling, the blankets were curling and uncurling, pillows were shredding, doors were swinging open and shutting, and the windows were coming up and down, slam―slam―slam. His eyes flitted around the rioting room and he drew in quick, half-aborted gasps, hands trembling by his sides. He had no goddamn idea how he’d gotten here, but he was pretty sure that it’d happened way too fast, and had a sneaking suspicion that he’d probably bowled over a couple throngs of those idiotic first years―

slam―slam―slam― fsh―FSH―fsh―FSH― crunch――crunch――crunch

rattle―rattle ― BANG――BANG――BANG― boom―BOOM―BOOM SLAM―SLAM――SLAM―――

― who stood in circles in the middle of the corridor along the way. The top of his right hand itched beneath the bandages wrapped too tightly around it as pressure blundered through his chest and threatened to crack his ribs, and he made a twitch towards his rattling bed, because underneath it was dark―small―safe―won’t touch you can’t touch you―can’t see you can’t hurt― before he stopped himself with a full-body jerk.

What the hell is wrong with you, you f*cking freak.

Some sick, festering little wound inside of him was bleeding now, begging to be filled again, but he was not going to do it with the knife that had made it in the first place. Not now, not ever, he couldn’t. It didn’t matter if it was small and―and safe and quiet, he would not.

Dammit,

slam―slam―slam― fsh―FSH―fsh―FSH― crunch――crunch――crunch

rattle―rattle ― BANG――BANG――BANG― boom―BOOM―BOOM SLAM―SLAM――SLAM―――

“No, no, no…” He muttered under his breath, looking to the window instead and breathing hard.

A heavy sense of dread swam up and swallowed his heart, billowing through his chest like the curtains attached to the open window of the dorm room. His knees grew weak. He had to physically fight the urge to curl down and in on himself like he used to in his cupboard. The world went dark around the edges as it all just got worse―and worse and he started slipping, truly, honestly believing for a second that perhaps he’d never left the cupboard, and then pretending that he wasn’t hoping that it were so. Because anything, anything would be better than this and you know it, you know that’s where you belong, you awful, awful creature, you deserved it, every minute, every crayon stroke, every single backwards R― A wave of revulsion for himself washed over him, making him teeter dangerously close to sicking up right where he was, and an irrational terror began to well up in his chest, burning hot and cold simultaneously and whispering that he ought not to turn around, don’t you dare turn around, lest he see his dingy old cot.

And with that irrational terror came other irrational fear, and the worst part of it was that almost none of it was imaginary; just residual feelings cropping up. It was silent in the room, dead silent, and he could hear it buzzing in his ears, he could see the walls closing in around him now, and he did not call out. No one will answer, he thought feverishly, curling his arms around himself as if it could do a thing. No one ever does, and if they do, they’re mad. You’re not here. You’re not here. Can’t be angry if they forget you’re here.

Buried memories, buried feelings resurged in the moment―the hunger, the―the empty fear of the spiders, the glare of his bare lightbulb, the sick , the filth... Harry could feel his skin crawling with the residual feeling of the dirt, the stench of piss and dirt from the third time he’d passed out in the garden, the iron tang from crusty blood on that awful carpet when he wasn’t fast enough to avoid getting clobbered with the frying pan—No.

No, he would not think of it. Harry would not think of it. Not anymore. He couldn’t think about it because then he’d relive that memory again, when they didn’t open the door, and the stench, the fever, the dehydration, the aching hunger, the lapses in consciousness before she’d opened it, before he’d been given water for the first time in a week and how nice it felt in his throat, that awful, awful blankness on Snape’s face—no, no, no. STOP it god dammit―

slam―slam―slam― fsh―FSH―fsh―FSH― crunch――crunch――crunch

rattle―rattle ― BANG――BANG――BANG― boom―BOOM―BOOM SLAM―SLAM――SLAM―――

I, Harry thought, in a dazzling moment of clarity, am acting like a lunatic.

He crammed his hands over his nose and mouth to quiet himself, to force himself not to breathe, and held his hands there until his whole body ached. Maybe for a second longer. Then he ripped them away and willed himself to take a long, deep breath. Then another. In-out, in-out, in-out. With every exhale, his hysteria drained slowly, receding just as soon as it had set in, the room fell into a sudden, tense silence. Everything stilled, no longer enthralled by his own magic. He looked at his desk, at the vials that had shattered. He hadn't even heard it happen. His face began to prickle in shame.

Could he have been more of a nutjob?

"Oh, my god." He croaked, burying his face in his hands, throat tight. 'Perhaps the Prophet is on to something', he thought morosely, and sighed shakily. How on earth was he ever going to get through tomorrow if one bad memory sent him spiraling like this? How embarrassing.

And forget tomorrow, Harry thought, think today? Hadn't he just―run through the hall? How had he looked? He couldn't remember, and somehow that was worse than anything. How many people had he just made a fool out of himself in front of?

God, all Harry wanted to do now was just―just disappear. He floundered in place, trying to think of something to do and wishing, then, that there was somewhere to hide, because now that the moment had passed and it was over with, he wanted to forget it all. It was a bad habit of his―retreating like he wanted to right now after moments like that―but it was so much easier than trying to examine...whatever the hell that had been. God.

It was about then that Harry caught sight of his cloak lounging on his pillow, shining in the light as if to say, “Hey ding-dong, remember me?”

And suddenly, lightbulb moment. Harry had a great idea.

By that, he meant an idea that he would undoubtedly regret within the next half hour and scold himself for thinking of, but currently sounded awesome.

Hewould disappear.

Yes, he thought, he would. He'd take his cloak, hang out under there for awhile and then―and then what? His eyes flickered to the innocuous parchment on his bedside table, and he snatched it up quickly. He'd take the map, of course, so Ron couldn’t track him down and ask what the hell was up with him, and―and take his cloak to hide beneath, and maybe a book to occupy himself with. He’d take a whole day, maybe even longer, just for himself. Hide from questions, especially the horribly uncomfortable ones undoubtedly coming his way because there was no way Snape wasn’t crowing about his discovery in the staff room right now, bastard that he was. Harry would simply re-emerge once he got his sh*t together enough to brave the humiliation of it all.

It was starting to come together now.

He could camp out in―no, not the Room of Requirements, his friends knew where it was and would drag him out because Hogwarts, the traitor, would let them in―maybe the...ugh, he didn’t know. The Chamber of Secrets? Huh. That was an option, seeing as he was literally the only person who could reasonably access it, and who would think to look there anyway? It was gross down there, though, and his vast arsenal of cleaning spells aside, he didn’t much fancy the notion of wasting time cutting through all the muck and, y’know, hanging out with the corpse of the huge arsehole of a snake that had caused Pomfrey to look like she was having trauma flashbacks whenever she saw him. Harry didn’t know—if nothing else, perhaps the House Elves in the kitchens would let him hide in the pantry or something. He was an honorary house elf for a reason, dammit.

With a vague way out put into place, Harry crept towards his trunk, still gasping slightly in the aftershocks of panic, and crouched down to rummage in it for what he’d need. And just as he got his hand on the buckle―

Someone knocked on the door.

You know the panic he was just basking in the aftershocks of? That panic? Yeah. It was back now, flooding through Harry’s veins in a rush of a near-tangible, snide drawl of “miss me?”

And it hit a fever pitch the moment―the moment― that McGonagall’s voice came echoing through the hardwood, noticeably softer than usual.

And this, Harry thought somewhere in the back of his mind, is exactly why I was going to leave. f*ck me.

“Mr. Potter? Would you open the door, please?”

She knows, she knows― He thought wildly, shame washing over him like the cold sweat breaking out down his neck. A breeze wafted in through the window his magic had been slamming open and shut mere minutes before, sending an involuntary shudder cascading down his back as he swallowed. His throat felt so awfully dry and his legs felt so terribly heavy. McGonagall ( McGonagall!) was outside the door, and she was―she was going to have a talk with him, get him all―all bad inside, and he was going to make a goddamn fool out of himself and she’d think he was so stupid, so weak―

The wavering curtain made a strange shadow across his face. He looked to the window.

“Mr….oh, confound it all, Harry. Please let me inside. If you don’t respond, I’ll come in myself.”

Oh hoh. Another lightbulb moment.

The doorknob rattled.

Harry didn’t think, didn’t even hesitate either, which made for a damning combo on even the best of days. In a split second decision, in a fit of what he’d notice was exceptional magical power any other day, he shrunk his trunk wordlessly, wandlessly―and made a running leap for the window.

Might Harry remind you that Gryffindor Tower is on the 7th floor of Hogwarts.

Harry was falling―and falling―and falling , tumbling downwards and whipping through the gentlest flurry of snow before he got the sense to slap himself in the chest and, willing it to work, yell, “MINPONDUS!”

The featherlight charm, against all odds, actually worked .

At once, Harry was struck with the dizzying sensation that the snow had halted mid-fall, for now he himself was moving at the same speed. It was almost beautiful, the sudden stillness. As if he were the eye of the storm, or perhaps just a part of it, as insignificant, as forgettable as a simple speck of frost. It was nice.

And then he looked down.

See, what Harry had forgotten was that it was broad daylight, and a kid toppling out of a window was pretty noticeable, especially when in and of himself, Harry’s general color scheme was a stark contrast to the gray and white of the snow. He could see several students frolicking in the powder down below, and gasped. sh*t.

“Talpatum,” He whispered, prodding his side with the wand he’d just remembered he had on him, and at once he felt the strange, oily slide of the Disillusionment charm wash over him. Phew.

He shoved his wand back into the pocket he'd previously forgotten, and thought as he drifted down. Room of Requirement was out, Chamber was out on the basis of "ew", kitchen was a possibility but seemed shallow...where could Harry go, that no one ever approached, that no one would ever think to look for him? Somewhere no one would ever even consider, but that he could reasonably get to quickly?

It took him a moment, he'll admit it, but as if he had woken suddenly, it dawned on him.

The Shrieking Shack.

It was dusty, decrepit, and gross, but Harry had his wand and a bunch of cleaning spells to shoot out of it. That wasn't a problem. It was empty, far away, and no one dared approach it, for it was "haunted". And the only people who would think of it weren't allowed at Hogwarts, and the best way to it was...oh.

The base of the Whomping Willow was covered in snow at the moment, he could see it now. And he couldn't dig it out without it being blatantly obvious where he'd gone. He was put out for a moment, and very nearly abandoned the plan...when he turned his gaze to the forest.

The Whomping Willow was nearby the Forest.

Harry looked at the tree, where he knew the tunnel was, followed where he was sure the length of it was, and sure enough, he could trace it to the Forest. So, if the tunnel was under the Forest, and it led to the Shrieking Shack...well, it stood to reason that he could spelunk through the Forest to get there too.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Mr. Weasley's voice warned once more, just as he'd done over a month ago, "I know you’ve got a history of tromping around in there, so I’m telling you now, do not go back in there.” and Harry chewed on his lip guiltily.

Well, he didn't make me promise, Harry thought, but sent a mental apology to Mr. Weasley all the same. I've got my cloak and―and my wand. And my trunk, hah. It'll be fine.

Perhaps grabbing his trunk had been slightly overboard, Harry considered as his feet finally touched down on the snow, but it mattered not. He was not about to go all the way back up to the tower just to put it back, and it wasn't heavy or anything anyway. It was fine in his pocket.

His feet made virtually no imprints in the snow with the Featherlight charm still over him, so Harry, deeming the disillusionment charm strong enough, stuffed his Invisibility Cloak into his pocket and began to sprint towards the Whomping Willow.

He ascended a mound of snow and nearly stopped when he noticed the distance between it and the next, and in a split second decision, he jumped. He went cascading over mounds of snow as if he were the embodiment of his own Patronus, and he very nearly laughed, genuinely, at the thought. Soon enough, his feet touched down again, a thrill of chill running up the soles of his shoes, and he ran again, looking back at the distance he'd cleared with a single jump with a grin.

This was...this was fun! He nearly stumbled mid-footfall when he realized, very suddenly, for just how long he'd been without that feeling.

Harry was running away, bounding over snow and leaving no marks behind, he was escaping, and it was fun.

It was free.

Into the forest, racing past the briar and bramble, frosty curtains of leaves and trailing ivy whipping his cheeks pink, Harry laughed, and wondered if this was what the light at the end of the tunnel looked like. He did not think of how upset anyone would be with him, he did not think of what he'd miss, and perhaps for the first time in his life, Harry thought of no one but himself. And it was everything. It was the ultimate euphoria, the strongest rush of bliss, and a wave of relief so overwhelming that he, of course, chose right then and there to go sprawling over a buried tree root.

Really, it was almost pathetic how he fell. There was no sudden, unavoidable crash, nor a pitiable face-down slide. His arms pinwheeled as he drifted down like a feather (obviously) and by the time he could've put his arms down to catch himself, Harry just sighed in exasperation through sharp breaths and let himself face-plant gently.

It didn't matter if he face-planted or not―it wasn't going to hurt. No, if he wanted to enjoy the feeling of powdered chill on his burning face and lay prone in the middle of the trees, and the world was intent on delivering, by all means, he would. He had no one to perform for here.

Really, though. It was kinda nice. The snow had that one pleasant, crisp smell to it, the coldness was soothing to his right hand, now he had just realized that he wasn't going to have to deal with Umbridge and THAT was amazing, he wasn't even heaving for breath because the featherlight charm had exponentially eased his mad dash into the forest, and...well. Harry just felt good, and it was depressingly foreign to him.

After a moment, Harry rolled over to lie on his back. After a moment of consideration, Harry put his hand over his chest and, willing it to work, tried to cancel the disillusionment charm wandlessly. It took a couple tries, but he got it quickly, and he sighed in relief as that strange, filmy feeling finally left him. He looked blankly up at the sky and stared at the trees, examining how they stretched up above him, and the faint pinpricks of snow that he could see. He marveled at it all, at how strange the world looked from such a low vantage point, and wondered vaguely if this was what Crookshanks felt like all the time. Just as soon as the thought came, he had to blink a bit when a bit of snow managed to get past his glasses. What a journey, he thought, for a snow particle to fall from a cloud and somehow wind up in his eye against all odds.

He was so caught up in the utter tranquility of the moment that you can imagine the shock he got when something chittered right next to his ear.

"AUGH―!" Harry screamed, thrashing in the snow and jerking away from the offender.

Which was...Harry began to laugh. Good Lord. There, right next to where he'd been laying a moment ago, was a little...lizard, thing. Blue-tinted skin, wide, starry eyes, diminutive little limbs, and eyeballing it, barely the size of his own palm. It was adorable, something that Hedwig might like to eat, and Harry felt very foolish for having been scared by it.

"Well, aren't you adventurous?" He muttered softly, smiling down at it as he readjusted himself to sit properly.

Of course, this was when it sneezed adorably ...and a tiny, sharp rod of ice jettisoned out of the ground. Harry stopped dead, eyes going a little wide. Ah. Okay. Maybe he was on the right track, being scared of it. Holy sh*t.

This was a salamander. An itty bitty baby ice salamander, and Harry had had the luck of stumbling across it. "Oh, Hagrid would be so into you," He said highly, scooting away.

As he scooted away, it tromped a little closer, chittering in curiosity, and Harry died a little on the inside. God, this little guy looked so young―baby salamanders didn't imprint, did they? Hagrid would be thrilled if an ice salamander trailed behind him like a lost duckling, but that in and of itself was alarming enough, and he got the notion that McGonagall would not be nearly as accepting.

Harry slowly raised to his feet, taking a moment to cancel the featherlight charm to keep from tipping over again, and smiled tightly down at the thing. It seemed to take his rising as an invitation to...crawl on top of his shoe. Oh boy.

"Buddy, that is―if you sit there, you're going to get punted into Oblivion, get off." Harry bent down quickly, very gently batting at its legs with his left hand to shoo it off, mindful of his right one. And instead of moving from him, it just. Climbed into his palm. Something in Harry's brain short-circuited. He had a baby ice salamander in his palm.

He hoped―no. He prayed it would not make ice rods shoot out of his hand. That would suck.

Is this the penance I’m supposed to pay for my brief freedom? Harry thought with a wince, carefully raising the salamander up as he straightened. Entertain a little beast that could probably kill me in a moment’s notice?

"I'm not your mother," He whispered to it sullenly, and began to walk, preparing to toss it into the sky if it tried anything.

It just trilled at him happily, and began to burrow into the warmth of his palm. It almost looked like it was smiling, and Harry found himself smiling despite himself when it closed its eyes, as if happy where it was. "Alright, fine, you've convinced me. You can hitch a ride for awhile, mate."

It squeaked as if it agreed, and he sighed, looking around. "Any idea which way to go?" He asked pointlessly after a moment, realizing suddenly that he was sort of lost. He’d lost track of where the tunnel would be. Yes, he could still get back to the castle and retrace his step, of this he was sure, but that was a lot of effort and if he walked back to the castle, he wasn’t sure if he’d have the willpower to leave again. “I just wish I could get out of here for awhile.” He muttered, and stopped when a strange feeling overcame him. He blinked it away, shook his head, and walked.

It popped an eye open and stood like it was actually going to help, and really just spun in a circle in his palm to get more comfortable before resettling. It's tail, however, was pointing a different way now and Harry, on a whim, took that as an instruction and began to walk in that direction, feet sinking deeply into the snow. Why not? Who was going to stop him, or smack him upside the head for listening to a salamander? Psh.

Feeling sillier and sillier by the minute and not caring a smidge about it, Harry looked over the erklings skittering in the underbrush, gazing at him with their eerie, glowing eyes. Some pixies flitted past his head, giving him sideways glances with their own fathomless black pools, just as much as the bowtruckles seemed to emerge from their trees just to stare. A prickle of unease burrowed beneath his skin then, and he pulled the little ice salamander closer to himself, wondering suddenly if this had actually been a good idea.

Because, he thought...this was kind of stupid, wasn't it? Death Eaters and the dear old Dark Lord himself were after his hide, and while what happened was embarrassing, it wasn't enough to go so far as to venture into the Forbidden Forest to get to some dingy shack to angst in. Was it? Even so, though, he didn't think he was quite ready to face the music. Harry dismissed himself, shoving off the unease, and he kept walking.

It was eerily still in the Forest now, and so very quiet. Too quiet. He could feel eyes on him, he thought, and if he were stupider, if he were crazier, he'd think the trees themselves were lying in wait, seeing what would happen. Every step made his doubt grow bigger and that feeling of foreboding grow stronger, and just as Harry was about to stop dead and turn away, admitting that this was foolish, that was when he saw it.

A faint, golden shimmer, shining through the trees.

Harry's heart stopped dead in his chest, and his mind went blank.

It was instantaneous.

He could not avoid it.

One moment he blinked, and in the next, he was gone, as if something had emerged from the ground and tugged him beneath, very slowly, and then all at once. Something deep inside of him, buried in his instincts, had come hurtling to the forefront of his mind, and he was powerless to it. He didn’t think he wanted to fight it at all to begin with. The salamander trilled in his palm, but he bore it no mind as, almost against his will, he took a step. His cloak whispered through the frozen undergrowth as he pressed onwards, but he paid it no mind, caught in the throes of a low, soothing heat thrumming beneath his skin, chasing away the chill.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Harry could hear Mr. Weasley’s voice.

“Some speak of a ring that lies nestled on a dark, crumbling twig in a clearing in the woods. The woods are dark, unforgiving, and many are warned against going within the trees.”

Ten...

It happened so fast. Even now, Harry could not describe what exactly had happened to him. The leaves whispered above him as he moved, and he heaved in a breath, suddenly exhausted. He took another step.

He knew, somewhere, that something was off. Something about this was strange. Something waswrong. But he...

“Some might even say it's forbidden.”

...Nine...

He was facing down a clearing, now, drenched in white and guarded by a fierce, dark wall of thorns. Harry stared at the sharp branches in utter incomprehension, unable to form a single thought. Maybe somewhere inside he was screaming, maybe he wasn’t, but he couldn’t tell anymore. The sky darkened above him much like the woods in his peripherals, and a cloud passed overhead, blotting out the sun. His heart thudded slowly in his chest. The cold air swirled in his lungs.In―out,he thought. His legs shook. Something was...

“One day, a man ignorant of such cautions ventured into these very woods in search of an animal to slay for his dinner. He wandered for hours, snacking on the various nuts and berries the woods had to offer, and was just about to give up and return home when he found himself facing down a glimmer of golden light.”

...Eight...

Yes, Harry could see it now. That faint, golden glow that had drawn him here, like a moth to a flame. He understood at once why the man had walked towards it. As it to reach it, as if to cup it in his palm, Harry reached for it, and the thorns blocking his way began to creak and crackle. As if they were strands of waterlogged hair, wavering strangely in the murky blackness of a lake, the thorns began to curl up and away, as if afraid of his advance. Or perhaps they'd been waiting for it all along. Perhaps this was what theywanted.

'...What am I...?"

“It was quite a distance away, but, enchanted by its beauty, the man stumbled through the leaves and roots, and soon enough, came crashing into a clearing. The clearing was filled with all sorts of briar and bramble, mainly a scattering of dark twigs embedded in the frost-mottled grass, stuck upright like gravestones that grew into jutting, cutting bushes.”

...Seven...

Harry took a step, and his shoe crunched against the ground, the tenor unlike that of a twig. He jumped, and looked down, just to see that he’d stepped on an animal skull, embedded in the frost. Silence rang in the clearing, and dark shapes began to close in the gaps of the thorns that remained at his sides, and it all almost disturbed him, but he just couldn’t quite...

“And in the middle of it all stood a series of five, winding branches, protruding from the earth like a perversion of a hand. And on the second finger, there lied a ring, bathed in an ethereal, beckoning light.”

...Six...

And there it was indeed. A ring, nestled snugly on a dark, crumbling twig, the middle branch of the winding wood. He could see it perfectly. The twisting, pockmarked bronze, and the peculiar little adornments in the center. Through the fog in his head, Harry thought that it was beautiful.

“The air was perfectly silent, as if holding its breath in anticipation, and filled his lungs with cool, encouraging urgency. There were eyes on the leaves of every tree and in every raised root, and the creatures hiding in the thick shadows watched, and waited.“

...Five...

In the corner of Harry’s eye, he could see a silhouette of a creature, and so great was his unease of this that for a moment, he broke away from his trance just to look. It was as though the world were underwater and Harry was the only thing with air, and he closed his eyes at the dizzying sensation. He opened them again, very slowly, like he was waking up. A centaur stared back, hoof floundering in the snow. His lips moved, but Harry could not hear a word. He stared. He turned. He kept walking. He thought...he didn't know.

“No birds chirped, squawked, or even rustled the branches of the uppermost trees, nothing dashed between the grass blades around him, and no insects chittered in the dirt. There was nothing alive here, except for him and the ground beneath him.”

...Four...

There was no grass here, and there were no birds―winter had not yet pulled its claws for the land, and Harry stood within it. He looked around, gazing mutely at the sleeping trees and still, unmoving snow, and trudged onwards, calves burrowing in the snow. And still he moved, as if unimpeded. He just...heneeded...With every step, the ring, and the light got closer. Something was moving in his left palm. What am I doing? He thought, and did not think again.

“The man, finally, stood before the ring, and stared down at the branch that cradled it.”

...Three...

Harry, finally, stopped and stood before the ring, and stared down at the branch that cradled it. He could hear an insistent tapping in the back of his mind, a fear inside of his lungs that did not quell, and his hand stilled.

“A strange tingle prickled his palm,”

...Two...

A strangle tingle prickled Harry’s palm.

“And he pried the ring away from its resting place.”

...One...

And Harry pried the ring away from its resting place.

“And without thinking, without feeling, and perhaps against his better judgement, the man placed the ring onto his finger to see how it fit.”

. ..Zero.

And without thinking, without feeling, and perhaps against his better judgement, Harry placed the ring onto his finger to see how it fit.

At once, clarity slapped Harry the f*ck awake and he looked down at the ring, eyes going wide.

Oh god.

Oh―oh f*ck.

f*ck him, no.

“Don’t you dare,” He snarled to no one in particular, nearly sending the salamander still in his palm flying to the ground. “No, no, no, this is not―this is NOT what I meant when I wished I could get out of here!” He yelled, very suddenly remembering what he’d muttered to no one before he’d gone the direction the salamander’s tail pointed.

His hand thrummed with warmth and began to shake beyond his control, as if to say, “Too late, kid.” and, snarling, Harry shoved the salamander onto his shoulder. It squeaked in his ear, alarmed, but he ignored it and tried to yank his finger free of the ring. He pried as hard as he could on the damned piece of jewelry, heart pounding, but at once―it was like he’d been dropped into a vat of syrup. His movements slowed beyond his own control, something was shrieking like metal on metal, he gasped for air, and the thorny wall from before began to twist and meld, closing in closer―closer― closer― he yelled, and then―

The world moved beneath Harry’s feet, and he was falling.

―falling―

―falling―

―falling―

f

― a

――l

――― l

―――― i

――――― n

―――――― g

He was twisting in a dizzying amalgamation of colors he couldn’t even begin to understand, and screaming the whole way down. He was tumbling, turning and cartwheeling, ping-ponging left and right, and if it was physically possible for him to do so at the moment, he’d probably be throwing up.

It was so bright just as much as it was so bloody dark, and he had no concept of where the ceiling, the walls, or the floor were. It was an endless abyss, the most terrifying of limbos.

Faintly, he could hear himself yelling words Mrs. Weasley would scourgify his mouth for.

When it stopped, it was so jarring that Harry really did almost throw up.

He could’ve kissed the ground―and, second thought, he might actually do just that, because holy sh*t. It felt like his innards were being replaced by some kind of black hole, and he sucked in a deep, steadying breath, trying to blink the spots out of his eyes. Which actually just made it worse. His hands and arms got all strangely heavy, he couldn’t get in a proper breath, and Harry realized very suddenly that oh, God, he was going to pass out.

Need to know where the hell I am before I do that, Harry tried hard to think clearly, and with immense difficulty, he raised his head to get a gander of his new position. The air around him curled around his head as he did, sweet and...warm? Why the hell is it warm? Struggling to focus and ears beginning to ring, Harry looked around, and noticed, vaguely, the summery flowers blooming all around him.

Finally, Harry managed to lift his head up, and his breath caught in his throat. He was back at Hogwarts. He barely managed to think, Oh, you’re joking me, and then without any further ado, he collapsed forward, his face getting buried amongst the flowers and the sweet smelling grass. Everything stopped, the ringing in his ears reached a fever pitch, and he knew no more.

Tom’s cup went crashing to the floor, water spilling all over the floorboards, and he stopped dead. The kids nearby him went very quiet, and he swallowed thickly, trying desperately to reign himself in and not succeeding nearly as well as he hoped.

“You okay, mate?” A kid he'd known for years, Harvey, rubbed at his shoulder, looking concerned.

Tom shuddered―shuddered!―and breathed out hard, shrugging Harvey’s warm, flat hand off of his shoulder. Something foreign began to swish around his guts and he worried for a moment that he was sick, before he slowly recognized it for what it was―anxiety. But over what? And why? Tom...he wouldn’t be anxious for no reason, there had to be a reason.

He tried so very hard to push it away, make it disappear into nonexistence, but Tom couldn’t, which wasn’t right at all because Tom could do anything, dammit.

Something had happened.

Tom didn’t know what. Not yet.

But it was coming, whether he liked it or not.

'When you cast your hook into unknown depths, what more is there to dredge than death?'

Chapter 6: Turn the Clock

Chapter Text

Have you ever woken up knowing right away that something was off?

It's that one gnawing, creeping sensation in your guts when you jerk awake―because you jerk. You always jerk. Maybe not physically, not all the time, but on the inside? It's like you blink, and you're up and at it.

Some people have a tendency to stay still, just lie stiff as a board and listen. Sometimes they sit up and look around right away. And sometimes, right from the start, they call out "Who's there?" or maybe, if they’re particularly ballsy, they come out with, "I know you're there." even if they don't really. Harry himself was much like the foremost of these metaphorical people.

So, if you've ever woken up like that, Harry would like to assure you that you know exactly how he was feeling the moment he jerked awake in the Hospital Wing.

He took a single whiff of the air and knew exactly where he was and that it wasn't right at all. The room certainly smelled like the hospital wing, but it lacked one vital thing―the citrus-y undertang of that disinfectant spell that Pomfrey preferred. So instantly, he was alert and incredibly suspicious. He knew from experience that you did not mess about with Pomfrey's vitamin C smells―either she wasn't here (which boded very poorly and reeked of Umbridge) or someone was doing something screwy with him.

Deductive reasoning concluded that Harry needed to figure out where the hell he really was and who was supposed to be supervising him, and he needed to do it pronto. And by pronto he meant right the hell now because holy sh*t someone had just touched him!

He's not going to make a fool out of himself and tell you that he screamed.

But he screamed.

Granted, it wasn't very loud―more of a strangled conglomerate of "What the f*ck" and "Get off me" and "Who are you" (it came out sounding a bit like "WhA-HAH GET f*ck ME WHO OFF THE―” but even worse than that) and he scrambled to sit upright, kicking at whoever was trying to accost him. It was blind panic driving every facet of his actions―when Harry tells you that monkey brain took over, he meant that monkey brain took over. And monkey brain, apparently, was not feeling that great because he was fairly certain that his thrashing should not have been nearly as weak as it was, especially given how much energy he was exerting. Just moments into it had his legs feeling uncomfortably heavy. Crap.

Someone was talking (read: yelling) at him but absolutely none of the words were coming through and just when he was about to land a solid hit through the malaise, they grabbed his foot. He sat there, heaving for breath and utterly incomprehending for several seconds before what happened finally registered, and the knowledge that someone was touching him and now had access to his ticklish little baby toes only served to set him off more because oh god, they had access to his ticklish little baby toes. Absolutely horrifying.

He'd really like to tell you that he did something cool here, but really, all he did was thrash briefly with reignited vigor, yell something that sounded like the ugly twin of, "Get off my foot! "―and then accidentally fell off the bed, conking his head on the corner of a nightstand whilst cursing the whole way down.

You'll have to forgive him for that because you must understand―he’d woken up feeling sick and gross, had been accosted by an unknown entity, could not comprehend the english language at the moment, had just whacked his head on hardwood, and the aforementioned unknown entity was still touching his foot. This was pure evil and definitely warranted no less than four "f*cks" in rapid succession. It really wasn’t helping matters that, try as he might, he couldn't really open his eyes all the way and actually see who was holding his foot.

Because the foot thing was the most important part of it, obviously.

And then―

Finally, phonetics made sense and came through in the form of a low, soothing voice. "Goodness, aren't you a handful?"

A hand touched his back and immediately, the throbbing in his head eased. He must’ve made some sort of unhappy noise or something, because they murmured sympathetically. A moment passed, then Harry felt magic wrap around him to hoist him mid-air and directly back into the bed. Just from that gentle treatment alone he knew he was probably not about to get murdered, which was a definite plus in his book. Murderers did not tuck you into bed. At least, he didn’t think so. His knowledge was admittedly lacking in that department. Harry did not pretend to be an expert on murderers, but he was reasonably sure that if you met one, you did not meet them all because everyone had their own brand of psycho.

He was getting off topic.

"Who are you?" He croaked through barely moving lips, throat suspiciously tight as the adrenaline drained away just as quickly as it had come.

"I could ask you the same thing, lad." The voice spoke again, and he noted that it was feminine. Not overly high pitched or shrill like Aunt Petunia (thank God) but more a low crooning tone...kinda like a jazz singer.

She kept talking at him, but Harry was so busy thinking about jazz music that he completely tuned out the nice lady who put him back in bed, and the next thing he knew, he blinked and she was saying,

"But I think some rest is in order for now, though. Just that scare alone seemed to wipe you out." The blanket on his lap seemed to get warmer and he looked down at it quizzically. Wh… "I'm Madam Goswood. Before you go back down for another kip, can you tell me where you are?"

It took Harry a second to register that he'd been asked a question at all―his head was still very foggy. All of him felt foggy, really. Like when you wake up with all those red lines on your face and you can't remember what year it is, but instead of just that, it was also comorbid with that one gross ickiness you probably associate with being sick. Like there was a marshmallow in his head, and Dudley was puffing it up in the microwave just to watch it melt so Harry’d have to go clean it. Dudley… He rubbed his eye with a sigh, wondering where his glasses had gone off to and wondering, at the same time, how the hell to answer the question he’d been asked.

"Er...Hogwarts. Hospital Wing." He said slowly, coughing in-between his short sentences. God, it was hot.

"That's right!" Goswood, apparently, seemed pleased with him and he got a glimpse of her blurry hand cupping his knee over the blanket. Her nails were painted purple. "And the date? How about that?"

sh*t. What was the date?

"I...don't know?" He said after a minute―was better than being wildly off.

"Any guesses?"

He looked at the window and looked at all the blurry greenery, unease swelling up in his throat and settling in his stomach. It had been snowing earlier…

He decided to just say that. "It...was snowing. Earlier. But now it's green. It’s all green. I don't understand." His voice was almost childish in quality and he wanted to kick himself for it. Probably would've if he had the energy.

"...Snowing?" Goswood repeated softly after a tense moment, frown audible.

Harry nodded, feeling a bit like a bobblehead, and when the breath he breathed out rattled, he cringed. Ew. He shut his eyes and pulled his legs up a little, vaguely wishing Hedwig or Crookshanks was here to keep him company, and remembered at once that hey, he'd had a salamander with him. Where had that little guy gone?

"Hey, er―" He opened his eyes with more difficulty than he thought was necessary, really, and tried to focus on Goswood. "The...er...the little guy. The blue guy." He'd just forgotten the word. "...lizard...friend? Where'd he go?"

He couldn't really tell for sure because again, he was glassesless, but he was pretty sure that Goswood's eyebrows had raised. "Do you mean the ice salamander?”

AH. That was the word.

"Yeah. Where is he? He liked my hand." Oh, that had sounded dumb, and the weird, groggy quality of his voice wasn’t helping.

Goswood was smiling now, of that he was actually sure, and her purple-nailed hand reached out to cup his cheek. It was really nice and cool, and she gently prodded him back down with her other hand while he was focused on how nice the first one felt. He hadn't even realized he was still sitting up.

"Why don't you lie down a little longer and worry about that later, lad? You're still a bit under the weather, aren't you? Ooh, and I bet you're so sleepy too."

Oh, she was absolutely right. "You...are very smart." Harry said after a moment. "How'dja know, Miss Nice Lady?"

"I know a lot of things." She whispered, and then wiggled her fingers at him teasingly. "A magician never reveals her secrets."

Harry was pretty sure he laughed. And then he went back down, left with a faint impression of blankets being tugged up to his shoulders.

So. That was Harry's first day in 1942. Could've been better, but all things considered, he got to say "f*ck" at an authority figure without being punished and had a really good nap, so it wasn't all bad. His understanding is that he slept through the rest of the week and most of the second one, and thus he was now roosting in week two. But he digressed―while day one was alright, week two left...quite a bit to be desired?

He's not going to bore you with the details because let's be real, this particular author is way too good at writing meltdowns and he'd already lived through a particularly bad one in chapter five, so he'd rather not relive this one too. And, like, the word count is getting pretty high. Just, suffice to say, Harry had had the shock of his life when he'd fully come to about nine days later...and as if that in and of itself had not been enough, then the alleged Madam Goswood retrieved the Headmaster of Hogwarts.

He'd been fully expecting to see Dumbledore's stupid bespeckled face at the time―he was not, however, at all prepared for Armando Dippet to come strolling in like he wasn't supposed to be dead right now.

This had not gone over well with Harry at all.

Long story short, there was screaming involved, he was forcibly given a Calming Draught, found out after the fact that oh sh*t, the Calming Draught was a bit too old, wound up blitzed out of his mind, astral projected into the 2020s as a consequence of said Calming Draught, and had thus determined that he had been straight up Not Vibing, Bro.

So.

After that debacle, Harry had come to discover that, as “a survivor of Grindelwald”, he’d be enrolled in the school on a scholarship and kept on the grounds to heal not only for his own protection, but simply because St. Mungos was rather overwhelmed. And they lacked documents for him anyway. Documents of which Harry ”couldn’t provide” because he was suffering “magical amnesia”. Harry just...went with it. This was more than he could’ve hoped for, really, and a better thing to focus on the veritable laundry list of bullsh*t he’d also discovered. Such as,

A) Ron and Hermione weren’t here. They were going to lose their minds and he was going to die. They all shared three braincells, they belonged to Hermione, and last he checked, Ron had two of them and Hermione just one. He had none. He was so f*cked.Oh no.

B) He was in 1942. This was the literal worst thing possible. He’d figured this out through reading the Daily Prophet, and gotten a very concerned look from Madam Goswood, who came over to calm him down, when he started hyperventilating. That had not been fun.

C) The fact that he was in 1942 was all this stupid ring's fault because, as it turned out, Arthur's fairy tale was real (‘no, REALLY???’) and he was very worried about having to strangle the twins when he got back because now they had ample time to wax poetic about all the embarrassing sh*t they’d seen him do without him there to intervene, and would undoubtedly take advantage of that to the max .

D) This stupid ring was fused to his finger―Harry was pretty sure this was somewhat unsanitary, and was very worried about how his finger would look once the ring finally fell off.

E) He'd been here since June 28th. That meant that...he'd be out of here just in time for New Year's in this time. At least, he damn well better. Arthur’s story had said the guy was with his mother for two seasons, and there were four in a year. Logic dictated that he’d be here for half a year, and that was six months.

F) It was February 5th when he left Hogwarts so...er, eyeballing that, he'd be getting back to home around AUGUST. He was missing so much of Voldemort's sh*t and was honestly freaking the hell out over that, so. That was awesome. And he was also missing, like, his own 16th birthday, but that hardly mattered.

H) On the subject of H, somehow he had had the sense to tell Goswood his name was Harry Evans when he was high as a kite. It hadn’t been immediately obvious to him when he was normal, but apparently High Harry had recalled that there were living Potters in this time period and if he’d claimed to be one, that would’ve caused a sh*tstorm. So, props to his past self, and a thankyou as well.

G) Oh sh*t, he forgot about G. He really hoped McGonagall wouldn’t strangle him when he eventually got back. And also??? There were living Potters here??? Dippet had looked at his hair strangely??? Help???

I) He had his trunk and his wand, so he wasn’t completely dead in the water for his education this year. His trunk had all the necessities and a sh*tload of panic money in it from an impulse extraction at Gringotts awhile back. Basically, he had everything he needed. Well. For the most part. Who would’ve thought his trunk was a perfect “six-month get-away kit”? Certainly not him.

J) Oh hell, Hagrid was probably still a student here. And―oh. Oh my god. Myrtle Warren was probably still—Holy sh*t.

K) World War II was happening and goddammit he should've paid more attention in history. Here was to hoping he wouldn’t get blown up to high heaven. Christ.

L) He kept making things explode. This wasn’t necessarily a realization as much as it was an observation.For some reason, he’d had a real knack for blowing up windows and sh*t lately. Not cool, magic.

M) And not only was Harry halfway down the alphabet, but he was completely, totally, unequivocally capital M and F Monstrously f*cked. And not even the funkind.

Yeah.

Now, Harry had done something naughty―he'd snuck out of the Hospital Wing.

Pomfrey would probably castrate him if he ever did this to her, but Madam Goswood was very nice and relatively easy-going, so Harry was pretty sure he wouldn't get lynched for this. He...gah. He didn't know how to wrap his head around this―around any of this. He didn't know what to think or feel about the fact that he was living in a freaky fairy tale or―or that there was a ring fused to his finger, that he was going to see Moaning Myrtle alive, or that the guy who lived in the hut down the way wasn't Hagrid (some guy called Ogg! Who hated their kid enough to name them Ogg!?) or that...or that...

Harry puffed out a long, exhausted sigh, fogging up the glass of the window whose ledge he was perched on.

He didn’t know how to feel about how he was about to be all alone at Hogwarts.

On one hand, it was kind of nice? No bickering to sort out or people to do emotional labor for, but on the other...there was no Ron or Hermione to flank him and absolutely no one who knew him. He didn’t know why it bothered him so much that there was absolutely no one in this world that knew who he was, but it was just so. So strange, to sit there and know that no one would scrutinize his every move, and that if he―-if he up and decided to go to France, there would be no one to answer to or even ask after him.

Not that Harry was thinking of going to France. No, seriously, Grindelwald was still out there and doing God-knows-what. Harry had had enough of Dark Lord sh*t, thank you very much. The thought of Dark Lords made something churn in his gut unpleasantly, like he was forgetting something really important, but he couldn’t put his finger on what, so he did his best to ignore it.

Just like he was ignoring the ring.

Which was still, might he remind, on his finger. The same finger he couldn’t quite put down on what was bothering him.

Frowning with a sigh, Harry pressed his palm to the glass on the window, uncaring of how it’d smudge it, and instead appreciated how nice the warm glass felt on his palm as he studied the ring. And, y’know, the pretty blatantly obvious scar on his hand.

Dippet and Goswood were very concerned about the scar on his hand, actually, which made Harry really question how lax teacher observations had gotten by the time he’d gone to Hogwarts. Like, yes, he was sure that if he showed ol’ Mickey G this... disgusting looking cut she’d raise hell, but he’d had his hand in bandages for weeks now and no one had said a word, not even Pomfrey when she was looking over his Basilisk-Bit arm. But he spent one night in the Hospital Wing in 1942 (1942! He wasn’t over it quite yet) and Goswood had insisted on checking on it. She’d gone quiet once he’d slowly, hesitantly took off the bandages.

Scary quiet.

He’d not even been surprised when she swept out of the room, expecting her to be grossed out over it (it did look pretty nasty) but he had been surprised when she dragged Professor Dippet in to look over it with her and exchange some hissing words. He’d sat there awhile, too weak to stand but still able to sweat, and then Dippet had sat on his designated bed very carefully, placed a warm hand on his shoulder, and then asked him firmly but not unkindly about who, exactly had put the scar on his hand...or who made him put it there.

Of course, he couldn’t tell them that Umbridge had done this to him because to his knowledge, she didn’t exist yet, so he’d fibbed something about not remembering. He was pretty sure it had been clear to everyone in the room that he wasn’t being totally honest, but they’d left him alone. They’d both been very, very gentle with him since then, though.

The ring, on the other hand….er, same hand. Uh. You know what he meant. The ring hadn’t been the cause for much fuss other than Goswood remarking on how it was stuck on his finger, and that she thought it was pretty. Harry, while hating the damned thing, had to concede the latter point: it was rather nice to look at. In fact, it was the sort of thing he might’ve stopped and looked at if given a chance outside of the context. It suited him. Perhaps if circ*mstances were different, he’d willfully have chosen it. ‘Yeah, you hear that, you horrid hunk of metal? If you weren’t a JERK, I’d like you more!’

Harry was so busy with trash-talking the ring that it took him a moment to notice the blue little creature lounging on the opposite side of the glass.

Of course, that was when the glass shattered.

“AH―!” Harry screamed, just about falling off the window ledge in his haste to leap away from the flying glass shards.

It was only then that he heard a strange little croaking squeak and finally noticed his uncalled-for companion. He gaped down at where he’d been sitting moments before, and the sharp pillar of ice that now pierced it. Shards from the once-window were scattered across the flagstones like a thousand tiny daggers, the light from the sun violently shining off them. And in the middle of the carnage, tongue stuck out in the picture of innocence, sat the little ice salamander Harry had encountered over a week ago.

It squeaked once more, as if delighted to see him. Which was hilarious because it very well could’ve just killed him.

“...Wh―”

“Hello!? Who’s down there?”

Harry looked at the broken window, the ice pillar jutting through the stonework, and the baby ice salamander sat in the middle of the wreckage.

Um.

Sweeping forward, Harry cast a haphazard reparo on the window, abandoned all caution and snatched the ice salamander into his palm (he was pretty sure the little guy would get in trouble if he was seen), and―looking around wildly―Harry panicked, sat down quickly, lifted the back of his shirt, and hid the icicle underneath it. He gave one violent shiver as it slid against his bare, warm skin and glared down at the salamander, wondering just what the hell he was doing before Madam Goswood came into sight. He quickly covered the salamander with his other palm, keeping him trapped in his hands, and put them in his lap. Goswood looked down at him, a little red in the face, and he smiled tightly at her.

“What on earth was that ruckus?”

Play dumb!

“What ruckus?”

NOT THAT DUMB!

Madam Goswood tilted an eyebrow at him and Harry ducked his head, trying to ignore how painfully cold the icicle was beginning to feel on his back.

“Er,” He muttered, face burning. “I fixed it, but I made the glass blow up.”

“Again?”

He cringed. He’d been doing that too much lately. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I find it very interesting that you’ve broken windows that aren’t in the Hospital Wing,” Madam Goswood said, and then eyed him pointedly as she finished with, “You know. The place you’re meant to be right now, young man?”

Ah. Yikes. “Did you come down this way to look for me?”

“I did,” She said crisply, and then side-stepped just to sit next to him. “Care to explain why you’re not there?”

Oh boy, they were fixing for a conversation. Harry still had the ice on his back, and it was melting now. The level of coldness was painful.

Madam Goswood didn’t seem to notice anything amiss, nor did she seem mad—she had a bit of an open stance, and if nothing else just looked interested in hearing him out.

“I just...needed to stretch my legs, ‘s all.” Harry said sheepishly, cringing as the salamander moved in his palm.

Goswood frowned a bit and slouched down to his level. “Is that all?”

No, it really wasn’t, and Harry would’ve very much liked to tell her so but the ice on his back was so cold that it really was starting to hurt and this salamander did not seem to want to stay still either.

And then, as if aware of his thoughts, the little beast in Harry’s palms croaked.

Harry froze.

Goswood blinked. “...What’s in your palm, lad?”

Harry pressed his lips in a line, panic creeping into his joints, and he said tightly, “Er. Definitely not a. Not a. Er. Not a salamander.” A line of frigid water traced down Harry’s spine and he forcibly suppressed a shiver.

Goswood stared at him long and hard, and his palms croaked again. “...Open your hands.”

Harry stared at her for a very, very long moment before, hesitantly, he did what he was asked. Goswood breathed in sharply.

“In my defense, he found me.” Harry said quickly.

“ Why is it in your palm? Where have you been?”

Harry sighed, very agitated what with the sudden interrogatory tone and the ice melting on his back. “I was just sitting here, hanging out, enjoying the sun, and this little guy shattered the glass and sent me screaming. I’ve been here the whole time I―I don’t even think I could get myself to the forest right now anyway.”

Goswood, thankfully, believed him (which was good because he was being honest!) and her shoulders relaxed minutely. “How on earth did this little thing break the window?” Madam Goswood asked him incredulously, carefully leaning forward and scratching down said little thing’s spine.

Harry thought of the icicle under his shirt and sighed, throwing in the towel and standing up, finally giving himself blessed, blessed relief.

Madam Goswood took one look at the pillar of ice he’d been hiding and started to laugh, and buried her face in her hands. “Merlin,” She muttered, and with a wave of her wand the ice dissipated and the stonework rewound itself together.

“Hahah….yeah. I was just looking at the lake, then that came jutting out of nowhere, breaking the window. I think he was excited to see me.” And then Harry, feeling a bit silly, pointed his finger scoldingly at the little beast in his palm and said, “You’re very naughty.”

The salamander squeaked as if affronted, and Harry huffed a laugh.

“He’ll have to go back into the Forest,” Goswood said not unkindly, looking out the window. “He’s a wild creature. It’d be dangerous to have him around, you know.” She paused, then said “Ah!” and pointed. “Would you look at that? So that’s where Dumbledore’s gone. He’s out there in the lake.”

Harry, who was a little put out about having to take the dangerous salamander back out to the woods, registered a smidge belatedly that she’d pointed out Dumbledore. “What?”

Dumbledore was here?

Goswood pointed toward the lake again, and Harry followed her finger to see a figure in the lake that decidedly did not look like Dumbledore. He’d not noticed them before.

“There. He was supposed to collect you earlier and see if you were up for being Sorted, but you vanished. So he went out to the lake, then. I reckon he’s having a chat with some merfolk. See their tails poking out of the water?”

“...Oh.” Well, now Harry felt kinda guilty for causing a fuss.

“Why don’t we go down and put your friend back where he belongs? And then we can go see Dumbledore? You could use some sun, lad, and if you made it all the way out here I’m sure you can move just fine.”

Harry trailed behind Goswood as she led the way out to the grounds, duly noticing the way her kitten heels clicked quietly on the flagstone. She was engaged in a running dialogue of where things were in the school, what classes would be nice, and what the Houses were like. Harry mostly tuned her out because he knew all of this, making sure to nod on occasion to feign interest, but he tuned right back in when she said,

“You know, you strike me as a bit of a Slytherin. I reckon that’s where you’ll wind up. They’re not...the warmest bunch, but I’ve got a hunch you’d fit right in.” Goswood suddenly stiffened and, with a blush, hastily amended, “ Not because I think you’re cold, lad. You’re not. It’s the way you hold yourself, ‘s all.”

Harry was suddenly and very uncomfortably reminded that the Sorting Hat had very much wanted to put him there.

“...Alright,” He said a beat too late, looking down at the ice salamander in his palm anxiously.

Before Harry knew it, he was facing down the edge of the forest with Goswood on his left, and trying to shoo the Salamander into it. He wasn’t budging, though―he sat on Harry’s palm as if purposefully defiant, and refused to look at him. After a solid three or four minutes of trying to make the little guy go, Goswood laughed softly and said,

“He really doesn’t want to go, does he?”

Harry looked down at the little beast frustratedly and said, “You don’t suppose throwing him would kill him, do you?”

Goswood frowned at him in clear befuddlement. “Well, no, creatures like that are very hardy―”

This was all the answer that Harry needed, though, and that was how Harry wound up launching a baby ice salamander clear a couple dozen yards while Madam Goswood shrieked in surprise.

“Alright,” He said, milliseconds after he’d done so, “ run.”

And then took off. Goswood said a word Harry thought it’d be most appropriate to ignore and ran behind him. Harry veered for the lake in the distance, remembering what Goswood had said earlier about seeing Dumbledore. It was extremely difficult to run, far more so than it really ought to be, but it was great fun and he did the best he could. Grinning broadly as the fragrant summer air whipped around him, he finally slid to a stop just before the muddy bank of the lake.

“Mr. Evans.” Madam Goswood gasped from somewhere behind him, cantering to a stop. “Why, I never―”

“Gotta run or he’ll find me again. And you wanted to see Dumbledore,” Harry got out between heaves of his own. “So, we’re seeing Dumbledore.”

“Oh, are you now?”

The figure who decidedly did not look like Dumbledore to Harry from a distance certainly looked more like him now, though his nose was much less crooked. Harry stood there, dumbfounded at the sight of his Headmaster looking so young, and forgot to respond.

Dumbledore didn’t comment, though, and instead smiled at him indulgently. “You caused quite the ruckus with your absence earlier, Mr. Evans. I’m glad you’re alright.”

Right, Harry’d nearly forgotten that. “Sorry for the...er...the inconvenience.” He said dumbly, flexing his toes in the warm, dewy grass.

“Nonsense, my boy. It’s good to see you on your feet. Romona, you wouldn’t mind terribly if I invited him to wade into the lake with me? I’m having such a lovely conversation with these merfolk and I’d much like to introduce him.”

Madam Goswood’s name was Romona? Pretty.

“Not a whit,” Romona Goswood said, still huffing. “I’d wade in too, if you’d not mind. Chasing a boy clear across the grounds had made me rather hot.”

“Yes, that was impressively quick, Mr. Evans.”

‘And dumb,’ Harry finished in his head, already feeling an unwanted heaviness creep into his limbs. He’d really have to take a nap like a five year old later, wouldn’t he? Augh. He bent down to roll up his flannel sleep trousers (tried very hard not to overbalance) and, once they were secure above his knee, he waded into the cool lakewater with a happy sigh puffing out before he could stop it.

He just trudged his way over to Dumbledore, Madam Goswood not far behind, when a merfolk came gliding over to him. He started a bit, looking down quizzically when...ahem, her hand brushed around his calve and she tilted her head at him, looking a bit befuddled by him. He scrutinized her for a bit, looking over her scales and powerful tail. He’d not seen a merfolk since his unwilling rendezvous in the lake for the second task of the...yeah.

He’d dismissed them as fairly ugly back then, but now that he had time to study one in a calm setting, he noticed a strange, mesmerizing appeal to them. Not conventionally beautiful, not in any way, but a strange appeal nonetheless. He raised a hand and waved at her. Her eyes zeroed in on his hand and she stared for awhile, very still, and just when Harry was starting to worry that there might be mud or something his palm, she went back into motion again.

She circled around his legs like a shark, smiling dreamily with her lipless mouth, and made a strange, cooing shriek at him. He could tell it echoed all the way into the forest from how the sound contorted behind him. Harry softened a bit―and then she slammed her tail down, and he got drenched with cool lake water. Dumbledore and Goswood made their own sounds of alarm but Harry didn’t even have time to do that.

“Oh, hell.” He cursed when some got into his eyes, recoiling a bit and wiping at his face.

Ew. Mermaid pee. She made an odd choking noise and chittered something, and Dumbledore laughed suddenly.

“What?”

“She’s laughing at you, and said that she likes you.”

“Well, I like her very much too.” Harry said with a sigh, mopping as much water as he could off his face. “I do not, however, like using lake water as eye drops. Not very fun.”

Dumbledore chuckled and Harry jerked when his face suddenly dried, and was so discombobulated by it that he nearly toppled over when the mermaid circled particularly close again.

“How are you liking Hogwarts thus far, my boy?” Dumbledore asked conversationally.

“...It feels like home.” Harry said vaguely, shrugging uncomfortably and changing the subject quickly. “I’m meant to be Sorted?”

“Ah, yes. I presume Goswood has given you the rundown on the Houses?”

Well, she had, Harry just hadn’t been listening. “Yeah, Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin. She reckons I might wind up in that last one.” He said lamely, but paused when something shifted in Dumbledore’s face.

“Oh, does she, now?” He said.

His tone hadn’t changed, and Goswood hadn’t reacted any differently, but Harry...picked up on a certain, warning vibe and tried to change the subject again.

“Yeah, ahah…” Oh sh*t, what could he say? “Er. She told me about, er, some of the electives? Runes seemed fascinating.” Harry didn’t actually know if she’d said anything about Runes but after a tense beat, she didn’t say anything against him, so it was probably fine.

Dumbledore was looking at him strangely now, and Harry averted his eyes quickly, remembering suddenly that Dumbledore was a Legimens. Yikes. There was a lull in the conversation when Goswood suddenly straightened (Harry had not noticed, but she’d bent down earlier to coo at a merfolk child) and asked Dumbledore about OWL results for his class.

While the adults had their conversation for awhile, Harry stood there awkwardly, not quite sure what to do with himself. He busied himself with trying to tie kelp together with his feet (much to the mermaid’s amusem*nt) with minimal success and looking over the grounds, still a bit flabbergasted by the lack of snow. At one point he watched Ogg, the gamekeeper, amble towards the gates of Hogwarts with his old man gait and waved sheepishly when the man did so first. Right when they were getting into the semantics of transmogrifaction of bone structure and his feet were starting to hurt, Harry sighed, feeling sleepy under the warm sun and trying to think of something else to distract himself.

He was busy clandestinely studying the cute little mole on the corner of Goswood’s cheekbone when she turned and her face suddenly drained of color.

He wondered what on Earth was wrong as she looked pointedly into the woods, and then she said, “Oh my…”

Harry turned…and saw a veritable army of forest critters staring back.

‘Why.’

He froze, heart stuttering in his chest. The mermaid by his knees made a pleased little squealing noise but he completely ignored it. Just eyeballing it, he could see thestrals, unicorns(?!), acromantulas, bowtruckles, erklings, and a whole bunch of other sh*t just. Er. Just. Sitting there. Watching. He couldn’t shake the feeling that they were looking at him.

Hesitantly, he raised a hand. “...H’llo.” He called, voice carrying over the water he had waded in. He exchanged a look with Goswood and Dumbledore.

Christ, this was weird.

None of the creatures moved for a moment, but to Harry’s hair-raising (Excitement? Anxiety? Unadulterated horror?) something, a couple thestrals and some unicorns pushed through the cloud of critters and began to approach.

“Oh sh*t,” He cursed, forgetting momentarily that he was next to Dumbledore.

One by one, the mixed amalgamation of silvery-white and black came cantering over to him, ploughing through the water as if it wasn't a hindrance at all, just to stop before him.

‘What. What.’ Harry thought wildly, making eye-contact with one of the largest unicorns he’d ever seen. It’s horn gleamed in an almost menacing manner in the setting sun, and Harry swallowed.

It crept closer. It lowered it’s head, until it’s horn was pointed right at his forehead....and then nosed at his cheek affectionately.

What.

As if this was the necessary catalyst, the rest of the menagerie suddenly closed in and began to―to―Harry didn’t even know how to describe this other than to say that they all began to caress him and seek some pats in return. He hastily stroked the side of a particularly insistent thestral and nearly got bowled over by another on his left, having to clutch on to another for dear life. It was a cacophony of simpering, pleased-sounding whickers and huffs in his ears as well as a vague trill from down below and Harry shrunk, entirely overwhelmed.

“Why, I’ve never seen anything like it!” Dumbledore murmured in hushed astonishment.

Harry, who was busy being harassed (read: relentlessly nuzzled) by the unicorns and thestrals, could only gape at him and squeak, “ What?” One of the unicorns suddenly rested their head on top of his and Harry slowly raised his hand to stroke it’s―Harry looked down― her mane. “I am not a Disney Princess, guys, please get o―OF. AH.” Harry batted a thestral away from his ear, of which it had just snorted into. “That was foul. Ew.”

Goswood began to laugh, seemingly delighted by the sight of him, and Harry hastily disembarked from the throng of thestrals and unicorns, wading through the water as fast as his stick-thin legs could carry him. ‘No, no thank you, we’re not doing this today.’ Of course, this was almost immediately rendered a useless effort because it took mere moments for him to lose his breath and have to stop. Trudging through water should not have been nearly as exhausting as it was but he’d already wiped himself out earlier anyway. Nine days in a hospital bed did that to a guy. He could only grumble under his breath when one of the thestrals gained on him in seconds and butted it’s head under his arm to tug him along, as if being helpful.

“I don’t like you,” He groused moodily, hunching his head down as his neck prickled with the weight of Goswood and Dumbledore’s stares.

“Are you alright, my boy?” Dumbledore asked softly.

“Just tired. Haven’t exactly been moving much this past week and a half,” He shrugged, nearly tripping over a reed in the water. “In all seriousness though, I should get back to the castle, shouldn’t I? Madam Goswood said I could be sorted today, and the Sorting Hat can’t do it’s thing when my fat head isn’t beneath it, can it?”

“Right you are, Mr. Evans.” Dumbledore said brightly, but as Harry turned to look at him, he had a very strange look on his face. “Let’s be off, then.”

“I’m already off,” He mumbled under his breath, and gave the stink eye to the thestral supporting him as it whickered, like it was laughing.

Tom’s breath caught in his throat and he clenched his fists, huffing out sharply through his nose as if to dispel the icy, tingling anxiety that raced up his spine when someone’s palm cupped his arse. If he was in any other alley, such a happenstance would’ve earned his assailant a trip to the healers at St. Mungos, but Tom was in Knockturn Alley, and since he was young, fresh-looking, and pretty, this was par for the course.

Making a scene here would only mark him as a target, so instead of doing such, Tom flicked his fingers over his shoulder and shot a overly strong stinging hex at whoever was trying to accost him. He didn’t bother to turn back and look―just kept walking, trying to hold himself together and suppressing the phantom feeling of another hand on his flesh. He surreptitiously scrubbed at his arms as he walked, trying to rid himself of that awful, creeping sensation on his skin and hoped against hope that there wasn’t an embarrassed, angry flush visible in his cheeks.

He watched raptly out of the corner of his eyes as the ratty addict slunk away with a couple muttered curses, taking a moment to scoff as they went. Once they were out of sight, he rolled his shoulder properly to rid himself of that prickling feeling of discomfort when it became clear his scrubbing wasn’t helping, and he grimaced as his shoulder stuck to the fabric of his shirt, adhesed there by sweat.

Ew. How dare his body have functions? Didn’t it know that was a waste of time?

Tom puffed another sigh and, grumbling low in his throat, he kept an eye out as he traversed the alley, letting residual fear drain away in lieu of cataloging minute changes and noting the people he passed as he cut a path across each layer upon layer of grime that led the way to Borgin and Burkes. He’d only come to the alley to check up on that stupid locket Burke was dangling over his head, not get felt up and doom himself to a sleepless night of hopeless anxiety and seething hatred. If nothing else, hopefully he’d make some sort of progress today, but he sincerely doubted it. f*ck his life.

As he passed by the teeming marketplace, which was riddled with filth as per the usual, he let his eyes rove over the crowd, seeing no out-of-place suspicious figures. No one with any knives glinting in the light, and no one looking at him funny. Good. Hopefully it’d stay that way. As Borgin and Burke’s grew nearer and nearer, Tom did his best to uncurl his lip and soften his face from it’s regular surly state, less for the sake of the wary people around him and more as a preemptive measure to get into Burke’s arbitrary good graces. And then―

“Did I tell ya about the kid that showed up at Hogwarts the other week?” Tom stopped dead as he heard it, and quickly sidestepped behind a nearby wall to listen in without looking strange.

A flash of irritation and something far too close to jealousy skittered through Tom’s chest. Which lucky bastard was lounging at the school and not bearing the daily bullsh*t of everyone else?

“No, you’ve not,” Another scraggly voice complained. “Who is it?”

“Dunno. Just some spritely little green-eyed fellow. Found ‘im not too long ago, poor thing was facedown in the dirt. I reckoned he was some sort of wayward muggle, but I was chatting with Romona at the Hog’s Head the other day ‘nd she told me he was one ‘o us, ‘nd that she reckons he got jumped by Grindelwald. Got to worryin’ he was dead, but I saw ‘im wadin’ in the lake with Romona and Aberforth’s brother b’fore I left just today. Good on ‘im.”

Tom peeked around the corner to see who was talking and then ducked his head back around just as quickly. It was the Gamekeeper Ogg speaking―and if the man saw him here, he’d squeal to Dumbledore and Tom would be put under even more of a magnifying glass than usual. Dammit.

“I’d be more worried about if Grindelwald PUT him there, like a spy or sumthin,”

Tom rolled his eyes.

The same voice said after a pause, “Ever hear his name, though?”

“Oh, just some nobody―Henry Evans or someother. Actually, I dunno if it was Henry. It did start with an H though.”

“Hayden? Harper? Holden? Hogan? Harry? Hudso―-”

“Harry! It was Harry, yeah. Harry Evans.”

As if the name itself were a spell, Tom’s stomach dropped out and his heart stopped. There was no reason for it, none that he could discern, but just the name alone had sent his nerves buzzing.

“Harry Evans,” He mumbled under his breath, and as footsteps crept towards him, he jerked off the wall and walked calmly as though his mind were not whirling.

Who is Harry Evans?

It was only when he was out of the alley and halfway through the Leaky Cauldron that Tom realized he’d forgotten all about his locket.

'The Natural Magicks saw her anguish and did what it could, but what could be done was not what it should.'

Chapter 7: Interlude I: Arthur's Anguish

Chapter Text

Harry had been missing for three days.

Tracking spells weren’t working, either.

It was well and truly established now; he was not hiding in a little alcove somewhere, nor was he just miraculously avoiding authority figures by complete accident. Harry was gone. This in and of itself was a terrifying realization, especially given the state of affairs in magical britain right now, but what made it even worse was this―the complete and utter lack of clues.

No one knew a god damn thing. It was uncanny, just as much as it was unnerving. The only established facts were these; Harry had gone to the dungeons. He left an hour later, looking scared, disoriented, and had run upstairs with reckless abandon. He’d gone into the Gryffindor common room. He ran upstairs to his dorm room and locked the door. Minutes later, when Professor Minerva McGonagall had gone inside to check on him, his wand, his trunk, and Harry himself had vanished. And the trail was cold from there.

Arthur was trying his hardest not to dwell on these facts. If he did, he’d need his friend, Matthew Cork, to go find him another paper bag, and he’d already blown the bottom out of three of them before Severus had finally gotten the wits to force a Calming Draught into Arthur’s hand. He couldn’t afford a meltdown right now― someone needed to keep a level head here, because everyone else―especially his wife―was in their own special state of hysteria and that really wasn’t conducive to search efforts. Harry needed to be found, and fast. Destroying a fourth paper bag would not make that happen.

So. Three days. Three sleepless nights, three mornings of staring at the pale, drawn faces of his other children, and now, his third visit to Hogwarts to look for clues. Matthew had come along this time―Arthur was nearly certain it was at the behest of his wife, but he couldn’t prove it. Whatever the reason really was, Arthur was grudgingly glad that his friend had come along. It was good to have another set of eyes. He ignored the solemn headshakes from some of the Professors he passed, and asked around, hoping that someone might have something different to proffer. But it was all the same. He went to the dungeons. He came out an hour later. He was running, he looked scared, and he didn’t look okay. He went upstairs. He went to his dorm. Nobody knows how he left.

It was as clear as it had been before―the last place Harry had been seen was going up to his dorm room. The room had been untouched since Harry’s disappearance had finally been acknowledged, being treated as a “crime scene” by the aurors. Nothing was to be disturbed, but Arthur didn’t care about that―it’d already been rifled through a handful of times, and every effort had been fruitless. If the professional-mcfessional aurors couldn’t find squat, his interference would make no difference.

And make no difference it did, because despite every attempt he made, Arthur found nothing. Not even bare contents of Harry’s trunk, for God’s sake. Like he’d mentioned before, the trunk itself had been missing since the day he’d vanished, which had several different implications. But it didn’t matter, because it didn’t help― nothing was helping.

“Arthur,” Matthew called softly after Arthur had picked up the same sock for the third time. “I know you’re doing the best you can, but you can only do better if you get some rest.” He was starting to sound eerily like his wife, which further affirmed his theory that it had been her idea for Matt to come with him this time. “Why don’t we call it quits for now, and we can come back to this in the morning?”

Arthur stared down at the blue sock in his hand, as if doing so would give him the answers he so desperately needed. “What if it’s too late by then?” He said, sounding much more hoarse than he thought he would.

Matthew didn’t say anything, not at first. He approached Arthur slowly, as if he were a wounded animal, and then said softly, but much more firmly than the length of his pause had implied, “It won’t be.”

“You don’t know that,” Arthur whipped around quickly, chest stuttering as his voice pitched dangerously. “ No one knows that, and I―I need to find something, Matthew, I need to find something―”

Matthew put his hand on Arthur’s shoulder, and it was only then that he realized he was trembling. They stared at each other for a tense moment, and Arthur turned away first, trying to hide the wetness starting to burn his eyes.

“...Five more minutes, okay? Then I’m taking you home.”

Arthur sighed harshly, running a hand through his balding hair for the umpteenth time and shivered in the cold, not deigning it necessary to answer that. Matthew’s hand left his shoulder after another long second, and as the man went to go sink into one of the nearby chairs with a groan and Arthur slumped. He hadn’t been exaggerating, nor had he been dramatic. Arthur needed to find something, any sort of clue, or he’d―well. He didn’t know what he’d do. All that he did know was that he couldn’t bear this much longer. He just couldn’t.

Cold air swirled into the dorm room, whistling faintly through the open window, and Arthur flinched a bit belatedly when the curtain brushed past his stubbly cheek. He turned towards the window, where he could see the wispy clouds circling up above in the sky, and sighed. Another gust of frigid wind came, and sent a shiver rattling down Arthur’s back. He went to stand up from the floor. Someone really should have shut the window by now. He couldn’t think of anyone in their right mind who would’ve opened it in the first place since it was so damn cold, especially with the threat of snow on the horizon. What had they been thinking?

Something occurred to Arthur, then. He stopped.

...What had they been thinking? Surely an auror wouldn’t have cracked it for air―it wasn’t stuffy in here, and the exposure could damage evidence. And one of the other boys wouldn’t have, they would have no reason. Not in this weather. But...

“No one in their right mind…” Arthur repeated to himself softly, heart thudding in his chest.

“Arthur?” Matthew called from across the room, seeming to pick up on the sudden, odd energy about the man, but Arthur ignored him as he sprang fully to his feet and turned towards the open window.

The accounts had all been the same.

Harry had raced through the castle, coming from the dungeons, looking very scared and stressed. He hadn’t seemed aware of anything, ploughing into anyone in his way without so much as an ‘excuse me,’ and the windows in Gryffindor Tower had rattled when he shut the door to his dorm. And when Minerva had gone up to check on him, Harry was gone. Harry, for all rights and purposes, hadn’t been in his right mind. Arthur stared out of the open window, barely daring to draw in breath. It was ludicrous. It was ridiculous. It was stupid .

But could it be that…?

Arthur nearly laughed out loud, and with no small amount of hysteria, because yes, it was ludicrous, just as much as it was ridiculous and stupid. Because just as much as it was ludicrous, ridiculous, and stupid, it was also just the kind of thing Harry would do. Harry most certainly would've jumped out the window. But if he’d done such a thing, his body surely would’ve left a hole in the snow, right? Arthur’s stomach lurched, sickened by the thought, but as he hoisted his upper half over the windowsill and looked down, the snow below looked just as pristine as always. No hint of an impact.

“Jesus Christ, Arthur, get back a little or you’re going to fall―!”

Arthur was certain of it now.

“―He jumped, Matthew.”

“...What?”

Arthur looked over Matthew’s baffled face, and insisted again, “Matthew, he jumped. Harry wasn’t in the room when Minerva got in here, but everyone saw him come up. No one knows how he left, but someone,” Arthur gestured towards it, “opened this window in this weather. It was Harry. He jumped.”

Matthew paused for a while, the baffled expression not leaving his face, not at first, but slowly, surely, it began to thaw as he stared out the window.

“Why else would this window have been open?”

Matthew began to shake his head slowly, “Then...then he’s dead. Arthur, you don’t know what you’re saying, no one could survive a fall like that―”

And this was true, and maybe Arthur worried for a moment, but he discarded the idea quickly. Because Matthew had missed a vital piece; no one without magic could have survived that fall, and Harry was most certainly not without it. It began to dawn on Arthur, then, just what Harry might’ve done, because that was just the problem: Harry had magic. And Harry wasn't stupid, he was crazy. And if you were crazy, and you had magic...well. Arthurbegan to pace.

“Harry...he’s so clever with charms, just like his mother.” And he had a certain knack for flight, given just how at-home he seemed on a broom. A ‘Peter Pan’ move was far too absurd, even for Harry’s standards, but something similar... Harry wouldn’t have flown, but he could’ve gone down slowly. “Harry must’ve had his wand, Matthew. No one’s been able to find it. And I know that he knows the Featherlight charm. If he cast it, then jumped, he would’ve floated to the bottom. He wouldn’t have even made dents in the snow.”

Matthew stared at Arthur for a very long time, but then began to nod. “Okay. Okay. That makes sense. But why? Why―Wh―What the hell would be so important that he’d have to grab his sh*t and go?”

And wasn’t that the thousand galleon question? Why? Why had Harry gone to such drastic measures? Why was it so important to escape? What had he seen in the dungeons that had spooked him so badly that he needed to get away?

It all started to come together.

Harry had always been...very guarded, for the lack of a better description. Not wary, because that implied cowardice, but guarded, yes. He kept his secrets, his wants, his needs, his everything close to his chest, and done so with such firmness that it’d take nothing short of three cauldrons of veritaserum to send it all spilling out.

But.

He’d been learning Occlumency with Snape for a while now, through what Arthur could understand as an intensely violating teaching method.

Snape taught in the dungeons.

And Harry had run from there the day he vanished.

Looking stressed and scared.

Arthur looked back towards Cork, peering through the glare of the daylight at his friend’s face. “Something scared him. Something scared him bad, and he needed to get away. And I know what it probably was, but I can’t tell you.”

‘Snape must’ve seen something,’ Arthur thought wildly as he turned back towards the window, as if the horizon could reveal another clue. ‘Snape must’ve seen something hard .’ But what? What could it have been? It had to be something big, because Harry was tough. He had a temper, but when push came to shove he always rose to the occasion. He only ran from his problems when they were big, not from fear, not from cowardice, but from a need for control. A need for distance.

“Distance. Where would Harry go if he wanted distance?” Arthur murmured under his breath.

He craned his neck to look even further outside the window, teeth clattering together when a cold gust of air whistled past his face with enough chill to make his ears hurt. He squinted through the dreary, open air.

“He wanted to get away. Anywhere in Hogwarts is out―Harry would go further. But somewhere safe. Somewhere nearby, not Hogwarts, but safe. Where the hell would that be?” Arthur turned and called over his shoulder.

“Hogsmeade?” Matthew said back as if it were obvious, and of course, it was, but―

“Where in Hogsmeade? It’s chock full of people. And they would’ve seen him and outed him by now. He’s not smart enough to think better of running away, but he is smart enough to do it right. He wouldn’t stay near people, that’s too risky, so he’d have to be somewhere isolated in Hogsmeade. Somewhere like…”

Arthur turned to peer back outside, and as if pulled by a magnet, his eyes came to rest upon the Whomping Willow.

That was when he remembered, quite suddenly, Sirius’s story about dragging Ron by the leg through a tunnel...under the Whomping Willow... to the most isolated place in Hogsmeade.

The Shrieking Shack.

“Oh my god,” Arthur whispered, voice lost in the howling wind. “He was going to the Shrieking Shack.”

“What?”

The realization washed over Arthur like a bucket of ice, and he hoisted his body a little further out the window, frantically scanning the snow surrounding the base of the tree, desperate for any sign of disturbment in it. Even from here, though, he could see it was pristine. Untouched. His heart sank briefly, but just as it did, he realized the tree was hiding a tunnel. And if he remembered just where Hogsmeade was positioned correctly...that tunnel had to be right beneath the Forbidden Forest.

“I know you have a history of tromping around in there, so I’m telling you now, do not go back in there.”

Arthur huffed a sharp, almost desperate sigh. Not only was Harry disobedient in nature, but he was annoyingly clever at times. And sometimes, for the sake of not taking years off of the lives of the people that loved him, those qualities paired very poorly with his good sense of direction. So surely, surely it wasn’t outside the realms of possibility that Harry had...followed the tunnel over ground, with the Featherlight Charm still preventing him from leaving tracks, knowing that he’d be caught out if he disturbed the snow by the Whomping Willow.

“Damn you, you clever boy.”

Arthur pulled himself away from the window with a bit of help from Matthew, and after several beats of tense silence, Arthur looked his friend in the face and said plainly, “Put back on your coat. We’re going into the Forbidden Forest.”

“Jesus Christ.”

And that was that. Off they went, racing towards the forest. The two of them just barely missed McGonagall as they darted past, unaware that she was looking for them. It didn’t matter, then. Arthur filled Matthew in about his theory over his shoulder as they went, trudging through the snow as fast as they could.

“Arthur, if you think he’s in the Shrieking Shack, why don’t we just get there the normal way?” Matthew panted once they got near the Whomping Willow, sitting heavily down on a snow-covered rock just far enough to not get hit by it.

“I don’t know if he got there, and if that’s where he meant to go, through there,” Arthur pointed through the trees, “is where he’d travel.”

“Because he’s f*cking crazy.”

“Yes―no―” Arthur shook his head, “―Debatable. Whatever―point is, that’s where I’m going. I would appreciate company.”

“You’re damn lucky my leg’s not still f*cked from the full moon on the 4th,” Matthew grumbled, which was a very long way of saying ‘ugh, fine’. “Do you know where the tunnel is pointing?”

Er.

“...No. Hold on, if I levitate a rock over the knot over there, the tree’ll freeze.” At least, Arthur sure hoped so. He was pretty sure that was what Remus had said. “Can you poke your head down there and look?” He asked sheepishly.

Matthew looked very annoyed. “How spiry do you think I am?” But he did it anyway, and thankfully, by the time he got down and out, he’d only gotten smacked once by the tree. He looked very perturbed upon coming out, and pointed towards the woods. “We’re going that way.” He said.

And that way they went, examining their surroundings as they went, searching under every snow drift for the barest hint of a clue.

“If I’d known that being your friend would entail tromping through three damn feet of snow, I’m not sure I would’ve talked to you so much back at Mungo’s.” Matthew grouched somewhere between treating his third set of icicles with individual scrutiny.

Arthur didn’t dignify that with a response other than a half-exasperated eye roll.

“And didn’t you tell your kid specifically not to go in here? He seemed like a little rule-follower.”

“Then clearly, you’ve never met Harry.” Arthur tossed over his shoulder, drying the melted snow off his trouser legs for the umpteenth time. “He has to have gone this way.”

Arthur knew Harry had to have come through here. He couldn’t explain it―he just...he knew . It was just...rapidly proving a bit problematic to justify this search, though, because Arthur had nothing to back him up on his certainty—there were no footprints in the snow to speak of, and it hadn’t snowed since the day Harry had gone AWOL. If Harry had come through here, the footprints would be conspicuous. And there weren’t any. But Arthur knew, dammit. So, he trudged through the ice, eyeing the centaurs nervously whenever they came near, and kept his ears perked for the advance of acromantulas.

He overturned every leaf, rifled through every disturbed patch of snow, flipped over every rock, checked every tree hollow, and looked at each icicle with individual scrutiny, all in search of some sort of clue of Harry’s whereabouts. Arthur was going to find his son, dammit, and once he did and he was going to drag him home by his ear, propriety be damned.

But as time passed, and not a single clue was found, nor the barest indent of snow that could denote some sort of track, Arthur began to grow anxious. Not that he wasn’t before, but this was crossing a new threshold, the likes of which Arthur hadn’t known existed. The seconds stretched longer, a snowstorm loomed ever closer on the horizon, his searching began to grow more frantic…and Arthur found nothing upon even more nothing.

The only thing that changed was how the centaurs edged ever nearer.

Arthur avoided them the best he could, but as seconds turned into minutes, and minutes turned into hours, he could no longer ignore the crackle of their hooves on the snow, and the eyes that followed him. They seemed...Arthur didn’t want to say nervous, but it was the only appropriate descriptor. They seemed to dog (...or horse, he supposed) his every step, watching with a strange anxiousness to them—he could see it in the tenseness of their jaws, the firm line of their shoulders. Arthur found himself wondering just what it was that they were waiting for. Their behavior was unnerving, and there were many times he considered asking them for help, if not, just what they wanted, but he knew it’d be a wasted effort. He just navigated around them, and kept looking.

It was only when Matthew approached him with a look on his face that said before he could do it with his words, “We need to stop and head back”, that Arthur saw it.

“Look,” He said, pointing.

There were indents in the snow.

Matthew froze, and then turned slowly to see where, exactly, Arthur was pointing.

“Oh my god,” Matthew said, and that was all Arthur heard from him, because moments later Arthur was running towards them.

Sure enough, they were tracks, they were tracks. Heart pounding wildly in his chest, Arthur followed them quickly, hoping against hope, praying against prayer that they might just lead him to his son.

“Arthur, these tracks aren’t on the tunnel anymore―”

―And they weren’t, they weren’t, which made Arthur’s insistence upon going through the woods even more of a good idea. He barely noticed the centaurs cantering nearby as he tripped and skidded through the snow, following each and every track before him. Minutes crept by and Arthur was soaked from the knee down, but he didn’t care at all. This was it, this was the clue he’d been waiting for―

And that was where the tracks ended.

Right before a great, big, looming wall of black thorns.

Arthur stopped dead before it, his path through the snow halting with him. He stared at the hulking wall of bramble before him, utterly uncomprehending for a long, long moment.

“Harry?” Arthur called through the great wall of thorns before him, unable to keep a note of desperation out of his tone. “HARRY?!”

His voice echoed strangely throughout the forest, No response came.

“What the…” Matthew cantered to a stop behind Arthur moments later.

“The tracks stop here.” Arthur said numbly, staring down at the end of the path Harry had created for them.

He watched the tracks disappear beneath the thorns before him, and began to slowly, disbelievingly shake his head. The wall was so thick, there was no way―not even someone as small as Harry could’ve possibly―

“I was so…” He drew in a breath. Then another. And another. And still, no understanding sunk in. It didn’t make sense. It didn’t make any sense.

“...Arthur.”

The man in question stood still for just a moment longer, and then he jerked, like a rear-ended car, and stumbled towards the briar. There had to be something, dammit, there was no reason the tracks should end there―there had to be something past the―Arthur took a protruding branch into his hand and pulled. It didn’t give, not even slightly, and he shook his head as if it could change the inevitable truth.

“ Bombarda!” He cried, throwing his hand towards the branches. A blinding flash of light drenched the area, and Matthew cried in alarm. The thorns did not move. “ Bombarda Maxima!” another crash, another failure.

“ Arthur―!”

“Confringo―! Deprimo―! Expulso―! Defodio―! Reducto―!” Left and right, Arthur sent destructive spell after spell at the bramble, and nothing was working― “Diffindo―! Incendio―! Relashio―Re―Revelio―!” He cried, and when it became clear that nothing was working, he began to pull on the thorns with all the strength he possessed, as if his will, as if his desperation alone would ever be enough.

The thorns bit into his hands, tearing the flesh into strips, but Arthur didn’t notice― couldn’t notice. Blood gushed onto the snow at his feet―and Matthew was trying to yank him backwards, yelling into his ear―and Arthur was yelling too, screaming, even, give him back, goddamn you, give me back my son― where is he, what did you do with him you godforsaken lumps of wood, how dare you, how dare you―

It was a bit of a blur from there. Something had come to a head in the woods around then, and Arthur was barely upright by the time he and Matthew finally emerged from the forest, held up almost entirely through the latter’s strength. They had not spoken a word. Not for awhile. The bandages on Arthur’s hands itched.

If either of them were hoping for peace, then, they would not get it. Just bare moments after they stepped foot into the Great Hall, with Matthew muttering something about getting them both some soup, Minerva McGonagall came crashing through the hall.

And she made a beeline straight for him.

Arthur’s stomach dropped.

He turned away, as if it could forestall her advance, and he flinched when she seized his hand. His palm stung fiercely in her hold.

Panting, she said, “Arthur, you need to come with me now.”

He turned slowly to look at her, hardly understanding how or why she was there.

Matthew began to say, “Minerva, this isn’t―”

Minerva’s wrinkled hand tightened ever so slightly, and Arthur took in the whiteness of her face, and how...how horrifically scared she looked.

“No,” He shook his head slowly.

“Arthur,” She whispered insistently. “The wards. At,” Her eyes flickered to the curious inhabitants of the Great Hall, and she muttered in a shaky undertone, “The ones at Privet Drive. Arthur, they’re gone.”

Snow began to fall, visible through the ceiling up above, and fear colder than it washed through him.

“No.”

There had been a meeting, Arthur was sure of it, but he could remember nothing from it. Molly had clutched his hand the whole time while his second-youngest son screamed outside the door, and everyone had been so obsessed with the implications of the wards falling at Privet Drive and no one had cared about Harry, just what he represented, and Arthur had felt so sick so he’d―he’d left. It was in a strange, numb sort of way that Arthur approached Number Four Privet Drive. What was left of it, that was.

The grass crackled beneath his feet as he plodded across the lawn, uncaring of the impropriety of doing so. He wasn't concerned with that now―couldn't be. He could barely muster the ability to breathe anymore. It wasn't an ideation of death that inspired this: between the weight of the shell-shocked incomprehension that everything pointed to the loss of his youngest son and the stench of ash and burning foliage, he could hardly draw in a lungful. The loss and the smoke sat too heavily in his lungs.

All he could do was tromp forward and hope against hope that he'd find anything, anything in this god forsaken house that could possibly turn the inevitable truth up on it's head. That Harry was dead.

Muggles milled about just mere paces behind him as he stopped before the door, staring at it as if it could move by its own volition. He could hear teenagers behind him, smacking bubblegum loudly and complaining about their parents, completely, blissfully ignorant of the mass of molten metal and charred wood that Arthur stood before now. He sucked in a harsh breath through his teeth, and twisted the doorknob.

And he hadn't even had to do that―just the bare prod of his fingertips sent the door listlessly crashing to the ground with a resounding bang, the mail slot sent flying upwards and the blackened window-glass shattering on the warped tile. He looked down at the ashen shards skittering across the floor blankly, focusing instead on the cursing he could hear from inside.

Apparently, the Ministry hadn't finished clean-up yet.

Some no-name Auror, a small part of The Order that he'd yet to meet, came bounding in, wand at the ready. Arthur looked her up and down slowly, and settled on looking at her nose instead of her eyes, if only so she'd not notice the redness around his own.

"Mr. Weasley," She said after a moment, rather breathless. "Wasn't expecting..."

"My dearest ambition is to find out how aeroplanes work," He said dully, watching her cheeks go a little ruddy, and barely listened when she returned her own code.

"What are you doing here?" She asked in the wake of his silence, still looking rather flustered, and wasn't that just the question of the year?

"The wards fell." He said.

She nodded slowly. "...Yes, they did."

"They were tied to Harry." She was still looking at him expectantly, and the words clogged his throat, threatening to choke the air straight out of his lungs.

She was going to make him say it, wasn’t she? It wasn't a difficult leap, but she wasn't about to take it, so, heart hardening into something unrecognizable in his chest, Arthur said, voice strained and frigid even to himself,

"My son is dead."

And that made it real.

Saying it.

A paralyzing sort of pain spread through his body like icy, liquid metal the moment he uttered the words. Her face slackened but he didn't care about it, nor her placating words, "We don't know that, yet."

As if they didn't. As if they f*cking didn't.

Why else would the wards have fallen? Why else would Death Eaters be going on a frenzied rampage? Why else would the tracking spells everyone had been casting not work? Harry was dead―he was f*cking dead, and there hadn't been a goddamned thing Arthur could've done to stop it.

She eventually left him be, warning him to be careful, and he clenched his fists as he hesitantly took each small step, trying not to notice the way his feet trembled on the gritty floor. His legs twitched and his throat closed. He sucked in a breath as slowly as he could, and hated every single thing about how it trembled in his throat. His jaw tightened, the static burned his ears, and his eyes stung like someone had spat fire into them. Slowly, his brain picked up his feet in an unbalanced gait, more weight piling onto them with every harrowing step. Reality tapped its way into his brain's marching rhythm.

And he walked.

That was when he saw it. The door. Just an innocuous, yellowed, tiny door, with strange locks drilled into it and a grimy grate. A wash of foreboding swept through him, and Arthur stopped to ponder it for a moment. Something welled up in his chest, and he shoved it down, intent on looking at anything besides the door.

Surely there wasn't anything notable about a cupboard under the stairs.

But despite the thought, the awful, ringing silence in the wreckage of Number 4 Privet Drive made the tiny door beneath the stairs stick out to him. He...had a feeling. A strange, gnawing sort of feeling. Somehow, somewhere inside, Arthur knew he had to look. So slowly, shakily, Arthurcrouched with some modicum of difficulty, used his wand to unlock the locks, and pushed the door open.

Nothing stood out at first, not while he was outside of it. He peered around in the blackness, and caught the gleam of a lightbulb swaying in the dark. He reached out and fumbled with it, and while he got it on, he touched something warm and hairy in the process. He yelped, reeling backwards, and shook his hand out frantically just to send what looked like a tarantula flying across the house, thudding into a distant wall with an audible thump.

He stared at where it had been flung for a long moment, breathing heavily and trying to calm his heart. Holy sh*t. He was suddenly, viscerally glad that his fear for spiders was nowhere near the level of Ron's, because if that were the case, the experience could've done him in. He almost laughed. Almost. But every remnant of amusem*nt vanished with the grace of a deflating balloon the second he finally, finally looked inside.

His breath caught in his throat as he took it in, and for a blessed moment, what on earth he was looking at didn’t sink in.

But then, his ears began to ring and his heart pounded as he numbly took in the crayon drawings on the walls. Lopsided flowers, glaring suns, burning rockets, bottlebrush trees, rickety stick people, random scribbles of blues, greens, and yellows. And this would’ve been innocuous, something to dismiss as a naughty child using the wrong canvas, but there was one thing he knew, and one thing laid out before him that clued Arthur in on the inevitable truth.

Because in the middle.

In the middle.

The epicentre of it all, there was written, with backwards R's.

Arthur's heartstopped.

He stared into the cupboard for a long, long time.

For any other kid, for any other kid he was sure he could brush it off, dismiss it as a fort and smile, but he knew Harry. He remembered, suddenly, how when the boy was twelve Arthur had cracked a joke about the smallness of Ron’s room and he’d said with a shrug, “I’ve had smaller.” And he looked at all four walls, and he understood for the first time what Harry had truly meant. An unimaginable, unavoidable horror rose up inside of him as he examined each and every drawing. He watched in revulsion as they got more and more sophisticated, more steady, more practiced. He placed a hand down onto the tough, wiry carpet inside, and the moment his palm hit the ground, he could feel it. Misery was etched it all into every fibre of the carpet, every crack in the wall, every single stroke of crayon. Arthur felt it deep inside, the truth of it sinking straight into the marrow of his bones. Every moment he spent between all four walls howled terror, desperation, and a teeth-aching, inescapable loneliness. The hairs on the back of his neck raised with the force of it all.

Magical paintings were a form of memories and feelings, he recalled. An imprint of a time long lost. And the walls were covered in them. The splashes of blue, green, red, yellow, black, purple, and pink were screaming every memory into his ears.

“We’re sorry. We’re sorry. We’re so sorry.”

He began to tremble.

An impossible, dull ache lodged deep in his chest, and he felt a tear slip down his cheek. A building pressure rose behind his ribs and he tried to muster a sob to alleviate it, but he couldn't do it. This was too much. This was just too much. He’d finally hit the limit, it seemed. The limit on just how much he could take. Nothing was okay anymore, and there was nothing that could make it okay. The tears kept coming, but there was nothing else behind them, just a wavering shake within that he couldn’t circumvent. And he hated it―he hated everything about the entire situation so much and so strongly that he felt like he was about to choke.

He heard himself make a sound, a tiny sound. It wasn’t the kind of sound that boggled the mind with its intensity―it was the sort that was condensed in the most insidious sort of way, the kind that rived the very soul and spat on it’s shreds. He made the only sort of sound that could possibly, possibly give justice to this unfathomable anguish threatening to swallow him right where he sat, the injustice simmering inside of him, and the fury mounting within.

"I'm glad he killed you." He said into the empty house, voice trembling, and he meant it.

He could feel the sweat drenching his skin, the throbbing in his chest, and a strange, ringing scream in his ears as he stood, heartbeat thundering. His tears dried. They boiled away as something hot and horrible lodged deep in his chest. His fingers curled into a fist, nails digging into his palm. He couldn't hear his rapid breathing, but he could feel the oxygen flooding in and out of his lungs, and he wished that he was angrier. He wished he had it inside of him to kick and scream, to throw sh*t and yell , and he wished the walls were still smoldering and that his feet were sticking to the floor. He wished that there was anything, anything at all that could express the horror inside of him.

He took one last, savage look into Harry's Room, and disapparated with a crack.

His feet dug into the moist dirt by the Gates of Hogwarts and he sent them flying open with a wave of his hand, nerves abuzz and eyes burning.

He paid no mind to the students as he marched across the lawn, cloak billowing behind him, and he did not stop to apologize when he knocked shoulders with a seventh year, too dead-set on his destination. He tore up the stairs, knees screaming in protest, and by the time he stood before the Stone Gargoyle he snarled the password, the word "sugar quill" tasting poisonous on his tongue.

Albus was serenely inking away at papers when he came crashing inside. They sat in silence for a moment, and Arthur's chest heaved―he could've reached over, in that very moment, and strangled the man with his own beard. He reigned in his anger just enough to say, to the man's questioning, twinkling gaze,

"Acceptance letters to Hogwarts. You have copies of them. All of them. Give me Harry's."

Albus blinked, unperturbed by his tone, and asked calmly, "Whyever would you need that?"

Because he needed to know. He needed to know thetruth,and it would lie on the letters.

"Give me the f*cking letters, Albus, right now."

And that got a reaction―a slight slackening of his face, a crease between the eyebrows. "Arthur?"

"Get. The goddamn. Letters."

The portraits up above began to mutter and hiss, complaining about the audacity of him, and he ignored them. Amid the buzzing of the office, with an agonizingly slow pace, Albus drifted across the room and bent waist-deep into a cabinet, rooting around the parchment inside. Barely refraining from trembling, Arthur set his jaw, and by the time Albus came over with a hearty stack of letters―all with different addresses―he all but snatched them out of his wizened hand.

"Mr H. Potter, The Floor, Hut-on-the-Rock, The Sea." read one of them.

"Mr H. Potter, Room 17, Railview Hotel, co*keworth" read another.

"Mr H. Potter, The Smallest Bedroom, 4 Privet Drive." read the third.

And on the last.

On the first letter that had been sent.

Mr H. Potter. The Cupboard Under the Stairs, 4 Privet Drive.

Arthur stared at the words for a very long time. Not a single thought crossed his mind, not for a while. He read the words over and over again.

The Cupboard Under the Stairs―

―The Cupboard Under the Stairs―

―The Cupboard Under the Stairs―

―The Cupboard Under the―

The emotion that had washed over Arthur then was so indescribably overwhelming and jarring that no string of words would ever be suitable enough to convey it. Nothing could possibly give justice to the sheer, cold fury thrumming throughout his whole body. It was a vice grip around his heart, a distortion of his very soul. What he felt was no longer human; it couldn't be. It burned too much like fire, the way it laced his veins and crept up his spine, the desire to do nothing but hate. The acidity of it all churned inside of his gut, and he inhaled shakily.

"You said he was safe." He said tightly, quietly. "With them."

"Of course he was," Albus said, voice dismal and sad. "His aunt's home was the safest place for him to be, with the love her blood kept alive. It's a terrible tragedy that it wasn't enough to keep him with us, Arthur. I'm so sorry."

And that. That struck something in him. That struck him hard.

Because Albus wasn't sorry.

He wasn't sorry at all and Arthur damn well knew it. His chest fell in on itself as he felt his blood rise into his face, suddenly remembering Harry’s broken ankle from years ago, and how he’d not breathed a word of it. He remembered how quiet he was about pain, about being sick. He remembered the shake in Harry’s hands whenever Molly raised her voice, he remembered the awful, awful smallness of Harry’s frame, and the way his eyes would dim in the strangest ways at the softest moments, and now he thought about the cupboard under the stairs, about Harry’s Room, and knew with utter f*cking certainty that there was no goddamn way Albus could’ve missed it. He had to have known, and he had to have let it go, thinking the power of love would save Harry in the end.

Love meant nothing if you were a corpse in a cupboard.

"Safe?" He said finally, voice faint and disbelieving. His breath came harder. " Safe?"

Hand shaking so fiercely that it was a miracle that he didn't drop it, he held up "The Cupboard Under the Stairs" to Albus's eyes, and watched the color wash out of the man's face.

“He’s been dead all this time, hasn’t he?” He said quietly, dangerously. He measured each word, and felt nothing as they came out. Nothing but a deep-seated, boiling hatred. “He died years ago when they left him to rot in the cupboard under the stairs ... and you did nothing. ” The room rang with silence, and Arthur’s chest shook. “Because you knew, didn’t you?”

Albus stood silently, eyes fixed on the letter for a moment too long. “Arthur,” He said.

And suddenly, that was the exact last thing he wanted to hear, that hushed, exhausted utterance of his own name. Arthur didn’t want to hear his f*cking name, he wanted his son back, and he wanted his son to have lived a good life, but it was all his fault, all his fault—

Arthur went home that night with blood on his fist.

'She grabbed the chains, she yanked and screamed. No catharsis, nothing to be done, it seemed.'

Chapter 8: The Devil is Not as Dark

Chapter Text

Tom sighed angrily into his bland baked potato, of which he’d nicked from the kitchen a scarce ten minutes ago while Mrs. Cole got distracted by That Man, of whom he would not bother to name. He wished he had a more... comfortable place to eat this, but alas. This appeared to be the one place that no one would pester him.

A cricket chittered lazily ahead, making a particularly long blade of grass bow underneath it's weight, and Tom leaned back as much as he reasonably could, only stopping once the back of his head thocked gently onto the slightly rotted, damp wood behind him. The bridge creaked overhead as he sat, crouched in a soft patch of grass, and he picked at the potato skin as he waited for it to cool down enough for him to eat without killing himself. It was just about there―and was currently doing a good job of warming his nose―but he still didn't quite trust it to be cool enough yet. Perhaps another minute.

The cricket chittered once more, and Tom seized a slightly dirty rock and threw it at it on a whim, watching it skittered away through the underbrush in lazy disinterest. It was quiet now, save for the din of screaming children somewhere across the yard, but that was inescapable in a place like this. Ugh. Tom rubbed his drooping, red rimmed eyes, and laid the potato in his lap in disinterest. God, what a sight he would make to his... acquaintances at school right now. Huddled under a damp bridge, with little ankle-biting children howling in the background, about to cram a potato into his mouth, all to avoid the―the filth he had to suffer the presence of every summer. And he didn’t even have butter for the goddamn potato.

What was this? What was his life? Tom had to be destined for something greater than this―this embarrassment. He knew it. He had to know it, or― or...well. That didn't bear thinking about. He was going to get out of this decrepit, grim orphanage, move AWAY from anywhere with stupid rationing―AWAY from any loud, slobbering children, and AWAY from the―

He hissed under his breath slightly when the bridge above him began to rattle.

It wouldn't do to attract any....unwanted attention right now. God forbid one of the kids come over and try to rope him into ANOTHER insufferable game of House, Hide n Seek, or―Tom wasn’t a god-fearing man, but for this, heaven help him― Tag. Tom was built to scheme and make people do his bidding, not―not run. What did these morons take him for? Some sort of pauper? No, thank you very much, he’s fine.

Tom winced when he suddenly jabbed the side of his own nail bed with a different one, having missed the potato skin he was mutilating. What the hell was he just thinking about? Ugh. Tom couldn't recall. If he couldn't recall it, it wasn't important, so...he turned his attention back to his potato. He glared down at it on his lap. No butter, no salt, no pepper, no cheese, nothing to make this even slightly more bearable to choke down. But it was sustenance, and if he ate it he could reasonably beg off dinner with all the kids without jeopardizing his health, so it'd have to do.

Stupid body functions. Useless, useless body functions.

He tore off a chunk of the potato with his fingers and raised it to his lips, not diminishing himself enough to tear off a chunk with his teeth like a barbarian. Yes, Tom was eating a potato under a bridge with the ghost of a cricket for company, but he still had standards, dammit. As he ate and tried to ignore how the potato tasted little better than cud in his mouth, he tried to review the last week. What had he accomplished?

Well, he'd stacked up the bowls outside of Mrs. Cole's bedroom door to piss her off first thing in the morning a couple days ago. It had been enough to make her yell at the kids and scare them, and as a consequence, they’d been particularly unruly that day and ruined hers. Big victory there. Otherwise...he'd dumped salt into That Man's tea on multiple occasions, he got a good shove in on Harley as retribution for making a dumb joke at Tom's expense (nothing went unpunished), he got Addison and Mary to have another catfight again, and given the stray cat that lurked outside the orphanage a good kick this morning. All in all, he'd made a good few entities experience annoyances this week, so, he'd count it as productive.

But despite that, he still had made zero progress on his locket, which had also been derailed earlier by...

That's right.

Harry Evans.

The cricket began to chirp again, apparently no longer scared of rocks. Tom narrowed his eyes consideringly at it, trying not to wince when he crammed another bland potato lump into his mouth. Harry Evans. He mentally traced back to when he'd gotten his first Feeling about him, because that was all Tom could describe it to be. A feeling. Tom didn't know how or why, but since sometime before the end of fourth year, some peculiar… feelings… had washed over him for a reason he could never discern up until it had all come to a head today . And, most strangely, it had happened the moment he’d heard the name ‘Harry Evans’ in full. Even now, the thought of it had him tremoring strangely.

The cricket began to chitter in earnest and Tom kept his eyes trained on it, as if it could offer him counsel. Yes...reason stood to say that somehow, someway, for some reason, someone named Harry Evans was screwing with him, making him feel this...this... odd, empty feeling. Like he wanted something so badly that he could scream. And he was going to get to the bottom of it. He had to. He simply couldn't afford not knowing why this mysterious character had this power over him. It was dangerous to leave it unchecked, dangerous to―

―"AHHHHHHH!" A high-pitched voice shrieked into Tom's ears, and he jumped so hard that he whacked his head on the bottom of the― "THERE'S A TROLL UNDER THE BRIDGE!"

Wh―

Tom turned, eyes flashing as he went to snarl into the annoying little brat’s pudgy face―"What on EARTH do you think you're doing―!?"

More footsteps other than the ones he'd obvious missed through the din of his own ruminations came plodding over to the bridge and Tom sighed angrily, reeling backwards. Great. Witnesses. And children at that.

"What," He bit out, "do all of you imbeciles want from me now?"

"That's not a riddle!" one of the boys cried, looking vaguely upset.

"What?"

"Trolls under the bridge have to tell us riddles!" Another insisted, stamping her foot. "Don't you know how these things work?"

"Tell us a riddle! Tell us a riddle!" Their ear-grating little voices demanded, and Tom nearly crushed the quarter of potato he had left in his palm.

"Yeah, Riddle." Marley, their apparent supervisor, said as she draped her upper half over the railing above and peered down at him. Her long hair dangled down into the grass below. "You should tell them a riddle, Riddle."

He wondered how it’d feel to take her hair and yank it downwards. She’d probably fall. How hurt would she get? Would she break anything important―?

"TOM, YOU ARE NOT UNDER THAT BRIDGE AGAIN!"

And that was Ms. Cole. Goddammit.

Marley began to giggle, and Tom dropped his face into his knees in exasperation, fantasizing of strangling her in her sleep with her own annoyingly long hair. At least he could see the ends of it dipping into a mud-patch, which was bound to piss her off, but the glee from that wasn’t enough to diminish the creeping anger he could feel as one of the little kids shook his shoulder insistently, still demanding a riddle.

'If only something could make this godforsaken place worth bearing.'

The stairs had seemed very daunting to Harry, considering that just walking through the lake had nearly taken him out, but the problem was a very short-lived one when, in a rare stroke of ingenuity, he asked Goswood, “I don’t s’ppose you could cast a featherlight charm on me and just. Er. Drag me up the stairs by my sleeve or something?”

The two adults with him had exchanged an unreadable glance then, and Dumbledore said quietly―and again with that odd note in his voice― “Perhaps there’s hope for Ravenclaw yet,” which, strangely, resulted in him getting surreptitiously elbowed by Goswood.

There had been an odd pause there, and Harry had said nothing more, a little thrown. Regardless, that was how Harry had wound up floating behind Goswood like her glorified balloon and wondering why he’d never thought to do this before. Oh, and especially after Quidditch practice. This would have been so helpful, he thought.

That had been around when Harry realized, “Hey, wait a minute, Umbridge’s ban means jack sh*t here” and he’d promptly had to (poorly) conceal his extreme excitement. The joy had carried on all the way up to Dippet’s office, where he was sitting now, waiting for the adults to stop their whisper-squabbling and just put the damn hat on his head.

He tried not to wiggle in place, barely able to contain the elation rushing through him at the thought of being in the air again. God, he couldn’t wait for school to start now. He was going to join the Quidditch team pronto, or die trying.

Er.

Hopefully not literally.

Oh man, he hoped he hadn’t just jinxed it. ‘ Okay, Potter, get it together, get sorted back into Gryffindor, stay on the down low until September 1st, join the Gryffindor Quidditch team, profit,’ Harry thought just as Dippet finally approached with the hat.

“Ready, Mr. Evans?” Dippet said calmly, holding the hat overhead.

Harry nodded quickly. “As I’ll ever be.”

Strangely, the adults crowded around him in the moment, and Harry felt a little bit like a circus animal as Dippet very carefully dropped the grumbling Sorting Hat onto his head. Goswood, Dumbledore, and Dippet alike stood back and watched him with rapt attention.

“Much too bloody early to be waking me up like this,” The Hat muttered under it’s...er...in an undertone, and Harry sort of sympathized. He didn’t imagine he’d much enjoy being woken up just to be plopped onto some specky little runt’s head with no forewarning either.

‘Oi, you watch how you talk about yourself, lad.’ The Hat grouched into his head, but then, instead of going on, it was curiously quiet for a long while before it spoke again, beginning with a very promising, ‘ Oh, now this is very curious indeed.’

Something about the tone set off warning bells in Harry’s head, like when Dudley would wait around the corner for him when he was a kid and hit him with that “GOTCHA” energy. He stiffened, mind scrambling to think of why this sense of foreboding was creeping on―wait a minute.

Wait a minute.

‘That’s right,’ The Sorting Hat agreed, and ice flooded Harry’s arms and legs when he realized, very belatedly, that the hat would most certainly know where he came from.

See, Harry had been so caught up in the euphoria of Quidditch that for a damning moment, he’d forgotten that he lived in a world where omniscient hats existed. Oh god. Oh god. What if―

‘No, don’t start catastrophizing, I won’t sell you out. Who’d listen to a ratty old hat anyway?’

Sweet, sweet relief almost immediately swept through Harry, heart attack sufficiently circumvented, but Jesus Christ, that had been dumb of him not to consider. That could’ve gone very poorly, and then where would Harry have been? He kicked himself repeatedly, thinking of a laundry list of curses and other variants of profanity as he tried not to ponder all of the awful things that could’ve happened to him just because he forgot to consider that a mind-reading hat would know that he was from fifty years in the future. f*ck.

‘Oh...interesting, interesting indeed…’ The Hat muttered, and Harry twitched when it began to chuckle. ‘Yes, it appears you’re well acquainted with me, though I myself have never rested upon your head, Harry Potter. Truly, I am quite interested in all the specifics of how you’ve come to know me, but don’t worry. I’ll see it at some point. A very interesting story going on up here―goodness gracious, are there really that many Weasleys in this future of yours?’

Harry twitched a bit. ‘Yeah, there is, and one of them is indirectly the reason I’m here. Fancy that. Listen, as bizarre as I’m sure this is for you, would you mind just putting me in Gryffindor and being done with it? As fun as it’d be to entertain you with my, er, my story for a minute, I’d like to make these pricks stop gaping at me already. Dumbledore’s already starting to freak me out. ’

This was sort of an excuse to get the Hat off of his head faster because, while there was apparently no danger to this, aftershocks from split-seconds of terror were a bitch and Harry really didn’t want this to go on much longer anymore. And it was technically the truth; Harry did want all of these pricks to stop their staring, particularly Dumbledore and Dippet. Those guys were two bozos Harry felt he could very much do withou―

‘...Gryffindor?’

Oh.

Oh, no, no, no, no.

Harry did not like that tone of voice.

Harry held up a finger quickly, quickly enough to make Goswood gasp, and he said sharply, “We are not playing that today, sir. I don’t―I―” Harry sputtered, panic starting to creep up his legs . “I am not above having fisticuffs with a bloody hat, I’ll have you know―”

“Mr. Evans.”

Harry ignored Dippet’s scandalized admonishment. “You put me in the Cool Kid Red House right now, or so help me God―!”

‘And let you miss out on stalking Tom Riddle?’

And―

Time seemed to freeze right then and there.

Harry could hear an insistent buzzing rise up in his ears, and he went still. Very still.

‘You already have a penchant for stalking evil-doing Slytherins, what with this Malfoy boy I’m seeing in your head...why not let you have easy access? Since you’d definitely go after him regardless, oh yes... such ambition in you. Oh, and so resourceful too. Polyjuice potion? Perhaps that warrants cunning as well.’

Harry’s blood ran cold.

“What,” Harry’s voice trembled, throat dry. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Harry knew Tom Riddle.

Harry knew Tom Riddle, and he knew better than anyone else who, exactly, he was, just as much as he knew better than anyone else that he was dead.

Tom Riddle was dead― Harry had―Harry had stabbed that violating diary with―he clutched his arm as it throbbed with the memory of the fang that had pierced it, and Harry breathed out hard.

Tom Riddle was dead. Dead and gone. In…

No.

No.

Harry had taken out Tom Riddle once, in 1992 , but Harry hadn’t taken care of Tom Riddle here .

Because Harry was in 1942. Tom Riddle...

Unbidden, Malfoy’s snide little voice came creeping into Harry’s head: “And Father won’t tell me anything about the last time the Chamber was opened either. Of course, it was fifty years ago, so it was before his time, but he knows all about it, and he says that it was all kept quiet, and it’ll look suspicious if I know too much about it. But I know one thing — last time the Chamber of Secrets was opened, a Mudblood died.“

Malfoy had said that in 1992. It was 19 42.

Fifty...oh my god.

Oh my god.

It all came together at once and without a modicum of grace. The truth, in fact, clonked Harry right on the head with the authority of a proverbial bag of hammers. He felt so stupid. How, how could he have forgotten? 1942, over fifty years in the past, over fifty years since―

‘So, you’ve figured it out.’

“The diary…” Harry mumbled, staring determined at a nick in the stonework at his feet and willing his eyes not to burn.

Fifty-four years ago, or now, in 1942, Tom Riddle, who Lord Voldemort used to be, found out about his heritage, opened the Chamber of Secrets and unleashed Slytherin’s Monster. It killed Myrtle Warren in the process, and Riddle went on to blame Hagrid for the debacle, get him expelled, and finally, ultimately, make that abomination of a diary that Harry had had to stab .

Just as his mind ran a million miles a second, a sense of hopelessness rose up in Harry.

Because he was the only one who knew any of this.

He was the only one who knew any of this, and the only one who could know, because―because if he told anyone, not only would he never be believed because Riddle was―Harry could remember his words very clearly, he’d said he was poor but brilliant, parentless but so brave, school prefect, model student ―no one would ever believe Harry just for that alone. And count in that the mere suggestion in and of itself just sounded so―

No. Harry couldn’t. He couldn’t tell anyone, or he’d get hurt.

But he couldn’t just do nothing. Logic dictated that, since no one else could, Harry would have to, because if he didn’t… Someone innocent would die , and not only that, but in the end, fifty years from now, the theoretical version of himself that would exist here would be left to deal with the ultimate aftermath. And if Harry could possibly spare himself that pain, even if he was never around to appreciate it, nor ever knew...it would be enough. It would have to be enough, because Harry could not, would not let anyone die if he could prevent it.

But how? What could he possibly do to stop it?

Well.

Wasn’t the answer obvious? Harry thought despairingly, staring at the floor. Get close to Riddle. Get in his good graces, and then stop at nothing to prevent him from ever―no, just stopping him from opening the Chamber wasn’t enough. Harry needed to stop him from ever knowing it existed, from ever knowing that aspect of his heritage in the first place. But the only way he could ever get close enough to Riddle to ever know for sure was…

...Damn.

‘And there you are. I knew you could do it. Clever boy.’

“Never clever enough,” Harry said softly, bitterly, and buried his face in his hands. As if to insult him, the Hat didn’t so much as slide on his head as he tilted it forward.

So that was how this was going to have to be, Harry thought grimly. Just minutes ago he’d been flying high with the idea of flying again, up on a broom, but it had taken less than several minutes to send any and all hopes he had crashing down into the dirt, because―what was that phrase again? The phrase that described Harry’s life in a nutshell? Oh. Right. Out of the frying pan, into the―

‘I can’t fathom why you’re feeling so dismal, lad. Why, I’ve never seen such selfless self-preservation. And the cunning, the ambition you have in droves...color Salazar impressed. And all the makings of a fine, fine leader. I can’t think of anywhere you’d belong more.’

‘Well, I’ve sure got an idea.’ Harry thought sharply.

The Sorting Hat gave pause there, and then hummed consideringly. ‘I can’t decide if my counterpart did you a disservice or not by putting you with the Lions. They did very well for you, lad, truly they did, but Slytherin is the place for you, there’s no doubt about it.’

Harry felt vaguely sickened by this notion, but it was swept away in a sudden, burning hot flash of anger. “I don’t want to hear that―I don’t―just―shut up and put me in Slytherin already!”

A sharp gasp came sounding behind him at the same time Dippet exclaimed, “Why I never―” but in that moment, the Hat mumbled in his head, ‘I knew you’d make the right choice. Keep your head and your eyes open. You’ll be alright. Now, brace yourself, lad.’

Harry squeezed his eyes shut in equal parts hopelessness and anger when the hat finally yelled, “SLYTHERIN!”

Silence prevailed in the room after the Hat made it’s decree, and Harry slowly reached up to lift the Sorting Hat from his head. He lowered it down to his chest and gazed down at it, fighting desperately hard to prevent the terrible shake in his fingers from spreading any further.

“Dammit.” Harry laughed suddenly and without humor, breaking the silence in the Headmaster’s office. He glared bitterly down at the hat wedged between his palms. “I’m going to have to join the Slytherin Quidditch team.”

“Atta lad,” The Sorting Hat said, and promptly fell asleep.

Tom twitched.

There it was.

That... feeling again. Tom peered out the window and around the vicinity of the orphanage, as if Harry Evans would be outside at the moment and goggling at him through the glass, and wasn’t particularly surprised when he found nothing noteworthy. Same smog-grey sky, same annoying voices jabbering about inane things, same babies sobbing their little hearts out, same―ugh. That stray cat was back. Tom would’ve thought it learned its lesson by now; if it sat outside and made noise, it was going to get kicked. It was a very simple equation. But he supposed that would be giving the beast too much credit.

“What are you looking for out there? A bomb?”

Tom flinched a bit when a voice came from behind him suddenly, and he turned to face down Andrew, one of the newer orphans.

“― Excuse me―”

“―Don’t worry about it Tommy boy, radio says there’s no planes coming this way tonight,” Harvey called from across the room, just as Patrick bellowed,

“The Orphanage won’t be blown up again, unfortunately! Stop praying for it already!”

The cramped room erupted in laughter and Tom fought the pink he could feel rising in his cheeks, folding his arms. It was no secret that he’d been excited to hear that the original Wool’s Orphanage had been blown to bits during his fourth year by an errant plane that flew over, nor was it a secret how quickly that excitement had evaporated when he had to come back to Ms. Cole and be cramped into this goddamned room to boot.

“You lot won’t be laughing so much when I murder your entire―” Tom nearly said ‘families’, but he reconsidered quickly. They were in an orphanage; even he knew that was too out of pocket. “―When I murder all of your loved ones in cold blood.”

“Keep dreaming, Riddle.”

Tom rolled his eyes and scooted closer to the window sill, pillowing his chin in his arms and leaning. He tried to content himself with watching people go by from the second floor he was situated on. Yes, the original Wool had been blown to bits during the winter of his fourth year at Hogwarts―the blast had killed three girls and five boys, whom Tom could no longer recall the names of―and turned everyone out into the cold for several weeks. As far as he could tell, it had been a completely miserable affair, and he was absolutely gleeful that he’d missed it all.

He assumed, then, that Hogwarts would finally let him stay for a summer since he had nowhere else to go and obviously they’d deem the muggle world too dangerous for their ‘resident model student’, but much to his chagrin, the orphanage had simply moved several streets down and settled in a drafty, much more cramped building and wizards, once again, displayed their utter lack of brain power by shoving him back here too. Now, all the boys were stuck in one, large room, all the girls were stuck in another, and all the babies were in a third. Everyone had their own bed, but they were lined side by side with bare space in between each, with a simple trunk at the end of every one for the person’s belongings. There was no privacy to be found―the best you got were two or three boys holding up sheets around you as you got dressed.

Even worse, the lack of privacy had effectively halted any and all terrorizing Tom could inflict on these idiots. If someone crossed him, he had to rely on sneak attacks for vengeance at opportune moments, which was often much too risky and idiotic. There were just too many witnesses at all times now; when everyone had their own room, he could set traps, he could isolate people, he could threaten people and it was their word against his―if they ever figured out that the cause of their trouble was him at all. But here? It was just too damn small. There was nothing he could do to these morons without being caught, and that was so much more trouble than it was worth. He just had to―to take their bullsh*t, like a peasant! It was absolutely miserable.

And what was even more miserable was that, instead of dying in the blast, that man had followed them.

A sick feeling began to rise up in Tom, unwanted and unbidden, and he tried to push it away quickly, but he couldn’t quite do it. Yes, that man had followed them because now they were even closer to that godforsaken church than they were before, and in their ‘time of need’, that man came by to help because the word and belief of God would help them. As if prayer put bread on the table. As if prayer had kept Tom from being―

"Naw, I reckon he's just watchin' for fires. Y'know, you could get a job doing tha'." One of the boys said. "Bit tiring, though. Staying up all night." A strange silence befell the room and the boy tacked on suddenly, quietly, "But I s'ppose that might―"

"―Speaking of which, Tom, it is night, so you ought draw that curtain already, it's blackout hours." Harvey, one of the only ones with an ounce of tact, cut him off suddenly. "You want to help the fire watchers, don't ya?"

“You don’t think he’s coming by tonight, do you?” Silas said suddenly, obliterating Harvey's salvaging effort in one fell swoop, and a stony, tense silence swept across the once buzzing room.

The back of Tom’s neck prickled, and he went very still.

Silas’s voice seemed awfully loud in the quiet. “Because he came for dinner tonight. That’s usually when…”

“Don’t.” Tom said suddenly, and with no small amount of tightness.

“But―”

“Don’t even bring him up.” Silas jerked away when Tom turned and snarled the words. “Go to sleep, already.” And, as the moment stretched, Tom snapped at the end, “You know who he’ll go for anyway.”

A strange energy settled over the room and Tom bristled, knowing damn well that everyone was staring at him now. These bumbling, blithering idiots couldn’t hide it from him at all; he knew they were laughing at him behind his back, mocking him about this―

Harvey spoke up suddenly with― “Y-You could camp out in my bed tonight, if you want.”

A tempting offer, sure, but Tom knew damn well what would come from it. He clenched his jaw so hard it threatened to pop and he exhaled slowly, resisting the urge to go over and punch Harvey for even daring to tease him like that. They all knew he couldn’t just stay in a bed with them every night, because then he’d be labeled a fa*g, and Ms. Cole would make Tom stay with the man, in the church, alone, so that he could pray away his hom*osexual tendencies and return to the light of the Lord. And even if it was just one night, it’d only make that man angrier. He sneered minutely. These morons and their half-hearted ploys would need to do better if they ever wanted to even dream of screwing him over.

“We all know what consequences that’ll reap in the end.” Tom snapped bitterly, crossing his arms around himself tightly to rein in his own rising anger. It wasn’t worth it to show them that they were winning. They weren’t winning. “Just leave me alone and go to bed.”

He noticed several other orphans exchange uncomfortable looks as he turned back to the window, and he glowered at the cat outside, which was staring at him with it’s big, bright yellow eyes shining with candlelight. He set his jaw and sighed, building Occlumency shields one by one in his mind. He’d need them tonight.

The cat outside meowed once, and then scampered away. Tom drew the blackout curtains, trapping himself inside.

The rest of the day had passed into a sort of disbelieving haze after the trigger had been pulled.

Harry could vaguely remember the details of Dippet and Dumbledore reprimanding him for his coarse language in the Headmaster’s Office, to which he’d said something to the effect of “What are you going to do about it? Give me detention?” before Goswood had the sense to usher him out of the room very quickly, and from there, he’d stayed perched on one of the deeper bay-window sills in the Hospital Wing, staring angrily at the grout in between all of the bricks.

Goswood had mostly left him alone after the third time he’d accidentally blown a window out―he still didn’t know why he was doing that nor how to stop it―and had taken to cataloging the Hospital Wing’s potion stock for the last half hour or so if Harry’s internal clock wasn’t steering him wrong. He could still hear her muttering under her breath and all of the bottles clinking even now. He leaned his head onto the window, which was starting to get chilled in the darkness of the encroaching night, and sighed.

He didn't know how to think or feel about the fact that he was undoubtedly going to see Tom Riddle.

He hadn't forgotten a bit of his encounter with the guy's shade in the Chamber of Secrets. Closing his eyes, even now, he could still see a flicker of Riddle's face, down to his sinister little half-smile and that mole on his long, swan-white neck.

He had no idea how he'd feel upon seeing him face-to-face, in the real, legitimate flesh, knowing what he'd done and would do. He had no idea how he’d react in the moment. Some little part of him was up in it's guns, insisting that he ought to just kill the guy and be done with it, but he pushed it down. Out of here in six months or not, six months in Azkaban would still be hellish and he wasn't sure Riddle would go down without a fight.

And even if he did go down...something inside of him was whispering, what a waste. What an inconceivable, unfathomable waste .

Because if Arthur's story held true, Harry was going to be out of here in six months. No ifs, ands, or buts about it. Two seasons would pass, and he’d be gone, never to return. He could learn so much about Riddle in that time without getting crucio-ed for his efforts. There was so much prying he could get done, secrets he could dredge up, plots he could foil and future ones to find and figure out how to work around. And maybe, just maybe , he could figure out what that Diary that held Riddle's shade had truly been.

He could still hear the ringing, anguished screams it had made all those years ago echoing in the back of his mind. That wasn't normal―it couldn't have been. Every note of that wail had reeked of something deeper and darker than him, deeper and darker than most magic itself.

It had to have been made around this time. That was the only explanation as to why it had gone straight for the Chamber of Secrets, which had been opened this year. So, if Harry played his cards right, he could find out how and why.

Keep your enemies closer, indeed.

“Hey, darling?” Goswood called softly, and Harry inclined his head towards her. “It’s about time to go to bed. Why don’t you crawl in and get some good sleep? We’ll be figuring out what to do with you tomorrow morning, so I s’ppose you ought to be well-rested for that.”

Harry translated this quickly in his head: I’m going to sleep. Here’s a good excuse to make you agree to do the same so I don’t have to stay up watching you. You will listen to me because I’m an adult.

“...Sure,” Harry said, unwilling to argue it but fully intending to crawl right back out of bed and sit on the windowsill again once she left him alone.

And that was precisely what Harry did. Once the shuffling in her quarters quieted and remained quiet for what must have been at least half an hour, he slunk out of bed and back on the windowsill, watching the firelight from the braziers outside glitter across the lake surface. He had an absurd urge to go swimming, and almost actually went and did it before he remembered that the grindylows might not appreciate that.

He did, however, want to go for a walk, though. Get his land-legs back, get some nice, cool night air. The works. So, with a precursory glance towards where Goswood was sleeping, Harry slipped off of the windowsill, and tiptoed towards the Hospital Wing’s doors. Silent as a ghost, he prodded them open and leapt into the hallway over where he knew the warning runestones on the floor were, and shut the door softly.

He stood in place, tuning his ears and waiting, but no shuffling came from inside. It seemed Goswood was still down for the count. Harry breathed out a short sigh of relief, and then pivoted, making his way towards the dungeons. This seemed like a good time to go bother the house elves, and the dungeon would have the chill he was seeking.

He made it there with no noteworthy incident and spent a good long while in the kitchens, where he had a very nice conversation with all the house elves and made himself a cheese toasty. It was around 2:30am, mid-conversation with the alleged Antsy, that his eyes began to itch with genuine fatigue, and after Harry polished off his third gingersnap, he thought it was about time to go back to the Hospital Wing and get some sleep.

The house elves were very insistent on walking him back, but Harry rather thought that leading a troop of elves back to the Hospital Wing with him would be a bit much, even for him, so he brushed them off and bid them goodnight, finally stepping back out into the corridor with a forcefully given pouch of gingersnaps resting in his trouser-pocket.

He’d scarcely taken three steps down the corridor when he heard the voice.

“Harry.”

The hair on Harry’s arms stood on end and he paused, looking around warily. That voice…he inched towards the wall, head swiveling. No one was in the hallway, but it...it did seem colder.

“Harry.”

And there it came again, like a passing whisper carried by the wind, blowing past his ear like a foreboding breeze. He jumped, and pressed his back to the wall, the stonework digging into his spine. Whoa, whoa, whoa.

“Don’t you know how dangerous the dark can be?” The voice whispered, this time right next to him, and Harry froze.

He looked left, he looked right. No one was there. He shrunk a bit, gulping, and balled his fist. Something wasn’t right. ‘Yeah, no sh*t , Potter. Would’ve never guessed.’

“Who are you?” He whispered, keeping his voice level. He fumbled for his wand, but it wasn’t in his pocket. sh*t.

“Friendly.” The voice said, and Harry didn’t believe it for a second. He tried to look for an exit, and braced himself for a scuffle. Of course this happens. What did I expect to happen? For things to go easily? “I’d get out of here if I were you.”

...Somehow, this did not at all align with what he’d been expecting. Against his own head, he relaxed minutely, and listened carefully.

“...Why?” Harry hedged, inching away from where the voice was coming from.

Harry leapt no less than two feet in the air when several voices came together, in an ominous chorus, “We didn’t.”

Oohhhh no, f*ck that, f*ck that, f*ck that.

“Fine.” Harry said tightly, and sprang forward, walking through a blast of frigid air―or tried to walk.

He tripped more than anything, because something in the darkness had curled around his ankles. On reflex he kicked his legs hard, trying to dislodge it, and it worked some, but it still felt like something in the dark was clinging to him.

And, in a chilling moment, Harry realized that was exactly it.

He could barely believe his own eyes. Like a physical force, the dark was clinging to him. He gasped and, in a wild, instinctive moment, he brought down his hand and lumos came springing out of his palm.

With a faint shriek, whatever the hell had a hold on him retracted, and Harry was left staring numbly at the stonework, heart pounding wildly.

“What the hell.” He said, heaving, waving his glowing hand to every other patch of darkness around him.

“Go,” The whispering voices said, and Harry did not f*ck around and find out why he ought to again. He turned heel, lumos still in hand, and with adrenaline pumping like mad, he bolted for the stairs.

It was only once Harry made it back to the Hospital Wing, shaking and gasping, that Goswood came shuffling out of her quarters, took one look at him, and said in a very sympathetic tone of voice, “That’s why we have a curfew, honey.”

As she ushered him towards his bed and wrapped a soft blanket around him with murmured reassurances, Harry looked at the clock.

It read 3:07.

He understood very suddenly why people feared the witching hour. Harry looked at Goswood then, and said very plainly and perhaps for the first time in his life,

“Get me the f*ck out of this school.”

And get him the f*ck out of that school she did, for it was only the next morning that she gently roused him with news of Dippet wanting them both to accompany him for breakfast. Harry had been hoping for a peaceful breakfast following his harrowing night, but of course, this was little more than a pipedream. Mostly because Dumbledore was there.

Harry didn’t really know how to explain it, but something about the way Dumbledore kept looking at him gave him some serious heebie jeebies. Which was wrong on so many levels because―because Dumbledore was not supposed to be scary.This was the guy who regularly made his office passwords into candy. It was very disconcerting, being legitimately creeped out by Dumbledore, and Harry internally made a note to chew out the older one for his younger counterpart’s conduct when he eventually made it back to 1996.

Thus, breakfast was a very tense affair between him and Dumbledore’s intermittent touch-and-go glaring contests, and the whole debacle was only slightly brightened by Goswood patting his shoulder on occasion and the house elves goggling at him, as if surprised that he were still alive. He was, absurdly, reminded of Dobby by it and shook his head. House Elves and their dubious morals...

Otherwise. The conversation about Harry’s living arrangements went about as well as expected.

Harry was absolutely not keen on staying in what was suddenly a creepy murder-castle with invisible ghosts that talked to you. Hogwarts suddenly felt very alien to him and he was not a fan. Like, as much as he was not at all eager to hang out in a 1942 orphanage and bear the weight of WWII, he’d take his chances with the overarching bomb-threat rather than the immediate threat of, again, creepy murder-castle.

In turn, Dippet had tried to insist on taking Harry to Gringotts for a blood test to see if he had any living family but Harry, knowing damn well what would show up on that paper and absolutely not feeling like dealing with that inevitable dumpster fire, profusely refused this and insisted he’d be placed in an orphanage.There were a lot of arguments back and forth. For some reason, all the adults seemed really insistent on Harry getting a blood test, but this insistence did not at all compare to Harry’s insistence that no, thanks, I’d rather not. There was enough jackassery brewing up in September, what with Slytherin and Tom Riddle; throwing in illegitimate child claims with the living Potters was just. It was not on Harry’s agenda.

So. Eventually. With much argument, it was settled. Harry would be shipped off to some random Wool’s Orphanage and be collected later to be taken shopping for school. He set out for the orphanage that very afternoon, and mostly tuned everyone out as they had the necessary conversations. He stood still, the weight of a pack Goswood had foisted upon him weighing heavily in his hands, he nodded at the right times, and pondered the witching hour at Hogwarts.

He only tuned back in once Goswood swept him up into a warm, lingering hug. Unbidden, Harry was vividly reminded of Mrs. Weasley, and that he wouldn’t see her for six months. Suddenly, he had to set his jaw just to keep himself together.

“Stay safe,” Goswood told him softly, and with one last squeeze on his shoulder, he was left alone with the alleged Ms. Cole.

And just like that, every wizard Harry knew was gone from his life until September.

Well. At least he might have a couple weeks of peace, now, what with no magic sh*t to bother him. He never quite appreciated the mundanity of muggle life, did he? He’d certainly have to make the most of it now. He thought about Privet Drive, and pressed his lips in a line. Yes, he realized suddenly, these couple weeks might actually be the only normal time he’d ever have in his life . And that waswith all the stuff Goswood had given him. Ms. Cole stared at him as he sagged and the warmth of Goswood’s hand faded, and her frown seemed to deepen as he said nothing. Harry took a proper look at her face for the first time, trying to focus, and frowned back at her. She pursed her lips, looked him up and down, and said plainly,

“You don’t look like one of them wizard blokes.”

Harry said nothing, unsure of what to make of this statement.

The silence stretched, and then, with a very put-upon sigh, Ms. Cole said, "You do have your ID card? Your gas mask? Ration book?"

Harry twitched, very vividly reminded of Goswood telling him what was in the pack she'd given him. She'd looked at him meaningfully as she pressed it in his hands. He hadn't realized that he'd need all of that, but...he shook himself. 'Think about it later, Potter.' He told himself strongly, not thinking about Ron making fart noises with the rubber or what Hermione would do with the coupons.

"Yes, ma'am." He said stiffly.

Ms. Cole peered at him oddly for a long while, and then gestured towards the door and said, “Go find an empty bed upstairs. And don’t blow anything up.”

...Fair enough? Harry shook himself and went to follow her instructions, making his way towards the stairs he’d vaguely heard about earlier, a bit of a spring in his step. Well, there was, up until Harry took one more step around the corner towards the stairs, and with it, sent any and all hopes he had for a peaceful couple weeks to come crashing into the proverbial dirt.

Because in that moment, he whacked heads with someone who’d been coming down hot. Stars spun in Harry’s eyes as he stumbled backwards, flinging an arm backwards to brace himself on the wall, and when he finally cracked his watering eyes open, there he stood.

Oh.

Oh.

Harry stared for a long time, trying to dispel the visage of Tom Riddle from before him, but failed because unfortunately, he was very much real.

And wasn’t THAT just Harry’s―f*cking― luck? That he’d be―that he’d be PLACED. IN THE SAME— IN THE SAME—! GODDAMN—

Harry had to take in several deep, deep, fortifying breaths.

Because wasn’t it just his luck that he’d be placed. Placed in the. Jesus Christ, Harry couldn’t even think it. In the same—orphanage— as— Tom—Riddle.

God.

This was. This was—this was wonderful! Phe-Phenomenal! Magnificent! Marvelous! SUPERB! GLORIOUS! DELIGHTFUL! SUPER! GREAT! FANTASTIC! AMAZING! EVERY―OTHER—SYNONYM―OF―WONDERFUL―!

Hhhhhhh. HHHHHHHHHHHHH ! Oh, Harry could’ve screamed!

He very pointedly ignored the little voice that crowed, ‘ Golden opportunity’ in the back of his head, and instead stared despairingly at Tom Riddle, the baby Dark Lord himself. God, he hadn’t seen this face since 1992, and yet it was just as…

...Handsome, a little voice muttered just as the other, overwhelmingly loud one said “BASTARD-ISH.”

‘Shut up, Harry.’ Harry thought, trying to pull himself together as best as he could and ignore the implications of the foremost adjective he’d used. ‘Focus.’

“Hey,” He croaked lamely, fighting back the urge to bury his face in his hands and searching for something to say to plug up the space their pregnant silence had left behind. “Sorry for bumping you, er...corners are such an awful blind spot, huh?”

And, of course, that was when Tom Riddle’s eyes rolled back, and he hit the ground with an incredible, creaking thump .

‘ ...I.‘

Harry made no move to help him, not at first, and instead stared down at Tom’s prone, unconscious body for what must’ve been at least twenty seconds, utterly uncomprehending. And then―

Harry buried his face in his hands. “God, I hate magic.”

Someone was laughing at him somewhere, he just knew it.

'The Chill took him, dragged him down to the core. But she'd bring him back, she swore, she swore.'

Chapter 9: As He is Painted

Chapter Text

For a moment, Tom thought he’d been hit with the Cruciatus Curse.

He knew what it felt like, of course. He couldn’t have been so lucky as to avoid it all his life, not being who he was. No, because once upon a time, he’d been the single mudblood in a house full of purebloods, purebloods who’d been raised on blood and curses and whose first words were spells. As if they’d let him go unpunished. No, he remembered it distinctly. They had come to him in the dead of night, pinned him down, whispered awful words into his ears, and their eyes had seemed to glow in the darkness as one held their wand over his chest and cast it.

You never forget what your first Cruciatus feels like.

Words don’t do it justice, though they try hard to. You thrash, you scream, you claw at yourself and the floor in equal parts, and nothing relieves it. It’s inescapable, it’s unavoidable. It makes death feel merciful. All that exists in the world is pain. All you can conceptualize is pain. All you know is pain. You forget where you are. You forget who you’re with. You forget your own name. All of it, all of you is stripped away in the spare moments that you’re underneath it.

And then it’s over. Your hands don’t stop shaking for days. Perhaps, if you’re unlucky, they never stop shaking at all. And sometimes, when it’s cold, or wet, your fingers will jerk and spasm. Tom’s did.

This, though. This was not the Cruciatus Curse.

It was worse.

This was like the Cruciatus Curse but slower, more insidious. It crept along inside of him and took it’s time to lave it’s barbed, molten tongue over every inch it explored. It took every word in his head and rewrote it in sharp, jagged script that stabbed at the soft tissue inside. It took every memory, one by one, and threw them on the floor just to puzzle them back together as if with the clumsy fingers of a child. It took his heart, his very heart, and scrambled it like an egg, fried it on a pan, and jammed it back inside of him like a square block into a round hole.

And it burned. It burned, and burned, and burned.

It was pain. It was divine, inescapable, unavoidable, inconceivable pain.

His heart seized in a staccato rhythm and a bone-deep ache festered just beneath the skin, until his chest contracted and his lungs pulsed, until the floor was unbearable and the slide of fabric over his skin made him want to scream, until he couldn’t stop moving, couldn’t stop thrashing, until he was screaming. He had to have been.

Footsteps thumped towards him, making Tom’s body rattle with every one of them. Or maybe he was just convulsing. He didn’t know anymore. Voices were yelling now,

“Oh my god, is he okay!?”

“What happened?”

“Did he fall?”

"Tom? Can you hear me?”

“Hey, come on, now, stay with me—”

“Riddle?”

His head pounded in tandem with every word and he couldn’t suppress a moan as he curled in on himself, jamming his hands over his ears. It was a cacophony in his head, an assault of syllables ramming against his eardrums until his vision spun. Liquid, wet and itchy, trickled down his face, running smoothly and ceaselessly.

A shadow fell across his vision, and he shuddered in earnest as something came over him.

It was him.

It was him.

Tom laid on the ground, gasping for air and finding it lacking as he stared up at him.

It had to be.

It was the only explanation for this—this indescribable—

His face was framed with wild dark curls, lined by a strong, angular jaw. A straight-edged nose, deep, romantic lips. Adorned with thin wire-framed glasses were two luminous green eyes, inlaid in dark skin.

A single flash of lightning marred it, and Tom felt himself stop breathing.

Harry Evans, for that was surely who this was, who it had to be, leant over him, waving his hand in front of his face. Tom could barely see him. His lips were moving but all Tom could focus on was the cupid bow that quivered with every word. He looked worried. He looked like he was in pain too. One hand cupped his own face, and Tom could see the words stretched taut over the skin—I must not tell lies.

Something hot and red dripped onto his face.

Evans reached down then and cupped his cheek, warm palm over burning skin. Tom froze as something began to well up within him, something alien in its entirety. The corners of his eyes crinkled.

“I’m sorry.” Evans’ lips mouthed.

His thumb ran gently along Tom’s cheek, wiping away whatever had dripped there, and Tom breathed out hard. Liquid heat, pin-pricks of fire raced up and down his body, all stemming from that single point of contact. It was like his bones were burning and his head was splitting apart from the middle. His ears were ringing, his body trembling. Tom made a muffled noise, a wild, throaty sort of thing, panic palpable and humiliating, and an absurd, impossible urge came over him.

He wanted to be closer.

With impossible strength, in a burst of energy he didn’t know he possessed, Tom seized Evans’ wrist and clung onto it for dear life, keeping his hand affixed to his face. He leaned to it, tried to meld himself into it, tried to mesh with it so as to never be an individual again.

It was salvation. It was necessary. It was essential, absolutely vital that he did not let go.

It happened slowly, like pegs being slotted in one by one, steady and timed. The ringing in his ears faded. The pain began to ebb away. His body relaxed. His heart stopped pounding. His head stopped throbbing. Green eyes bored down into his own, looking so helplessly confused, but Tom did not speak. He didn’t think he could. A bone-deep exhaustion swelled inside of him, until his eyes were drooping and muscles turned to putty. Something was yawning up and out of him. His grip on Evans’ wrist never faltered.

Some sort of understanding seemed to pass between them both, Tom thought. There were a lot of things he wanted to ask. Who are you? What was that? What is this? Why did that happen? What did you do? Where are you from? What do you mean for me? Why do I feel so warm? Why are you here? But they both knew he couldn’t. Not yet.

“Ow,” He said softly, thoughtlessly, grip loosening on Evans’ wrist almost against his will as something like darkness encroached, and Evans’ eyes seemed to soften.

His lips moved, he said something, but Tom couldn’t hear it. He didn’t have enough time to before he went down, right there at the foot of the stairs. He wasn’t bothered.

He’ll take care of it. He knows. He knows something. He’ll tell me. I’ll know it too. Until then...until then…

And although Harry did not know it, not then, Voldemort died a quiet death in that moment, right there in his arms.

Harry had no goddamn idea what the f*ck had just happened there.

He could feel all the eyes on him like a physical weight as he anxiously waited for the girl he sent off to get Ms. Cole to return, and he shrunk beneath their collective stares, ears burning hotly as he wiped the blood off his forehead, filing that away as “deal with later”. Everyone was murmuring and muttering, giving him furtive, calculative glances, and Harry busied himself with wrenching his wrist free from Riddle’s death grip and getting him into a more comfortable position as they waited for authority to arrive.

He could already see minute bruises purpling on the boy’s neck and arms—Jesus, he bruised fast—and hastily propped him up on his thighs before the floor could exacerbate them more. It must’ve made for quite the image—a baby dark lord halfway pulled into his lap, head pillowed into the crook of his neck and shoulder, limp and utterly dead to the world—as just the mere sight of it had Ms. Cole hollering down the hallway,

“I told you to find an empty bed, not—not murder one of your fellow orphans!” Her footsteps tapped towards him rapidly. “What the devil happened here, boy?!”

Yeesh. Harry was very unpleasantly reminded of Aunt Petunia and he turned towards Ms. Cole, barely suppressing the cringe rising on his face. Suddenly, he didn’t think she was going to be too helpful.

Before he could get in a word, she looked down at Riddle—and then almost immediately dropped her face into her hands. “Oh, lord have mercy, it’s Riddle. Again. What did you do to him? ”

“I didn’t do anything!” He snapped defensively, knowing damn well that, even if it was the truth, it surely didn’t look like it.

And just as he knew she wouldn’t, Ms. Cole didn’t believe him, shook her head, and said sharply, “You must’ve done something, boy, to send him into a fit like—”

“Please, Madam.” One boy piped up so suddenly that his voice sounded like a gunshot in the muted foyer. “He’s telling the truth. He and Riddle ran into each other by accident, he apologized, and then—well, you heard. Riddle just lost it! But he didn’t do anything more than tap him, honest.”

Ms. Cole stared at the other boy long and hard, and Harry was briefly glad he wasn’t under that glare. The silence stretched, and then, it just.

It rocketed from there. As if emboldened by the one boy speaking up, the floodgates crashed open and several voices began to talk at once—and all on Harry’s side. He looked over all the orphans explaining the story, and blinked, completely dumbfounded. Somehow he...he hadn’t expected anyone to actually rise to his defense. That hadn’t ever really happened before.

Ms. Cole looked a little flustered and she peered between all of the orphans in her care, lips pursed tightly. “Then Riddle threw a fit over—over Evans touching him?”

An odd energy settled over the room, and everyone turned to look at Harry and then amongst themselves, shuffling. Harry realized very quickly that no one quite knew how to explain what, exactly, had just happened with Riddle and were hoping he knew, which was problematic because not even Harry knew. It wasn’t that Riddle had—had thrown a fit. It had seemed almost...involuntary? Like he was trying not to, but the effort was hopeless. Either way, though, Harry knew for certain that the reaction Riddle had had, whatever it was, was definitely real.

He turned to express this, but it seemed Ms. Cole had come to her own conclusion moments before he came to his own, because she reached down to Riddle’s shoulder and began to shake it insistently. “That’s quite enough of your little game, young man—!” She began.

Riddle made a quiet, unhappy noise right into Harry’s ear, and entirely on impulse, Harry cradled Riddle’s head hurriedly and batted Ms. Cole’s hand away. “Oi, oi, oi. He’s not faking it.” He said quickly, pulling Riddle slightly closer.

And honestly, he wasn’t. You couldn’t fake this kind of limpness so well. Harry himself had learned that the hard way when he was a kid.

“Then what is he doing?” Ms. Cole demanded, looking more and more impatient by the second, and Harry looked around, scrambling for an answer.

“Er.” Good question. “Well, I’d ask him, but he’s a bit busy being unconscious, you know.” Ms. Cole did not look impressed by this. “I really dunno what you want me to tell you, he—I hit heads with him hard enough to nearly knock myself out, and he went into a fit. Not because he was angry—something hurt. I don’t know why. He just fainted ‘s all. He’s probably fine.”

This, evidently, was not enough of an explanation for her, and she expressed as such. “If you don’t give me a good answer as to why he’s sprawled out on the floor right now, there’s going to be consequences, I tell you—!”

Several voices came tumbling out of thin air, demanding Ms. Cole to retract that threat— “It’s not his fault! It was an accident!” “Please, Madam, just let him take Riddle up to rest, nothing bad happened!” —but it all came to a sudden, unceremonious halt the second a strange, throaty voice said,

“I do hope I’m not intruding at a poor time?”

The hair on the back of Harry’s neck stood on end almost immediately, and his breath caught.

A chill seemed to race through every child in that room and Harry looked amongst them, eyes flickering between their tense, wide-eyed faces. He noticed several older boys go white, and almost every eye flew to Riddle.

... Er.

Seemingly completely ignorant to the sudden shift in the room, Ms. Cole turned to the voice and everything in her body language relaxed, as though she were greatly relieved by the new person’s presence. Her reaction was the absolute antithesis of everyone else's. That didn’t bode well. Not at all.

“Father Millard!” She said warmly, looking relieved. “These boys are being so difficult, you know. You wouldn’t mind helping me get the truth out of them? Honestly, they’re saying this— boy,” She gestured none-too-gently at Harry. Ah. Racism. “—just hit poor Tom here on accident, and somehow that was enough to send him to the floor. It’s blatantly a lie, you see—”

“Is it?” The priest said, voice sounding warm—but something in his eyes seemed impossibly cold. “What makes you think so, my daughter?”

Ms. Cole faltered. “I—er—well, a simple collision doesn’t send a boy screaming, does it?”

“It did.” Harry said suddenly, firmer than he thought he would as Riddle began to stir. “When he wakes, I’m sure he’ll tell you the same thing. Can I—can I just get him off the floor?”

“Not until you—” Ms. Cole began, but Harry, in a split-second decision, made a gamble and said, pushing as much authority in his voice as he could muster,

“I didn’t want to make this so public, Madam Cole, but since you’re leaving me with no choice, you should know the reason he fell had something to do with our kind. As I’m sure you know as well as I do what we are.”

‘No one ask, no one ask, please, no one ask.’ Harry thought frantically, pulling Riddle incrementally closer to himself. He watched Ms. Cole blanch, and her eyes flitted between him, the priest, and then the rest of the children.

“Well, I—!” She said, looking flustered. “Goodness gracious, Evans, you couldn’t have said so sooner?”

... Phew.

“Dear me, whatever does he mean by, ‘our kind’?” The priest said in a very leading tone as he stared down at Harry. Harry, oddly, had never wanted to punch anyone more in his life. “Surely he doesn’t mean…?”

Harry furrowed his brows, trying to decipher what the hell he was trying to insinuate. He noticed several boys move towards him, and it hit him like a bag of bricks. Oh. Oh.

“We’re not queer, I can assure you of that.” Harry snarled, preparing to stand as gasps erupted from all around him. He shot a pointed look at Ms. Cole, who stood there frozen, and said goadingly, “Though, if you’d so like me to, I think I’d be more than happy to show you what we are, if—”

“No, no, I think that’s quite enough, Mr. Evans.” Ms. Cole said quickly, holding her hands out with a fearful glance. “Very well, I understand the situation completely. You’re excused to—to take care of your business.” Her tone was such a far cry from her initial snap, and Harry bristled inside from it. He wasn’t a monster, dammit.

“I shall prepare his bed for him, then.” The priest said suddenly, voice interjecting oddly again, and he made a move towards the stair. For some reason, warning bells went off in Harry’s head, and he shifted away. “Come, Mr. Evans—it was Evans, wasn’t it? We’ll put him to sleep together and I will...pray to God to guide me to healing his illness.”

Ms. Cole seemed distinctly uncomfortable suddenly, and she looked between Harry and Riddle. “I’m not sure that will be necessary, Father.” She said hesitantly.

“Nonsense, Judith. He’ll be quite alright under my care, I’m sure. I’ll prepare his bed, and wait.” He said simply, dismissively, and Harry watched with no small amount of trepidation as Ms. Cole relaxed.

And with no further argument, Harry watched the priest go up the stairs carefully, sunlight shining down. The tap of his shining, black shoes were awfully loud in the stony silence in the foyer, and Harry watched the crucifix on his hip jangle dully as he walked. Then, his eyes flickered to the shadow on the wall, and something about it....there was something about it, alright, because it made his arms prickle.

So. Alright, then. Harry nodded to himself, craning his wrist awkwardly to rub his other arm. There was no way in hell that he was following this bloke. Thanks, God, your warning was heard loud and clear.

“Well, you heard him, boy.” Ms. Cole broke the sudden silence, unwittingly making a joke out of Harry’s previous thought as she nudged Harry’s shoulder with her calf. “Go on up there with Tom. He’ll take care of him. Lord knows you two should listen to God sometime, what with...” She trailed off, and with a sudden, discomfited look, she finished snippily, “Well, you know.”

Harry caught several terrified glances sent his way, and looked directly at the orphans still all around him and Riddle. He had a very, very bad feeling, and the looks he was getting weren’t encouraging in the slightest. He locked eyes with one boy in particular, with wavy blonde hair and a very square jaw, and once he noticed Harry looking back, he looked meaningfully towards the stairs, and shook his head minutely. It seemed that other children noticed this interaction, because all of a sudden, from every direction, Harry began to get an overwhelming amount of subtle (or not-so-subtle) signs that he should absolutely, positively not take Riddle upstairs.

...Well. Obviously, his decision had some merit as something was very screw-y here. Harry really thought that he trusted the judgement of both himself and a sh*tload of fellow orphans rather than one snippish woman, so as he looked over the room he was very clearly reading, his decision was further solidified.

So he straightened his back, puffed out his chest, and said as firmly as he dared, “No, I don’t think I will.”

If it were at all possible, the silence in the room seemed to intensify.

“Excuse me?”

Ms. Cole sounded fit to explode just from those three syllables alone, but Harry doubled-downed and, in a quick action, he pulled Riddle fully onto himself, braced him underneath his forearm, and stood, bringing Riddle’s unconscious body up with him. It was worryingly easy to lift the boy up, but that was a thought for another time. He drew some inspiration from Alastor Moody and stood in the most authoritative position he could possibly drum up. He looked Ms. Cole straight in the eye, and said very coarsely and with no room for argument,

“I think I know what he needs better than anyone else,” No, he did not, but Ms. Cole didn’t need to know this, “thank you very much. I’m. Not. Taking him. Upstairs.”

This was such a gamble and Harry hated his odds, but to his relief, Ms. Cole already looked like she was wilting. He glared as strongly as he could, drawing out a part of himself he usually did his best to tamp down since it typically only led to more trouble, and he kept his face firm even when Riddle began to stir.

“Well, I never!” Ms. Cole cried in a sudden burst of energy, but she retreated towards the stairs. “I suppose I’ll have to go upstairs and apologize to Father Millard for the rude treatment, won’t I?”

She seemed to think that this would make Harry falter, but all he did was scoff, taking a step backwards towards the other orphans. She...just reminded him so much of Aunt Petunia. And not in a flattering way. She spoke like her word was law, used words to hurt, weaponized shame...and she didn’t care at all. He could see it in her eyes. Whether it was straight vindictiveness or a care burnout, Harry knew Ms. Cole didn’t give a flying f*ck about these kids.

She didn’t care about their safety, or their growth, or their thoughts, or their happiness. She wanted them to be quiet, and to listen. Maybe even to validate her. Harry didn’t care about the possible circ*mstances behind her attitude, he decided—it didn’t matter if she was burnt out or not used to this. It was her responsibility to become more qualified for care, and she was making a choice not to. It was her job to be a good authority figure to all these kids, and she was making a choice not to. It was her job to be decent, and she was making a choice not to.

It was her job to notice when every orphan in the room was clearly afraid of one man, and clearly, she was making a choice not to.

Harry decided right then and there that he didn’t like Ms. Cole at all, and that he would be more than happy to burn the bridge between them than let her take another step closer to him. As if she existed just to be contrary to his thoughts, she made a move away from the stairs and towards him, and Harry held Riddle up with one arm just to hold his free hand threateningly over his pocket. His wand wasn’t even in there, but Ms. Cole stopped dead, held his gaze for bare moments longer, and then with a derisive scoff, she glowered at him, turned heel, and then hurried up the stairs, leaving Harry alone downstairs with Riddle still in his arms.

...Huh.

Somehow, Harry hadn’t altogether expected that to work, but it had, and he wasn’t going to look the gift horse in the mouth. He floundered a little, wondering what he ought to do now. He said he knew what to do with Riddle (who was still limp in his arms, god help him) but he didn’t actually. He’d never been in this position before. What did you do with the baby form of your mortal enemy in your arms?

God, wasn’t that the question of the era? Who asked sh*t like that? Harry shook his head, back of his neck prickling uncomfortably with the weight of everyone’s collective stare, and he wiggled a bit. Well. Riddle, while alarmingly easy to lift up (and still worryingly still), got exponentially heavier and heavier with each passing moment. Harry had a distinct notion that human bodies weren’t designed to pick up like, oh, eight, nine(?) stones’ worth of teenage boy for elongated periods of time, so he supposed that the first order of business would be to set Riddle down somewhere. But where would he…?

Oh, duh. He was surrounded by people that lived here.

“As much as I like loitering here, I think it’d be nice if my arms stayed attached to my body, so I need to put this bloke down somewhere. Upstairs is out, so…” He called dryly, shifting Riddle in his arms uncomfortably. “Does the peanut gallery have any advice to offer?”

Some murmuring came up and Harry heard several voices mutter, “Peanut gallery?” and he winced. Right. That probably wasn’t a well-known slang term in 1942, was it? Dammit, Mr. Weasley. Your old timey lingo has misled me.

“Follow me, there’s a sitting area.” One particularly brave-looking girl said suddenly, and she walked past Harry, only pausing long enough to give him a moment to jerk into motion himself.

He trailed behind her awkwardly, taking care not to whack Riddle’s head on anything—he had a very narrow miss with a particularly gaudy and tall flower pot—and tried not to bump into anything. It was a bit difficult to see the ground directly in front of him over Riddle’s limp body, and though he made it work well enough, it was with no small amount of relief that he finally laid Riddle down on a sad-looking couch the girl indicated.

Of course, Harry uses the word “laid Riddle down” very loosely, because while he tried to put him down in full, Riddle had shifted from a deathgrip on his wrist to, apparently, a death grip on his shirt instead. He tried to pry Riddle’s fingers from it, but once he heard the fabric begin to creak ominously, Harry quickly abandoned that effort and sighed. He shot a long-suffering look to everyone in the general vicinity, and with half-hearted, mumbled apologies, Harry bit the bullet and slid into place next to Riddle.

So, of course, Riddle c— cuddled right up next to him, even going so far as to bury his face in Harry’s neck.

Jesus Christ.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, screaming on the inside and masking it poorly. “So I take it that he enjoys—” accosting people in his sleep, Harry thought stressedly, “—cuddling?”

“No.” The girl in front of him said bluntly, long hair swaying as she shook her head resolutely. He noticed a bit of mud clinging to the ends of it and wondered if she knew. “Not at all.”

Great. So, Harry was the exception. Very on brand for him, thanks God.

“Wonderful.” Harry said a tad too late with a wry headshake. “So. Er. What was your name again?”

“I never told you it. What’s yours?” She said, something hard in her eyes, and Harry winced. Ouch.

“I’m Harry. Harry P—” sh*t. “ —Evans.”

“Harry Pevans?” sh*t.

“Evans,” Harry (un)corrected softly, looking askance.

“Why was there a P in there?”

Harry scrambled to find an explanation. Er. Stall! “What is this, a pop quiz?”

“Why was there a P in there?” She said again, without taking the bait and, this time, with an accusing jut of her chin.

Dammit. Thankfully, an idea struck him in that moment, and he looked the girl dead in the eye and said firmly, “I almost tossed my middle name in there, ‘s all.”

“And what is it?” She said.

Harry froze for a moment, but recovered quickly. What was embarrassing enough to justify him not wanting to give it, but normal enough to not raise eyebrows? He nearly threw out ‘Percival’ but when it reminded him unpleasantly of Percy, in a split second decision he said, with a (hopefully) convincing abashed face,

“Prince.”

Moments passed slowly as she scrutinized him, but something in her face seemed to smooth incrementally, and Harry heaved an inward sigh of relief. “Marley Jean Marshall, if we’re going to know each other’s middle names.” She said suddenly, and she took a seat in the narrow space next to his right knee.

“Charmed.” Harry winced when Riddle shifted. “One of my best friends shares your middle name,” He mumbled dumbly, thinking of Hermione and frowning.

What he wouldn’t give for her insight on ‘Marley’ and her weird interrogation right now...or for Ron to butt in and tell Marley to piss off. Maybe some variant thereof, something that’d make Hermione scourgify his mouth. His lips quirked at the thought, but the smile died a quiet death. ‘Don’t think about it.’ he said, pushing the words six and months out of his mind. He was nearly one month through already, he assured himself, given just how much time he’d spent unconscious. It would go fast, right?

This would be easy.

—sh*t, Marley had been talking. He tuned back in just in time to hear her say, “—and I don’t think he’s eaten much all day, though, so it could be that. I doubt it, though. I know he looks like a stick, but he’s hardier than that. Do you have any ideas?”

Harry stared for a minute, trying to figure out what the hell she was asking him about. He thought about what he’d already heard, made the connection, and blurted, “Not a clue. I don’t have any real ideas on what made him go down.”

“...He reacted very strongly to you.” She hedged, and Harry frowned, trying to rationalize an explanation for that himself.

“Yeah, I don’t know either. That was weird.”

Marley didn’t seem deterred by his dry answer, though, and tilted her head. “And you told Ms. Cole that you and him were...were similar. That you two were people like each other . Can’t fathom what that meant, but it was obviously something.”

Harry sucked on his teeth, reevaluating the intelligence of saying something that leading in front of all the kids. Some truth wouldn’t kill him here, would it? “You know how Riddle goes off to a boarding school every year?” He said cautiously.

“Oh.” Marley blinked, and then, she stood up suddenly. She looked a little frightened. “So you’re both going to a reform school?”

Harry blinked, caught in a little fit of whiplash. Why…? Reform school? That was the—holy sh*t. That was the same lie Petunia told people! ‘Oh my God, are Ms. Cole and Petunia related?’

“And—And he screamed when he saw you.”

Harry very suddenly understood the implication of Marley’s words and shook his head hurriedly, clearing his thoughts of Petunia. “Who the hell told you it was a reform school?” He said, pushing as much of a scandalized tone into his voice as he possibly could, even though he knew damn well who had probably said that.

“Is it not?” Marley said cautiously, not edging away more but not coming closer either.

“No!” Harry said, forcing himself to look aghast. “No, no. It’s just a private boarding school somewhere in Scotland. I think Riddle goes there because his parents prepaid for it before he landed here, some sort of insurance for him, I dunno, and I just go because my family had some measure of money.” Harry bullsh*tted/explained quickly, praying this wouldn’t prompt further questions because he really had nothing past this point.

Marley, thankfully, seemed to take his word for it and held her hand to her chest, looking a bit faint. “Oh, thank goodness. I thought, for a moment, that you, er, might be some sort of real psychopath.”

‘The only psychopath nearby is next to me.’ Harry thought snippily. He looked at Marley, waiting for her to say anything else, but she didn’t. She kept looking between him and Riddle, the latter with an odd, stressed softness about her, and she wrung the end of her blouse in her hands. Finally, though, she inhaled sharply, and spoke again.

“Just—keep him with you, until that man leaves.” There was a distinct snarl in her tone as she said ‘that man’ which left Harry with no uncertainty about who she was referring to. “I’ll—oh, I’ll put on the radio and bring him some water. And—and a blanket. Do stay put.”

With that, she tapped away and Harry was left with the dulcet tones of who he vaguely recognized as Vera Lynn. Much of that afternoon was spent with him avoiding the curious stares of the other orphans (who were still cautious around him) and sending nasty, warning glares to Ms. Cole whenever she stomped past, as well as making various attempts to coax Riddle into drinking water whenever he could get the bloke to actually wake up. This was interspersed with several times that Harry started to nod off. He didn’t know why, but something about sitting next to Riddle was just...really, really exhausting. Like Riddle was leeching something out of him. ‘ Oh man, I wonder why it might be draining to sit next to the bloke that murdered your parents. What a mystery.’ He’d thought to himself at one point.

So, of course, trying to make the bloke that murdered his parents eat dinner was both the antithesis of what he would rather like to do to Riddle, as well as a whole ordeal on it’s own. There was another (and distinctly mortifying) one to face down when he tried to make Riddle use the loo before bedtime, which was right after Father Millard (or that man as so many referred to him) finally f*cked off for the night, looking noticeably frustrated. Harry will not describe to you what it was like to make Riddle take a whizz. Suffice to say that it took a great deal of harassment to make it happen, nearly as much as it took to get Riddle to let go of him and hang out in his own bed when it was finally time to go to sleep. Harry could only sigh in exasperation, too exhausted to do much else, when he saw that the other orphans had ‘coincidentally’ put his things by the bed right next to Riddle.

Harry nearly cracked a joke to the orphan (Harvey, apparently) to his left, something like “a knut says I wake up with that nutter in my bed.” but stopped, knowing he wouldn’t know what a knut was. What the hell was a slang term for money in the 40s? Mr. Weasley had a whole arsenal of ‘muggle’ terms for money that Harry had had to gently explain to him were slang from before even he was born, but he could still recall a couple more ridiculous ones. Hadn’t Mr. Weasley asked the bloke at the till on the way to his trial for a ‘cows’ in return? Something ridiculous like that, all over a pound, and it had been from...sh*t, was it the 30s or the 40s? Ugh, this was so much effort for a wry joke.

f*ck it. “A cows says I wake up with him drooling on my shoulder,” Harry told Harvey softly, co*cking his head towards Riddle (who was sprawled on his mattress face-down and seemingly very displeased about it, based on the furrow of his brow).

Harvey didn’t look confused, though; he smiled (it seemed strangely familiar) and rolled his eyes. “Don’t weaponize that 30s sh*te on me, my gran used to spew it all the time, up until she, well...” He grimaced, gestured around himself generally, and Harry understood immediately and snorted. Harvey grinned back, settling on the bed to Harry’s left. “Rhyming slang though, eh? You heard of ‘deep sea diver’?”

Harry thought hard, thinking about it. He’d heard it before, hadn’t—oh. “Deep sea diver fiver?”

Harvey snapped his fingers. “That’s the ticket, mate.” He leaned back into his bed and tucked his arms underneath his head, eyes shutting, and stayed quiet for a moment before his eyes opened again and he craned his neck to look up at Harry. “So you and Ol’ Tommy really are some posh students, eh? Did your school get bored with all the Oxford ponces and throw in the rabble for fun?”

It took Harry a second to figure out what Harvey was referring to, but nodded with a huff of a laugh. “Yeah, I suppose they did. ‘S not a bad place to be, even if some...most...of the old-money kids are a bunch of twats.” He said, thinking of Malfoy, when he noticed Harvey had an odd look about him, sort of like Ron did whenever money came up. Harry quickly tried to soften it by tacking on, “It’s not as glamorous as you might think, though. The, er, the workload is killer.”

“Better than working your arse off in a factory though, I expect.” Harvey sniffed, rolling over to face him properly. “Shoulda known you were educated though—you talk funny.” Ouch. “So how’d a Paki like you ever get into, well, y’know, a well-off place like wherever you two go anyway?”

Harry twitched at “Paki” but didn’t comment, drawing his knees up to his chest. He didn’t have a clue how to explain “oh, we’re wizards and I have a vault full of wizard money at the bottom of London” without sounding ridiculous and was too tired to work it out, so he shrugged and said, “I dunno, nepotism?”

Harvey didn’t laugh. He looked confused. “What’s nepotism?”

Oops. No, wait, Harry was pretty sure that was a word by now. ‘Uneducated orphan, Potter. Jesus.’ “Er, basically, it’s just a word that describes the thing people with power do, where they usually give power and, er, influence to relatives or friends, like by giving them a job over normal people.” Harry thought about where he himself had heard the term and shook his head. “Uncle Vernon used to whinge about it all the time, it was dreadful to listen to.”

Harvey huffed a short laugh this time and put his head in his palm to prop himself up. It reminded Harry so much of Ron that his heart clenched, and he looked away. “I take it you don’t miss him much, then?”

Harry laughed incredulously, horrified by the thought. “No, not at all. I half-hope he’s dead, sometimes.”

Harvey blinked suddenly and perked up. “You reckon he’s alive?”

“I know he is,” Harry sighed, thinking. He amended suddenly, and with a faint touch of dread, “At least, he was the last I saw him.”

“And you came here instead of trying to find him?”

Oh. That’s right. Harry was in an orphanage. “Nah,” He muttered, rubbing the back of his neck and thinking dully of his cupboard. “Anywhere’s better than being with him. Or my aunt. Yeesh.”

“What was so awful about ‘em?”

Harry didn’t answer for a while, struggling to form even the barest semblance of a response. How the hell did he describe the Dursleys to someone he’d never met? ‘Oh, hey, I just met you, and this is crazy, but here’s all the layers of my tragic backstory, no refunds baby?’

Harvey seemed to notice that he hit a sore spot, though, and when Harry said, “Well, that’s a loaded question,” He held up his free hand and stopped him.

“Don’t worry about it, mate. Tell me later. You look knackered, anyway.”

Harry was sure that was true—he felt knackered and was putting no effort into concealing it whatsoever. “Yeah, we ought to sleep.”

“I’ve got work tomorrow, I definitely should. Goodnight, Evans.” He said the word Evans like it had weight, and Harry didn’t know what to make of it.

So, Harry said softly, “G’night,” and curled up beneath the thin blanket the orphanage provided him with, breathing quietly and realizing that he didn’t know Harvey’s last name.

Maybe Harvey had wanted him to ask for it? He stared at Riddle’s form on the bed, across from his own, and considered. What could Harvey’s last name be? Smith….Jones….Williams….Taylor….Davies…. he watched Riddle’s lips part and the way his hair in front of his mouth swayed with every puff of breath. He wondered if having hair on his neck was uncomfortable. Harry hated sleeping with his hair on his neck—he always swept it up and above him, so it wouldn’t touch his skin and itch. Brown….Wilson….Thomas….Johnson….surely Harvey’s surname wasn’t Evans too? Wouldn’t that be funny? There were loads of Evans in the UK, weren’t there?

Roberts….Walker….Wright….Edwards…. His eyes dropped shut somewhere between Thompson and Lewis. He saw the lights in the room flicker out, known only by how the fuchsia glow from the light hitting his eyelids extinguished. Harry hardly noticed. Footsteps puttered past, creeping around his bed softly, and he wondered who they belonged to. Voice murmured, and then halted. Harris….Martin….Jackson….He had a brief, passing thought of red hair and freckles, puffy brown hair and brown skin....

And then Harry snapped awake very suddenly, blearily thinking, “Clarke''. He peered around confusedly, feeling distinctly irritated as he tried to figure out what the hell had just woken him. His dream had been nice this time, he was sure if it. So, whoever or whatever it was would get a foot up it’s arse (or equivalent thereof) if he had anything to say about it, he swore…

It seemed as though his ears woke up moments after he himself did, because finally, a strange tapping and suppressed series of noises filtered through, and he groggily turned towards where it was coming from.

In the darkness to his right, someone was looming over Riddle’s bed.

'Her battle was won, but at what cost? Her fate remained shattered and lost.'

Chapter 10: Interlude II: Hedwig's Lament

Chapter Text

My name is Hedwig. I don’t know why that’s important, but it is. It is my name and makes me different.

My boy is called Harry. It is his name and also makes him different, and I also don’t know why that’s important. I just call him my boy. He is a boy. He is mine. My boy.

It makes sense if you don’t like to overcomplicate things. And I don’t. I am a bird. Birds have more important things to do with their time.

You apparently don’t, though. Because you are a human, and humans are strange. They like to make things very complicated. My boy likes to complain about a lot of things to me that I think are rather stupid.

I’m positive that most of his problems can be solved by coughing up a pellet on the offender, but he doesn’t ever seem to like that plan.

I don’t think he could do it anyway; something’s wrong with his throat. Or stomach. Perhaps he’s not eating enough rats.

Whatever the case may be, I think my boy is broken in that regard, and dismiss it as a lost cause.

I will try to call him Harry for you, broken, overcomplicated human. But I make no promises. I’m just a bird, and birds are not as smart as you. Birds like me make mistakes, you know.

Harry is a good boy to have. He gives me tasty treats, which is better than most other boys.

He does not throw sticks or rocks at me like other barbarian boys and instead gives me his bacon strips.

The brown girl does not seem to like this, and glares at him when he does it, but he does it anyway. He is a strong boy.

Not just any wimpy human can do mine in; though this brown one succeeds sometimes.

He also strokes my feathers. He is very good at this, and is my favorite thing.

His spotty friends try to stroke my feathers, but they are terrible at it. I nip their fingers when they try; those long pink things look like worms anyway. I’m an old lady; surely they can dismiss it as that.

Only one spotty friend is good at it; he is the oldest spotty friend. He is less spotty than the other ones and looks older. He is an old, spotty friend.

This old spotty friend seems very sad whenever he sees me.

I feel sad when I see him too, because my boy never follows him.

My boy always smiles at me. It is a good smile. His teeth shine like precious eggshells, and his eyes crinkle like tree bark.

His eyes shine like the leaves on the branches I roost on. He is like a tree and his smile is particularly tree-y.

This old spotty friend does not smile.

He talks to me sometimes. He tells me that his hatching―his son―is gone.

I don’t know what son he’s talking about; he has a lot of those. I have counted them before. I think there are six.

I have counted six in their house. I don’t think he knows what he’s talking about. Humans are supposed to get stupider with old age, aren’t they?

He is old. Not very old; not like that weird old man with the shiny things my boy has on his nose on his crooked nose too.

That old man visited me yesterday, and stared for a long time. He looked very dismal.

I crooned at him. He did not reply. I wonder how his fire bird is doing.

But the old spotty friend is not as old as this one. He should not be stupid. Why is he stupid?

I do not know. So I don’t guess. I will find the answer, and if I don’t, clearly it was never supposed to be my problem. Simple. Not over-complicated.

Everyone else is being over-complicated. Pig―bastard friend of mine―seems nervous. So does Crookshanks. They keep asking me where my boy is.

It is true that I have not seen him in awhile, but this is normal.

Sometimes―usually when the world gets very hot―he sends me away for weeks at a time.

Because he loves me, he says, and does not want me to get hurt by the blob people.

I love him too, so I listen, and I go.

I love my boy.

I do not worry when he is gone, because I know he loves me too, and that he will come back.

My boy will come back.

I don’t know how, when, from where, or why he was there. But my boy will come back.

My boy will come back. He promised me he would come back.

My boy promised me forever, and I promised it back.

Forever is a long time, and he will find me sometime during it.

But where is my boy?

The spotty people and the brown girl say he is gone, and I know this already. Where has he gone?

Where is my boy?

I do not know the answer. Just like before, I do not―will not―guess.

I will find the answer, and if I don’t, clearly it was never supposed to be my problem. Simple. Not over-complicated.

I will simply wait.

And wait.

And wait.

And wait.

And wait.

My boy will come back.

My boy will come back for me.

My boy loves me and I love him too.

He will come back, and he will give me tasty treats that the brown girl frowns at him for.

He will stroke my feather in just the right way; how he always does it.

He will smile for me like he always does, and he will look like the trees I love so much.

My boy will come back.

He will.

.

.

.

Won’t he?

Chapter 11: A Thump In The Dark

Chapter Text

At first, the implications of someone hovering over Riddle didn’t quite hit Harry. He was tired, pleasantly warm, and very annoyed. He was sure he’d just been having a wonderful dream—something pertaining to Ron, Hermione, and a horse—and now here he was, being drawn back to consciousness by some weird wet noises, like you were squashing a piece of raw meat, and creaking, eerily reminiscent of the tree outside of his bedroom window whenever it was windy. Not a good combination—he would be taking none of that with a side of f*ck off, you know?

His next actions were completely unthinking. Sleepily, he slid out of bed, feet stinging on the cold floor, and then, with two short steps, he took whoever was bothering Riddle by the back of their shoulders and began to pull, fully prepared to frog-march them straight out of the room to leave him and the other denizens of the orphanage in peace. Something jangled dully, but he ignored it, more concerned about the idiot who clearly could not be trusted to check on Riddle (or do whatever it was they were doing) at this hour without being annoying. It just made sense to separate them.

Of course, this was easier said than done.

Almost immediately, they put up a fuss and Harry, feeling no desire to wake up everyone in the immediate vicinity and still foggy-brained enough to pull some idiocy like this, put his hand over the person’s mouth. They had stubble—so, they were a man, cool, probably one of the older orphans who slept here—and yanked backwards. This was harder than he expected, so dredged up an extra ounce of effort and yanked.

An elbow tried to hit him and he grunted, blinking hard to wake himself up just enough to make his own feet cooperate more. “None of that,” He snapped softly but with intent as he brought the personified form of an annoyance into an impromptu headlock, dragging them along. “It’s too late in the evening for this sh*t. Bother us later. I’m tired, and I don’t need to listen to you doing—well, whatever that was.” He heard rustling behind him, but ignored it, brushing it off as someone shifting in their sleep. “Go be a twat where I can’t hear it.”

He opened the door to the Boy’s Quarters with his elbow, shoved the person outside of the room, and then closed the door tightly, grunting as he held it shut like he used to do to Dudley when he could get away with it. And that was that, done and done.

He whispered harshly through the door, “Knock it off!” and jumped backwards when a fist audibly hit the plaster-wood-whatever door. “And don’t hit that! You’ll put your fist through it!” He smacked the doorframe—a safer target—for good measure. “Go on, go sleep in the bloody lounge and shut up …” He waited, feeling grouchy, until—finally!—heavy footsteps thumped away.

He left the door alone. Then, he turned around—

—To see, through the moonlight shining through the crack in the blackout curtains, nearly every boy sitting up and staring at him.

Now, make no mistake, Harry had seen a lot of sh*t in his life. Hogwarts in and of itself made it very difficult for things to rattle you. There were only so many rogue pixies and talking furniture encounters you could take before you started to automatically write things off, no matter how strange they were. Do take that into account when Harry tells you that this looked completely bizarre so that you can properly appreciate how, again, completely bizarre this looked.

His hearty, internal ‘What the f*ck.’ was very much appropriate.

The room sat in frozen silence for several seconds, and Harry jumped terribly when something hit the door with an almighty bang, likely thrown, and hurriedly, he pressed his back against the door to keep it shut. Just in case.

“Er,” He mumbled, rubbing his eyes as faint oaths spouted from down the hallway behind the door. “I didn’t just interrupt a cult practice, did I?”

“What did you just do?” Someone whispered, sounding unreasonably horrified, and Harry peered in the darkness, trying and failing to find the source.

“Er.” He said, his response slightly tardy. “Good question. Don’t know. Enlighten me? What did I just do?”

“Y—You’re the idiot that just did it!” Someone whisper-cried and Harry couldn’t tell who it was either.

“Well, yes, but—I don’t know, you’re all being weird.” Harry said defensively, unsure of what else to say.

Again, considering how thoroughly Hogwarts desensitized someone to “weird”, this was a very strong word coming from Harry.

“‘Being weird? ’” Someone echoed, sounding incredulous, and Harry squinted, blinking exasperatedly.

“Oh, sh*te, that’s the new boy.”

Frantic little mutterings broke out across the room at this declaration, absurdly reminding Harry of Ron’s acne breakout in third year, and he rubbed his eyes, sighing himself awake in full. “Is anyone going to explain what was so important that you had to all sit up and stare at me in the dead of night?”

Suddenly, there was a thud from upstairs, and the room froze. Harry looked over them all, wondering what was wrong.

“Harry,” Harvey said very seriously, manifesting before him from the darkness and grabbing him by the shoulders. He began to forcibly steer him towards Harry’s \designated mattress. “Get in bed. Now. Pretend you’re dead asleep.”

“Wh—”

“I promise I’ll explain it, but you need to pretend to be abso-bloody-lutely dead asleep. Right now.”

This did not sound like a tone of voice Harry ought to be arguing with.

So, he did exactly what he was told (for once), heart stuttering in his chest when the door slammed open no more than thirty seconds after he laid down. A gust of wind from the swinging door ghosted across his face, the air changing in the room, and he hastily faked a mildly-convincing snore.

“WHICH ONE OF YOU MISERABLE WRETCHES DID IT?”

Harry felt his knees tense at the sound of Ms. Cole’s voice bellowing through the room, leaving silence in its wake. He forced his breath to stay even and his eyebrows not to scrunch as he got the horrible, sinking sensation that he had somehow, in some way, really f*cked something up here. Quickly, almost habitually, he began to occlude to keep calm.

“UP! ALL OF YOU! UP, NOW!”

Harry snored again, quieter but still an undeniable snore, and suppressed a shudder, wondering if he should fake waking up yet and face down Petunia Incarnate. He felt more than heard the floor creak near him as the room erupted in faux-sleepy mutters, and then—

“Blood hell, Evans, wake up.” Harvey said, sounding nearby and remarkably natural, and Harry grunted, curling in on himself when he punched him none-too-gently in the stomach. Ow.

He groaned and faked waking up, sucking in a long breath and stretching oddly. The whole nine yards. He even went so far as to force a slur to his voice as he peered at Harvey balefully and said, with a touch of honesty, “Bit excessive there, mate.”

He caught the tail-end of an apologetic look from Harvey but didn’t focus on it, instead making a show of looking for the source of whatever had “woken” everyone up and blinking “sleepily” at Ms. Cole, who was holding up a candle and—

— Wow. Yeah, definitely Petunia Incarnate. That was the kind of face that had always been behind a frying pan in Ye Olden Days of Harry’s childhood.

The lights flickered on brightly as she very nearly punched the switch and Harry didn’t have to fake a wince. Holy hell, that was like the sun.

“Ms. Cole, the blackout hours!” Someone cried weakly.

“To hell with the ruddy blackout hours, which one of you—of you ungrateful urchins took poor Father Millard by the shoulders and tossed him to the floor!” She screamed, completely red in the face and wild-eyed.

Harry’s heart sunk like a stone. He occluded harder to keep it from showing on his face.

Oh f*ck.

Harvey cast him a very meaningful look as Ms. Cole’s head swung in the other direction, away from them, and he got the memo very quickly: do not, under any circ*mstances, admit that you did that.

Except, Harry 100% did that.

He stayed still and expertly faked an air of nonchalance as Ms. Cole stomped through the room, seizing boys by the arms and shaking stumbling words and phrases out of them in the midst of her whirlwind interrogation. As she went through every boy one by one and got no closer to an explanation that satisfied her, Harry watched her rage evolve in stages, something wild lurking in the lines of her contorted face, flashing in the whites of her eyes. It was difficult to make Harry properly afraid these days, but something about this brought back some... less pleasant memories. More than once he realized he wasn’t breathing and hastily sucked in a breath, palms perpetually clammy. Occlumency was keeping him from panicking, but only barely.

He startled terribly when Harvey’s hand crammed into his own, burrowing under the threadbare blanket, and he looked at him as he shimmied onto Harry’s bed and sat next to him, nearly thigh-to-thigh. A sense of franticness suddenly washed over him alongside the touch, and Harvey looked at him oddly. Not in a bad way, though—he just stared, something unreadable in his eyes, then he grimaced and squeezed Harry’s hand. Somehow, this was enough to make Harry’s shoulders untense and to forestall a flinch when Ms. Cole finally directed her attention to them.

Something in her demeanor seemed to shift when she saw him, he thought. Less of a wolf on a rampage, and more of one about to pounce. It looked an awful lot like Petunia when she was on the warpath. Harvey’s hand was warm and dry, though, so Harry looked at her impassively, trying not to make it obvious that he was breathing shallowly.

“And where were you, boy?”

‘In my cupboard, Aunt Petunia.’ A quiet voice said in the back of his head. He shoved it back forcibly. "Control your emotions. Discipline your mind!" Snape’s voice barked. He did his best to listen to it. “Make them see only what you want them to see, boy!”

“Sleeping, like everyone else in this room until you came screaming in. Is there a reason you’ve gone mad at this hour?” Harry said after a minute pause, rubbing his eye with his left hand and yawning, rolling his shoulders. “I’m afraid I missed that part.”

“Someone,” Ms. Cole said, deadly quiet. “Took poor Father Millard by the shoulders, hurled him out of the room, and held the door shut. And I don’t suppose that person would happen to be someone who doesn’t know better? Someone who doesn’t know the rules?”

Harry stared, feeling Harvey’s hand tense in his own under the blanket. “I had to punch him awake, Miss.” Harvey said coolly. “I’m sure you heard him groan when he took the hit in the stomach. I doubt he knows anything.”

Not knowing anything was a stretch, but Harry didn’t know something, that was for sure. He thought of the stubble beneath his palm, and furrowed his eyebrows, a thought occurring.

“Why was Father Millard in here?”

Harvey’s hand went ramrod rigid in his. Ms. Cole’s eyes darkened in fury.

“That’s none of your business, boy.”

‘Stop it,’ Said the voice in the back of his head again. ‘You’ll make it worse for yourself.’ He ignored how much it sounded like himself when he was a child.

“Yes, it is.” He pressed on indignantly, the words spilling out. “If I’m going to be blessed by some weird old priest, I’d rather it not be in my sleep. That’s just weird, having some old guy putter around up here at night when everyone’s sleeping.”

Ms. Cole’s hand darted out, and it happened so fast that it honestly took Harry a second to realize that he’d been slapped, and only so quickly because his ears rang so fiercely. Harvey barked out something at Ms. Cole, sounding pissed, but Harry focused on the way her bosom rose and fell erratically, how her teeth flashed in the light, how the bright red flush to her face and drained away to a ghastly white. It was perhaps only the power of Occlumency that kept him from speaking, that allowed him to just observe. He saw something. For a split second, her eyes flickered to Riddle’s bed, and for an even more split second, he saw something cross her face.

‘Oh’ He thought abruptly, cheek stinging, ears still ringing. ‘She knows something.’

“Well done, boy. For once.” Mental Snape muttered.

In his peripherals, Riddle began to stir in his bed. Harry’s ears continued to ring as Ms. Cole ranted and raved, but he was only watching Riddle. Then, abruptly, she stopped. Just stopped. Like a wind-up toy that needed to be cranked again. A sudden, stuttering halt. Harvey seemed just as surprised as him when she suddenly reared back and stalked away. Her steps slammed insistently towards the door, and she turned as she reached it, only howling, “ You awful little children better expect no favors from me until you get your heads together and at the bottom of which one of you sorry brats did that to Father Millard!” through pinched, quivering lips before she stepped out and slammed the door with an almighty bang, leaving the lights on and shining.

Dead, worried silence followed her departure, no one daring to move for several seconds. Harry watched everyone look amongst themselves uncomfortably, only sneaking furtive glances his way on occasion. The only person who wasn’t sitting up and looking around was Riddle.

He had stopped stirring.

Harry stared at his motionless form for a while, the sting in his cheek lessening. At some point, his ears stopped ringing but he barely noticed. He was only vaguely aware of Harvey squeezing his hand, asking him if he was alright. He didn’t know if he was or not. Something in him had gone very quiet, and hadn’t come back yet, nothing much but a dull, little voice that muttered, almost hesitantly, ‘I tried to warn you.’ and a quiet sequence of thoughts rattling across his occlumency shields, which he slowly, tentatively lowered.

Someone had been standing over Riddle. Harry had pulled them off, and banished them to the hallway. And that someone was Father Millard.

Why was Father Millard in here?

Slowly, he untangled Harvey’s hand from his, scooted across his bed, and stood on the other side. He took two steps, each short, towards Riddle’s bed. For some reason, his knees were shaking. He felt at once that every eye was on him. The blanket was only half-covering Riddle, and it was very rumpled. He pulled it back, and almost immediately put it back down, face heating. His sleep trousers were not...weren’t exactly situated where they ought to be.

Something prodded him in the back of his head— ’Despite my beliefs otherwise, you may not be as much of a dunderhead as I expected. Don’t prove me wrong. Look again, foolish boy.’ Hastily, he reached beneath the blanket and pulled Riddle’s sleep-trousers up to where they should be, and heard someone gasp. Then he pulled the blanket away in full, staring, wondering what he was missing.

‘Look, Potter. What do you see? What does this look like?’

Well, it looked like Riddle’s trousers had come down in his sleep. And...and his pants. He’d seen something like this happen before; Ron’s sleep trousers had a nasty habit of pulling straight off his arse in his sleep in the winter since he wriggled so much in the cold. This wasn’t a necessarily shocking occurrence. Ron’s pants, however, never budged. That was what was different. That was what wasn’t adding up.

‘Why was Father Millard in here?’

Like the old bulbs on a string of fairy lights winking on one by one, understanding, cold and grim, began to dawn on him. He took in the state of Riddle’s lower half. Watched his body shiver minutely. There was something wet and pearly glittering in the well of his spine, he noticed suddenly. His hair was rumpled, as though someone had been holding his head down.

And when he noticed the crucifix on the bed, damningly familiar, it all came together at once.

Something icy cold and horrific welled up and rippled through him. He stared for several seconds, unblinking, heart and breath stopping abruptly. With such intensity that his head swam, Harry brought back up his occlumency shields. The crucifix on the bed remained, undoubtable. It jangled dully as it slid downwards when Harry’s knee depressed the mattress, hovering, trembling just slightly even with his mental shields in full force, over Riddle’s prone body.

He looked at the state of Riddle’s lower half again. Watched as his back quivered. Stared at the god-awfully familiar crucifix on the bed. His throat tightened, his stomach churned, and he whipped his head to look at everyone else in the room.

They were all staring intently, breaths shallow, and the faces that could be pale were pale. Someone looked him in the eyes, and nodded somberly.

“f*ck,” He breathed.

Harry stared down at the slack face of a diary, and the image wavered. Suddenly, quite awfully, Tom Riddle became human.

Nevermind.

f*ck what Harry said. Tom Riddle was not human.

No human being ever directly stood over someone while they slept, face inches from theirs. That was not only f*cking creepy, but also deranged, and no human being did that. So, suffice to say, when Harry woke up to see deep brown eyes staring directly at him, again, literal inches away, he did what any human being would do—

—and screamed and lurched off the bed.

It took him several seconds of squirming on the floor, dazed and unhappy about it, to even realize that it was Tom Riddle who had been standing over him like that. He was abruptly reminded of lying on the floor of the Chamber, Ginny laying lifeless just scant inches from himself, with this same body looming over him, and before he could dredge himself out of those feelings, he was blurting, furiously,

“What was f*ck is wrong with you!?”

Riddle did not respond. He towered above Harry like a monolith, unreactive to his scuffling fall or his words. He just stared down at him with an expression that could’ve been qualified as impassive were it not for the distinct furrow between his brows. For a long moment, Riddle did nothing more than narrow his eyes, peering at him as though he was a multi-part arithmancy problem. Then, he kicked Harry none-too-gently on the thigh—and left.

Harry blinked, watching him leave. He shook himself, and blinked again. Reality did nothing else out of the blue.

“Well. That could’ve gone worse. I’d actually consider that a thank-you, to be honest.” Harvey said suddenly from somewhere above him. Harry looked up at him, catching a glimpse of a haunted sort of look about him, before Harvey looked down at Harry himself, grimacing more than smiling. “You alright down there?”

Harry stared up at him uncomprehendingly, still a little lost. In his defense, though, he’d only woken up all of a minute ago. “Er…” He coughed, wiggling his foot. “Y-Yeah. Er―I’m alright.”

They sat in a silence that had absolutely no business being as awkward as it was.

Harvey gave him a long, long look. Then, he slapped his palm on the bed, and grunted, “Let’s get some breakfast, Evans.”

Breakfast was a subdued affair; the boys were noticeably quiet compared to the girls, who were chattering away about a slew of topics or helping some of the older boys tend to the small children. Harry noticed Harvey wander over there to lend a hand, and followed behind, unsure. It seemed all the boys their age were pitching in, so it just seemed like the thing they were supposed to be doing.

“Here, you there, take―take Charles.” Harry reeled back when, almost instantly, what looked like a―er― fresh(?) baby was dumped into his arms.

It was very small.

He stared at it. Big, brown eyes stared back, looking just as woefully unprepared for this moment as Harry was. ‘I don’t know how to hold a baby,’ Harry said inside, tremulous. ‘sh*t. f*ck. What am I supposed to do with this thing?’

Charles didn’t seem to have a clue either.

“...Why did your parents give you an old man name? Did they hate you or something?” Harry said quietly, mystified, whilst holding the baby an arm's-length in front of him.

Charles stared at him with guileless eyes, frozen.

Yeah, no, he didn’t think he was holding this thing correctly.

The baby began to cry.

“Oh, f*cking hell.” He mumbled quickly, casting a look at the girls surrounding him. “Jesus, Charles, I’m just as upset as you, I promise.” One of the girls. with bottle-blonde hair, was holding a baby that was a similar size as his; it’s front was sorta resting on her side, legs straddling the dip of her waist. She had it’s arse supported on her forearm, hand clasped gently on the baby’s little thigh. Very quickly, Harry copied that hold, and began to bounce uncertainly, noticing another boy doing that with a slightly bigger child that was fussing somewhere down the table.

He was genuinely shocked when Old Man Baby Charles quieted down almost immediately.

“Huh,” Harry huffed, pulling his neck back to peer down at the lad. Okay. Well. That was easy.

This did not seem like it should’ve been easy, but it was.

Suspicious.

“...You’re not really an old man, are you?” Harry asked warily, thinking of Peter Pettigrew.

Old Man Baby Charles gave a very noncommittal babble, and Harry nodded uncertainly, keeping a loose hold on him. He just kinda stood there for a bit, watching the proceeds around him to try to figure out what, exactly, he was supposed to be doing with this kid. So far, it seemed like the biggest clue was the handful of girls were heating up a giant pot of milk while two boys filled up bottles with it.

The other people holding babies that looked like the one he had were sorta crowded around that area, waiting to get one. So, logic dictated that Harry probably ought to join that crowd, but Old Man Baby Charles didn’t seem particularly fussed about waiting. So, Harry hung back for a while, pointedly observing what his peers were doing with their own assigned Charles-sized babies before the area around the―er―bottle station began to clear.

He bounced Old Man Baby Charles idly as they waited for that, and ignored a prickle on the side of his face. He would reach his hand up to itch it, but he wasn’t totally confident in holding a baby one-handed, no matter how well-behaved they were. Honestly, it took Harry a moment to consider that this wasn’t just an itch―perhaps the only reason that he caught on to the fact that someone was staring at him was because of his recent exposure to Petunia Incarnate. She had always liked to stare at him pointedly when he did chores in her vicinity, and that was exactly what this felt like.

Trying not to look obvious about it, he tilted his head in the direction he could feel the stare burning from, frowning.

Harry was both shocked and not shocked at all when it was Tom Riddle staring at him with a singular focus. Because of course it was Riddle. Who the f*ck else?

“f*ck,” Harry mumbled, pulling Old Man Baby Charles slightly closer to him as if he could shield him from Baby Voldemort.

Naturally, this was when Old Man Baby Charles attempted to pull a f*cking Cirque du Soleil stunt in a vy to escape Harry’s arms. In the ensuing scramble to prevent him from lurching down to the hardwood floor where his head would crack like a goddamned egg, Harry caught a couple of eyes other than Riddle’s. Instead of being berated, though, all he got were a handful of commiserating murmurs. He felt Riddle’s stare continue, back prickling.

“Ooh, yeah, careful with that one,” Someone said reassuringly, patting his shoulder. “He does that sometimes. I think he just wants to explore.”

Explore what? The afterlife?

Harry stared, bewildered, and held onto Old Man Baby Charles much more firmly. Jesus Christ. Harry shook his head at Old Man Baby Charles, making a mental note to put this child on suicide watch if he pulled that again. He must’ve been making a face, because a short round of giggles went off in his vicinity, and he watched Old Man Baby Charles make a gummy smile of his own. It made it very difficult to be upset with him.

No, only one person was being particularly upsetting right now, and Harry chanced a glance at Riddle.

Still staring. Awesome. Intent on ignoring it, Harry directed his attention to Old Man Baby Charles and fixed his face into a frown.

“Don’t you try look cute with me, you just tried to kill yourself.” Harry said to Old Man Baby Charles, tone vaguely scolding. “On my watch, no less. Are you trying to get me put in jail? For baby manslaughter?” He prodded Old Man Baby Charles’ pudgy gut accusingly. “Huh?”

Old Man Baby Charles squealed, an enthusiastic affirmative. Great. This was a racist baby.

In the middle of their impromptu conversation, Harvey’s voice suddenly rang out. “Hey, whoa, who just gave Evans the suicide-baby from the get-go? He got here yesterday.”

Harry eyed the squirming toddler in Harvey’s arms. “Is this not the normal process?” He asked, laughing nervously as he held Old Man Baby Charles in a death grip.

“Oh, holy sh*t, no. No one gave you a quick lesson or anything? Gosh.” Another boy grabbed Harry’s elbow gently, peering over his shoulder at Old Man Baby Charles. “Sorry about that, mate. Go on, go sit and I’ll bring a bottle over. Reuben, can you give him a rundown on what he’s supposed to be doing?” An affirmative came from somewhere in the room, and Harry wandered to a free spot on a bench. The other boy sighed, muttering, “Well, at least you seem to know what you’re doing―you’re holding him right ‘nd everything.”

Still fixedly ignoring the eyes he could feel scorching into his forehead at this point, Harry said stupidly, “This is my first time holding a baby.”.

“WHAT.”

A brief commotion followed this declaration―”Evans, what the hell― why didn’t you say something before I handed you the kid!” “I didn’t have a chance, you just tossed him at me!” ―and somehow Harry wound up sat squarely on the bench with like, three girls and two boys giving him a crash course on how to hold Old Man Baby Charles in a couple other ways and give him a bottle. Harry exchanged a concerned look with Old Man Baby Charles.

“I think we’re in for it, Old Man Baby Charles.” Harry said in a vague sing-songy tone of voice (like he’d been instructed to use with babies as of 0.5843 seconds ago) and flushed at the round of laughter that followed his words.

“Old Man Baby Charles?” The boy from earlier― ’Silas’ ―echoed incredulously, handing him the promised bottle.

“Charles is an old man's name. So. Old Man Baby Charles.” Harry explained distractedly, shoving the bottle in Old Man Baby Charles’ mouth. The baby drank the milk with marked enthusiasm, and he just stared up at Harry, seeming to study his face. Harry stared back, feeling his glasses slide down his nose a bit.

“Do I just―hang out with him?” Harry asked the boy to his left―Edward―and got a vague nod.

“Yeah, til he’s done eating; after that, you can mind him for the day or pass ‘im off to whoever’s not busy. Since you’re old like the rest of us―” Ed gestured to the rest of the table, which was packed with older children holding onto smaller ones. “―You’ll have to watch one or two of the little buggers for at least a couple o’ hours a day unless you got a good reason not ta.”

Oh, great. Harry was f*cked til September, and he would still be f*cked then, just with a different baby. One who was still staring at him. Baby Voldemort needed to knock it off right now. Harry looked down at Charles with a vague headshake, who was barely halfway into his bottle, more than a little worried. Right. Actual baby. That was his worry til September. What the hell had Mr. Weasley’s advice about kids been?

He racked his brains for their New Year’s conversation; what Mr. Weasley had said did not at all apply to his own childhood, but he had the distinct notion his childhood events ought not be reenacted anyway. Er...children had feelings just as big as his, but condensed into a smaller body, any pain they were experiencing was likely the literal worst thing they'd ever felt in their entire life, they’re allowed to have bad days...er...f*ck...OH. It was Harry’s job as caretaker to love them, no matter how annoying they were, because he was one of the only things they knew and could turn to, and―and at the end of the day, Harry wanted to see them happy, and yelling at them or hitting them wouldn't make that happen. That was all of them, wasn’t it?

Yeah, it seemed like it. Harry was briefly proud of himself for remembering it all, and then paused, the actual content registering. Those all―those all actually did seem helpful. Harry smiled just a bit, a little relief trickling in. Okay. This was going to suck, it was absolutely going to suck, but...well, at least he wasn’t flying totally blind.

The toddler across the table flung a bit of egg at Harry, squealing.

Harry stared. No, not totally blind. Just legally.

By the time Old Man Baby Charles was done with his bottle and Harry had smacked his back to bring his gas into submission, they were well into breakfast. As he prodded at his bit of egg, Harry noticed with a touch of disdain that Ms. Cole gave the boys notably smaller portions than the girls. He thought of Petunia again, and he grimaced, just exchanging a commiserating look with Old Man Baby Charles. He doubted Charles actually knew what he was grimacing about, but it was sorta funny to see the baby mimic his face.

Harry pointedly ignored Riddle’s needle-like stare throughout the meal, and as the day progressed, Harry found himself just hanging out with Charles, but also with the forced, somehow perpetual presence of Tom Riddle. His stare had not once let up; there were brief, relieving breaks interspersed here and there, but generally, Harry was subjected to it all day. This only more thoroughly convinced him that there was something deeply wrong with the bloke. There had to be something wrong with him, because no one had this much free time, and if they did, they did not waste it like Riddle did.

Because Riddle followed him and Charles absolutely f*cking everywhere.

Harry had to help wash dishes? Riddle was there.

Harry had to keep an eye on children in the yard? Riddle was there.

Harry stared, utterly bewildered, at the radio as it belched the most bizarre jingles and mottos he’d ever heard in his life? Riddle was there.

Harry was very nearly brained by a falling planter filled with radishes from the girl’s window? Riddle was there.

Harry had to change a diaper without substantial help for the first time in his life and wondered how Mr. Weasley did this with 7 kids? Take a wild guess as to who was there.

No, it was not Shirley Temple. It was Tom f*cking Riddle.

So it ought to come to no one’s surprise that by the time evening crept up on them all, Harry was at his wits end and wondering just when, in fact, he had adopted a puppy with separation anxiety. Not even Charles was this clingy, and he was a baby. Which were designed to be clingy for survival.

And it didn’t help that Harry felt absolutely terrible for thinking like this.

Riddle was a victim. A victim of something completely, abominably heinous. He would not downplay it. There was a priest that all the children hated, but stayed around because the matron was enamored(?) with him despite definitely knowing some f*ckery was up, and Riddle was stuck being—being molested by him with some degree of regularity as a consequence. And there was nothing anyone who cared could do about it. It was obvious that, to some extent, Riddle’s behavior was caused by his reaction to the ongoing trauma happening to him.

And yet, Harry’s sympathy could only extend so far when he heard the poor cat yowl for the fourth time that day. He felt his own eye twitch, and glared at Riddle, who looked vaguely pleased with himself and was still staring directly at Harry. He couldn’t help but view it as a provocation.

“He sure recovered quick,” Harvey muttered from next to him, brushing a little girl’s hair before bed as she sat in his lap. Her name started with an E or something.

“Does he always do that?”

Harvey gave him a withering look. “Every day. He terrorizes that poor cat, and it just keeps coming back. I wish the girls would stop feeding it—then it might finally leave and live in peace.”

“You don’t reckon he just knocked too many brains out of it from all the kicking?” Harry said, watching Riddle wander over to a beaten couch nearby and curl up against the arm.

He was back to staring at Harry. Lovely.

Harvey huffed a short laugh. “Yeah, I s’ppose he might’ve. Poor thing’s got to be dead from the neck up by now.” He settled a bandana behind the girl’s hair, tying it tightly, and tapped the girl on the shoulder. Charles squealed on the floor and Harry checked on him; he was just gumming on a ball. He was fine. Good. “Right, then, Edith. All settled. Why don’t you go find Nancy and play with her for a bit before we go to bed? She ought to—”

“Nancy took my—” And then she said a word that sounded like “Portkey”, which made Harry nearly break his own neck when he snapped to look at her.

“Your what?” He asked a bit more sharply than he intended.

Harvey gave him an odd look. “Her, er, her porley? That’s what you called it, yeah?”

Edith looked indignant. “Por kee . Like a piggy. Duh.”

“Right, right,” Harvey nodded sagely, like those words made sense. “That’s what she named her, erm, shrapnel bit.”

Harry blinked, shoulders slumping. “Her what?”

Harvey looked pained. “Er. The kids like to run off and play in some of the bomb-holes, and they’ll find shrapnel sometimes and make a toy out of it. She found one that looked remarkably like a pig, so she named it Porkee and er. That’s that.”

Harry blinked again, this time inclining his head slightly. There was a lot to unpack with that. He watched Edith run off, joining a crowd of boys who were piled up around the radio, which was churgling out some evening-special program that they could enjoy. He looked over the room, making sure no kids were copying Charles in the realm of suicide attempts, but all was well. Riddle was still staring at him, but he looked tired-ish, so it was less annoying than it had been earlier.

In his sweep of the room, he noticed that a cross hung on the wall somewhere behind the kids packed around the radio. A curl of unease settled in Harry’s gut at the reminder of the prior evening. He looked out the window at the darkening sky (not at Riddle) warily, thinking. Between watching Charles all day and purposefully ignoring Riddle, he hadn’t had much time to think about what had happened.

Unbidden, he wondered if the Priest ever hung out with the small ones, and his gut twisted alarmingly. He stamped down the thought quickly, feeling almost immediately sick. On habit, his occlumency shield strengthened. He looked down at Charles. He was still thoroughly invested in gumming on his ball.

He was so small.

“Hey,” Harvey said suddenly, patting Harry’s knee. “You alright? You just got a funny look on your face.”

Harry stared for a bit, physically feeling himself making a face, but couldn’t rid himself of it. Occlumency could only help so much, it seemed. He bounced his knee, looking down at Charles with a new fear roiling in the depths of his stomach and in the grooves of his spine. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything―he just. Shook his head minutely.

Harvey sighed and drummed his fingers in the space between their legs. He looked like he wanted to say something, but lost his nerve. They sat in a tense silence for a couple minutes before Harvey suddenly jolted upright (fast enough that Harry jumped) and said to the kids by the radio, noticeably excited― “OOH, turn up the volume!”

Harry watched, befuddled, as Harvey―and shortly thereafter, the rest of the room sans Riddle―erupted into a portion of one of the strangest songs he’d ever heard, almost loud enough for the words to be indistinguishable.

“He might say don’t don’t don’t be late―If you haven’t got potatoes put em on your plate―Potato pete, potato pete! Now he’s going down the street! Don’t you know he’s the thing to eat! Get your hot potato from Potato Pete―!”

This was offset by an exceptionally irritated look on Riddle’s face, which Harry couldn’t help but find absurdly funny. He laughed.

And then, there was what could only be described as a gigantic, collective, spirited caterwaul of “Potatooooo, Potatooooo…” Except everyone held onto the lyrics in various keys, lengths, and volumes, making a genuine cacophony of noise.

It reminded Harry of Fred and George singing the school song at the start of the academic year (particularly their trademarked funeral dirge iteration of it), and he found himself smiling, the anxiety in his gut diminishing without his notice. The rest of the lyrics were utterly lost in the communal wail.

Riddle had his hands over his ears.

Once the room calmed a bit, Harvey looked back at him and grinned, looking way too pleased with himself. Something twanged oddly in Harry’s head at the sight of his smile, and he felt his own grin shrink a bit, thinking. He co*cked his head in consideration, wondering why it had registered so strangely.

He brushed it off, and smiled a bit bigger, hoping Harvey wouldn’t notice. He got a strange, knowing look instead of the non-reaction he was hoping for, but Harvey didn’t comment.

“You didn’t sing along, Harry.” He said, voice oddly gentle.

“How do you expect me to sing a song I’ve never heard?” Harry said dubiously, still smiling.

Riddle groaned, but before Harry could contemplate that―

“WHAT.” Someone bellowed from across the room. Harry jumped. “THAT WAS YOUR FIRST TIME HEARING POTATO PETE?!”

“YOU’RE JOKING.”

Charles yelled unintelligibly on the ground, evidently scandalized. His ball rolled past his little foot, forgotten.

“WHO.” Someone else yelled from somewhere down the hall. Hurried footsteps came closer, and then― “OH MY GOSH. SHOW HIM THE SHRINE.”

Harry blinked. The what.

“Riddle, you go too, you haven’t prayed in a while and I’m worried for your safety―”

Naturally, the shrine was a single potato surrounded by candles, crosses, and various offerings in the form of drawings, stale candy, and small toys. Harry was told, very seriously, that he must not disturb any of the drawings (“Don’t mess up his interior design; Pete’s vessel will be very upset and you’ll have bad luck for, like, an eternity.”) and was instructed to pray with the word “potato” and the forms of it (“Y’know, mashed, crushed, diced, fried, baked.”) in oscillating tones and volumes for good fortune. And was forced to perform a prayer after the instructions via the pleas and threats of several small children.

“Pray to the potato!”

“He must be appeased with your pleas!”

“Pete demands your sacrifice!”

Before Harry could get a good look at whoever said that one, there came a rising chant from literally everyone in the area aside from Harry and―of course―Riddle.

“Potato prayer! Potato prayer! Potato prayer!”

Harvey, upon Harry looking to him for help, just laughed minutely, making a great show out of looking solemn. “You heard the choir.”

Harry stared at the potato, lost, and then shut his eyes, shaking his head. He tried not to think too hard about Baby Voldemort. He prayed to the potato.

Or, he would’ve had Eloise, one of the small children, snatched his hands and told him very pointedly that since it was his “first prayer” that he needed to have a guide.

“A guide?” He echoed helplessly, staring down at the very insistent nine year old girl.

“Yeah.” She looked around, and then―to his horror―grabbed Riddle’s hand. “You help him.”

Riddle had a very dangerous look in his eyes, and he looked down at Eloise’s hand like he might bite it. “Let go of me this instant.”

Out of fear for Eloise’s continued safety, Harry hurriedly grabbed Riddle’s hand. Immediately, something like electricity shot through Harry, and he saw Riddle stiffen, as though he felt the same. Something in Riddle’s face relaxed at once, and then scrunched all over again, as though he couldn’t decide how he felt. There was an awkward pause, and then, with a grunt he pulled Harry slightly closer to him, next to the potato shrine. Something cool swept through Harry’s head, like something was wavering in there, and it was so odd, but he didn’t comment, blindly stumbling into place next to Riddle.

The chant of “Potato prayer! Potato prayer! Potato prayer!” continued.

Riddle gave Harry a supremely baleful look, like he’d just stepped on the back of his shoe for the fourth time. His grip on Harry’s hand tightened. If someone told Harry just weeks ago that Baby Voldemort would look him dead in the eyes and say, “Pray to the goddamn potato, Evans.” through grit teeth he would’ve never believed them.

But it happened.

Harry prayed to the potato.

“That was not a good prayer.” Eloise said knowingly once they were done, and held the potato up to her ear reverently. “Hmm. Pete says...bad luck for 233 hours.”

Well, that was oddly specific.

“Oh NO!” One of the boys moaned. “That’s like, a year! Potato Pete, have mercy on him!”

Harry sighed, and leaned back down to the ground. Riddle, almost hesitantly, let go of Harry’s hand, and Harry did his best to ignore the indecipherable gaze the bloke gave him. Instead, he watched Charles do an awkward, flopping crawl towards him. The baby looked very proud of himself when he got to Harry’s leg, and proceeded to smack his calf almost reassuringly, leaving behind a spitty handprint.

“Thanks.” Harry said dully, half-heartedly resigning himself to a life of weirdness.

In fact, if his life in 1942 was a movie, Harry thought as he wandered down the street some weeks later (nearly two), a lot of it would be a cheesy montage of him being completely and utterly befuddled by all of the weird. Not just weird things, he should note, though those were plentiful; weird encompassed his circ*mstances, his relationships, his surroundings, his living space. The aforementioned cheesy montage would certainly convey that.

Said montage, however, would also be generously interspersed by snaps of him being stalked by Riddle, who had still not left him the hell alone since the night with the priest. Harry brushed off the creeps that ran up his arm at the thought of the piece of sh*t (who had made himself a little scarce around the orphanage since Harry impromptu toss-out of him) and instead tried to focus on bemoaning the fact that Riddle had (apparently) graduated to physical assault since the potato shrine incident.

And this wasn’t just Harry assuming the worst―people had noticed. Harvey had even tugged him aside that morning, looking perturbed, to ask how on earth he’d gotten Riddle to be so civil and touchy with him. Harry had nearly had a heart attack when Harvey joked, “Just what kind of dark magic have you been using on our Tommy boy?” but that was besides the point. The point was that Riddle seemed to be making a game out of how much he could touch Harry now, which was just as bizarre as it sounded.

It was like he enjoyed watching Harry squirm, since he looked so pleased with himself the longer he pressed some part of his body onto Harry. It reminded him, quite terribly and definitely incorrectly, of Crookshanks in the early years of Hermione’s ownership of him, during which the cat had tried very hard to make it look like his full-body presses onto her legs were not a vy for attention and a display of love.

Suffice to say, it was f*cking weird, and Harry’s neck was constantly sore from either craning it to see that Riddle was breathing down it, or―going back to the original narrative―from goggling at the other weirdness in his current world. Like the propaganda posters, for one.

He still didn’t know what the f*ck “Don’t do it Mother―leave the children where they are.” was supposed to mean, and he didn’t think he wanted to know, either.

In any case, Betty Driver’s voice haunted him as a particularly persistent earworm (‘Potato Pete, Potato Pete, see him coming down the street…’) as he reflected on the chain of events that had plopped him where he was now. Basically, he’d had a long-winded discussion with Marley about bomb-raids just scant hours ago, and apparently, it was a problem that he didn’t have proper socks or a jacket at the moment.

“These rags in your trunk certainly won’t keep you warm if we have to evacuate!” Marley had said to him, poking her finger through one of the holes in his socks as she held up one of them, looking aghast. She made a face very similar to Petunia, actually, and Harry had not been enthused by it. He’d pointed out, a touch tetchy, that it was summer and he’d be more likely to roast in socks or a jacket anyway, but this had fallen on deaf ears.

“That’s enough out of you―go buy some damned socks, at least, or I’ll make sure you’re saddled with two of the colic-y ones tomorrow.” She’d said. “No Charles.”

“How dare you weaponize Old Man Baby Charles against me,” He’d said, and that was all he could say before he was shoved in front of Ms. Cole.

(In case you were wondering, Old Man Baby Charles was just fine. Yes, he’d made a grand total of seventeen more suicide attempts since Harry got around to minding him, but Harry had learned to expect it, so it was alright. He’d also picked up two more kids now and then: William and Judith. Thus far, Mr. Weasley’s advice―though completely unprompted at the time―had turned out to be a godsend.)

“Golden advice, Harry; don’t make decisions while you're upset, just take five deep breaths…” Harry muttered under his breath in a facsimile of Mr. Weasley’s tone, scowling when he realized this would’ve been good advice to recall about an hour ago.

Had he done so, he probably wouldn’t be walking down the foot tunnel beneath the Thames with Baby Voldemort right now.

‘Dammit.’

Yeah, he hadn’t made that obvious, earlier: he was walking down a cramped tunnel with Riddle right now. He was out on a mission in the middle of this bizarre WWII world to get socks, of all f*cking things, with Baby Voldemort. He lagged just behind Riddle, now, and was resolutely ignoring the shoulder (purposefully) knocking into his own as he followed his directions to the store.

Harry didn’t know why on earth Ms. Cole had insisted that Riddle would be the one to take him out to use his “coupons” or whatever to get them, but he had a sneaking suspicion that it had something to do with the lip he’d given her shortly before the decision. Harry wasn’t proud to admit it, but ‘waspish’ would be a nice word to use to describe his attitude with her. He just couldn’t help it: he had no respect for the woman. She’d ceremoniously lost it since the night she’d slapped him, and no matter how much he (halfheartedly) tried to occlude to keep his emotions down, something about her made it nigh-impossible for him to just shut his mouth.

So. Socks with Voldemort, it was.

He purposefully recited more of Potato Pete in his head this time (‘Have him in a packet, take him home to Ma’, have him in a jacket, or eat him where you are —’ ) so he wouldn’t have to remember that he had had to tell Riddle what they were doing. “YeAh, uHhH, Ms. CoLe sAiD yOu HaD tO sHoW mE wHeRe tO gEt sOcKs.” f*cking…. ‘Why can’t occlumency do something useful, like let me forget sh*t at will? Ugh.’

The stupid twat had looked elated to do it, too. And not in a nice way. In a way that said, “I’m going to find the most efficient way to make this as awful as possible for literally everyone involved.” That kind of way.

Currently, Riddle was doing a damned good job of that by simply existing.

So.

Harry’s only shield. Potato Pete.

Harry ran through the ridiculous song once more in his head up until where he’d stopped, ignoring the little smirk on Riddle’s stupid mole-y face. ‘f*ck you, Baby Voldemort.’ Have him in a jacket, or eat him where you are...what the hell came after that? For the life of him, Harry could not make out some of the things Driver said, and at various points had to make up the lyrics. This was one of those points.

He busied himself with trying to work out the section of the song even when they finally hit fresh air again, putting in utmost effort to ignore Riddle as effectively as possible. Riddle took a sharp turn. Harry did not.

“If you haven’t got potatoes put em on your plate,” Harry finally substituted under his breath after a solid minute of walking, peering curiously at another propaganda poster as he spoke.

This one was held onto a brick wall by a thin strip of glue and, it seemed, a scant prayer, given that it looked like it was a moment away from crumpling to the ground pathetically. ‘Hitler will send no Warning’, it read. Harry frowned, knocking his knee into the little pack that held his own mask (which was dangling uselessly from his right hand) as he walked. Good, it was still there. Marley had harassed him up and down about keeping it on his person, if only so the police wouldn’t fine him.

That would be such a bizarre fine, Harry thought. ‘You don’t have a potentially life-saving device on you right now, give me ten pounds or, whatever.’ Actually, Harry wasn’t sure about what the currency was right now. It was still pounds, wasn’t it?

‘Oh, great, so I know that gas masks weren’t ever actually needed in London during WWII, but I don’t know the currency. Splendid. Jesus wept, Harry. Where’s Hermione when you need her?’

In 1996, he answered himself bitterly.

“Potato pete, potato pete...Now he’s going down the street...Don’t you know he’s the thing to eat...Get your hot potato from Potato Pete…” He continued softly without thinking, still walking and trying to look like he wasn’t overtly gaping at a group of soldiers(?) passing him by on his left, carefully edging around a bomb-hole all the while. He stared, mystified, at the one at the end who seemed to be holding on to a banged-up park banister, of all things.

‘Potatooooo, Potatooooo…’

Once he reached the closing line, “Big or small, short or tall, Potato Pete has got—them—allllll…” Harry tuned back into reality.

It took him a moment, but he realized that his shoulder hadn’t been purposefully bumped in awhile. He looked to the left. No Riddle. He looked to the right. No Riddle. Hell, he even looked down. Still no Riddle. Harry did a full sweep of the street with his eyes, seeing absolutely nothing familiar. Just a sh*tload of factories.

So. Harry was now thoroughly lost. Good to know, good to know. He stopped right where he was, and earned a strange look from a passing woman. A child ran past, brandishing a shrapnel bit, and Harry stared, hoping for a moment that it might be Edith or another child he knew from the orphanage. No such luck. He swallowed, moving out of the walkway. A curl of unease unfurled in his gut, and suddenly, the bizarre world around him seemed a lot more daunting.

“This is not ideal,” He said the understatement of the century aloud, feeling hot.

This was about when― BOOM!

.

.

.

There was this momentary, heart-stopping sensation of weightlessness, an interim between flight and impact, where the air was knocked from Harry’s lungs, and it seemed time was suspended.

Bizarrely, he was reminded of when he leapt from the 7th floor window, down to the snow-covered grounds below him. Had it really already been over a month since then?

.

.

.

.

Harry hit the ground.

He didn’t have a moment to even cry out before something thwacked into the side of his head and he slid on the road, shirt shredding on his back. He laid there, gasping, wondering what the hell had happened, but no one seemed to answer―they began to scream, instead. They probably had been for awhile, but Harry couldn’t remember hearing it. Feet ran past him, flying like swarms of black bugs up above him, stomping on his shoulders and hands. It hurt, but he didn’t think he flinched. His head swam. He couldn’t move.

.

.

.

.

.

.

His eyes were fixed on the fire in the distance, brightening the orange sky. But that wasn’t right, was it? It couldn’t have been.

‘Isn’t the sky supposed to be blue?’

The air-raid sirens began to wail, and someone grabbed his shoulder.

She could not reach him. She could not scream. She could Not. She was nothing more than a thought.

Chapter 12: Where The Light Won't Find You

Chapter Text

Lying on a burning street, Harry’s first thought probably should’ve been a lot more dramatic. A “WHAT THE HELL” or a “GOD HELP ME” might’ve been appropriate. Maybe, for the narrative’s sake, a dramatic soliloquy would’ve been in the books, one that had a length that would not at all have been suited for a bombing site. But all he could think, as people screamed around him and the ringing in his ears did little to muffle it, was that he would very much like a f*cking break.

The wind―or something else he couldn’t identify―whipped past his ears, making the ends of his shattered glasses burn the soft space behind them. Vague shapes skittered past his body, barely noticeable, and when something that felt like paper got stuck in the crook of his elbow, a painstakingly slow glance revealed it to just be another propaganda poster. He stared at the caption for a long time, uncomprehending. He never actually read it. Just stared. His hair wavered, blocking his view, and he couldn’t bring himself to lift his arm to move it away.

It should come as no surprise that it took him quite some time to notice that the feet stomping all over him had long left. So, there. Harry was left alone, in a silent, wailing world, supine and abandoned on the smoldering asphalt.

And all he could think was that he was so tired.

Tired of being on a hot, smoldering street. Tired of the silence. Tired of the distant wailing that just barely reached his ringing ears. Tired of being alone. Tired of struggling. Tired of this. Tired.

That was all. It was as if the blast had vaporized... everything in Harry, leaving him a husk of himself. There but unoccupied. Soulless. He could only liken it to standing next to a dementor, but without the chill. ‘Chill’ was the furthest thing from Harry’s mind―he wiggled his toes, noting with a sense of something that he’d have a point against Marley and her decree that he’d need socks; he could feel the heat of flames licking at the bottoms of his shoes. He didn’t move them away, even when it began to hurt―numbness had overtaken him, kept him planted squarely on the ground.

He wondered if this was what it felt like, being one of the radishes in the garden Marley made him help her take care of at Wools. Buried, but shallowly. Left alone. Marley hated radishes; she only picked them up and put them somewhere where they’d be better used when necessary. Loathed feeding them to the kids. Harry was the same. He hated radishes. Hated them so much.

Would anyone pick him up when it was necessary?

Years down the line from now, Harry wouldn’t be able to tell you how long he lied there. He wouldn’t be able to tell you why, either. But it felt like eons crawled by with Harry left on that street, fire burning his feet, wind blowing hot on his face and making his glasses burn, before someone grabbed his shoulder and forced him back into himself. Tore up the radish, if you will.

It didn’t make him scream. Didn’t make him gasp. Harry didn’t even so much as twitch when the contact came. In fact, it was only once the blurry outline of a person grabbed his wrist―the one that held his ID―that he said, completely calm,

“Hey.”

The person who grabbed his wrist did scream. The fuzzy outlines of their limbs flailed, and he tracked their arms, watching as the left one came up and towards their chest, which heaved.

“f*ck!” The person said, voice either deep for a woman, or pitchy for a man, and he watched their head shake. “Oh, my Lord. I thought―holy sh*t, you’re not dead.” Harry thought this was rather obvious, and said nothing. He watched the person scramble, and blinked tiredly. “Are you―are you hurt?”

That was a good question. Harry didn’t really know.

When he didn’t say anything for a while, at a loss, the person hedged, “Erm...can you sit up?”

Well. Simple command. Ask and ye shall receive. Spurred into action, Harry―with near-pitiful speed―eased himself up to his elbows, and then moved to sit. The way to describe it… Harry felt, bizarrely, like a fresh piece of taffy. Not in the sense that he was being pulled apart, but―Harry had this habit of bending his taffy sticks in halves. Ripping 'em in two. He wasn’t quite sure why he did it; he just did. And whenever he did it, he always watched those hairline cracks ripple up and down the smooth surface, showing how fragile the candy really was.

He felt like that, sitting up. Like sitting up was revealing all of those hairline cracks, not breaking him but leaving him feeling raw and...something. He wouldn’t say sectioned―but close to that. Like cracked dirt from dried mud. Together, but not at all. He pondered this as he stared at the shattered, blurry nothingness ahead of him. His ruined glasses slid down his nose, cutting through sweat he was only now noticing.

“You know…” He said without thinking. His mind was on home. Where he was now.

The resemblance.

For a brief, disorienting moment, Harry was sprawled outside the grass of the Quidditch World Cup, amidst smoldering tents. And then he was back. It didn't look much different.

“What?”

“That’s not even the closest I’ve come to dying.” Harry grated out, head swimming. He laughed; a breathless, dying sort of noise. “That’s...it hardly makes the top three.” Something was rising up in him. The person beside him was motionless. “But I just...I don’t…”

Bright, orange and red flames flickered wildly ahead of him, just scant steps away. The person beside him was saying something, but Harry wasn’t listening. The acrid, burning wind whipped across his face relentlessly, seared his arms, caught on the holes in his trousers. It seemed for a moment that it was the force of it that carried him upwards, not his own effort.

But Harry stood.

He stood on unsteady feet, and took a step towards the fire he could barely see. Felt it scoffing at his forearms, singing on his trousers and widening the holes. Felt it burning in his chest. He stared, and just couldn’t understand. Couldn’t understand at all. Couldn’t understand―

Harry stared into the fire ahead of him with burning eyes, and he said, voice cracking with pain that would come half a century from now,

“―How could anyone want this?”

If you asked Tom Riddle what he thought of Harry Evans that morning, he really wouldn’t have known what to tell you.

This was, of course, very annoying since Tom knew everything, but genuinely, the best he could’ve proffered was that he didn’t know what the hell to make of the guy. Actually, no. No, hold on. Let Tom backpedal a little, because there was, perhaps, one―just one―applicable descriptor he could’ve used.

Stupid.

Because that morning, Tom thought Evans was very stupid.

He had to be—what other kind of person thought it was a good idea to cold-co*ck a priest in the middle of the night? And without even knowing where he was on the totem pole, no less? Evans, apparently. And to boot, he’d done it for Tom, some random bloke he didn’t even know. And had only narrowly avoided trouble just by virtue of Harvey inexplicably rising to his aid.

(Maybe it had just been a transactional thing; one nice thing for another. People were dumb like that, weren’t they?)

Either way, if that wasn’t enough to pin Evans as ‘stupid’, Evans was also stupid because he was nice to people. That sort of thing just automatically made you stupid in Tom’s book. What was the point of being nice if you weren’t getting something out of it? There was no benefit to playing peekaboo with a baby for over an hour, was there? Or―excuse him― Old Man Baby Charles. Let that one speak for itself.

No. That reminded him; Evans was also very good with children. That also made him stupid, because being good with children did not speak kindly about anyone’s intellect. There was a quip in there to be made about people who were good with babies interacting with people who were at their level, but Tom was too lazy to bother with injecting wit into his own thoughts.

If nothing else there must’ve been a reason as to why Evans perpetually looked like he didn’t quite know what he ought to be doing with himself at any given moment, and being stupid satisfied that.

So, yes. Stupid was perhaps the most apt descriptor for Evans, and what he would’ve said if he was asked what he thought of him that morning.

But at the same time, Tom still wouldn’t have known what to make of Evans.

Because he was stupid, yes, that had been well established...but he was different. Not just from the normal-stupid category; he was different. He seemed utterly torn between being—God help him— piteously nice to Tom, or being bizarrely mean to him. Like he looked at Tom and saw him for a moment, and then tucked the knowledge away. Filed it away for later use. Which was completely insane, because it served no purpose to keep information like that tucked away when he could be taking advantage of it immediately. It just didn’t make any sense.

A lot of things about Evans made no f*cking sense, least of all that weird feeling he got by touching the bloke. Tom had no idea how he ought to qualify that other than “I want to do it all the time and I don’t understand why.”

Altogether, if you’d asked him that morning what Tom thought of Harry Evans, he would’ve said that Evans was stupid, that he was weird, and that Tom had no goddamn idea what to make of him.

But that would’ve been this morning.

Now?

Now he would call Evans the biggest f*cking dunderhead he’d ever had the misfortune of encountering, because it took a real idiot to completely and utterly lose your only guide in an unfamiliar city—and do so during an air raid.

Tom paced back and forth in the Underground, ignoring the dour look he was getting from some mother bouncing her wailing toddler. Where the f*ck was Evans? He kept looking at the mouth of the entrance, expecting Evans’ godawful mop of hair to manifest there, but it never did. This was the only passable shelter from the bombs, didn’t he know that? He had to know that, everyone knew that, that was why everyone was here!

Except for Evans, apparently.

Tom did a sweep of the room for the umpteenth time, only more thoroughly convincing himself that Evans was not here and was probably still outside, about to get blown to f*cking bits by a shrapnel bomb, because Evans’ hair wasn’t exactly easy to miss otherwise. And if he wasn’t outside, God help him if he decided to take shelter somewhere else. Like in the foot tunnel under the Thames they’d traversed earlier, for example. Tom could’ve swooned at the mere thought, hiding in some dingy tunnel under a massive river that had bombs falling in it. Knowing how luck normally worked for orphans, it’d collapse and drown his sorry arse. Tom chewed his lip, face heating.

If Evans f*cking died, Tom was going to kill him.

Not because he was worried or anything, of course. Just because Evans was the only way Tom would ever figure out what was wrong with him, and objective evidence declared that he was probably the only person who could fix it. That was the only reason. He had no right to die right now. It was far too much of an inconvenience.

“Tom?!” A voice called, and Tom whipped his head to look because it sounded so much like Evans but―

―Tom scoffed, turning towards Harvey, who came barrelling over with a squirming kid in each arm. “You’re not the right one.” He snipped once Harvey was within earshot.

Harvey made a very dumb face. “Pardon?”

“You’re not Harry.”

“Gosh, I was just about to ask you about him. Where is he? Charles is screaming bloody murder over there with Marigold, and he’s so good with the kids―”

“He’s not here.”

Harvey stopped dead. “What?” One of the kids―the one in his left arm―began to fuss.

“I didn’t speak French,” Tom complained, looking back up towards the entrance just in case Evans made his appearance. Bitterly, he reported, “I lost him. He wasn’t paying attention and got swept up in the crowd, and I spent ages trying to find his sorry arse, but then the air raid sirens went off―”

“―Where were you walking?” Harvey said quickly, rocking the children he was holding. “Marley said you were taking him to get socks or something, where were you two walking?”

Tom eyed Harvey shrewdly, bemused. He looked a lot more panicked than usual. He couldn’t fathom why, though. Was he worried? What about? Evans? He’d hardly known him for a couple weeks. That wasn’t enough time to make a close acquaintance, was it? Hm.

Interesting.

“...We were going more towards the East End. Where all the cheap clothes are.” Tom said slowly, studying Harvey’s face. It went pale.

“You took the foot tunnel?”

“Yes, we did. I lost him somewhere on Pier road, so I turned back to try to find my way back to him, figuring he’d just walk back to the orphanage.”

“Tom,” Harvey shuffled in place, breathing shallowly. “Why in the hell would you walk all that way for socks?”

“I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, Harvey, but we’re impoverished orphans.” Tom bit out, glaring at the child in Harvey’s right arm, who hadn’t made a peep. “Why wouldn’t we walk to get some bloody socks when going to one of the second-hand stores there is just a couple ha-pennies?”

“Because the sirens by factory road got busted in the last raid!” Harvey said sharply, starting to pace. “If, Lord forbid it, Harry went down that way when he lost you, the sirens are broken. And I know the policemen are supposed to go down on their bikes with their whistles, but you and I both know they’re unreliable as hell over on the East End! ”

Oh.

“...And that’s where the bombs always hit.”

It felt like a stone dropped into Tom’s stomach.

f*ck. f*ck.

Harvey hissed through his teeth, looking towards the entrance of the underground. “Dammit, Tom, you could’ve been killed! He could be killed! Dead! Right now! The two of you!”

And he was right. Tom sat there with that knowledge for a while, hands going cold. He could hardly hear the murmuring in the underground through the buzzing in his ears. It was a hard thing to admit, but Harvey...had a very clear point. Tom hadn’t known the sirens there were busted, and…

‘That could’ve killed me.’

A vivid image of himself on the ground, covered in rubble and unmoving, popped up in the back of Tom’s mind. Terror lanced up his spine. And then, curiously, the same image popped up too, but with Evans in his place. The terror did not leave him.

Tom leaned on the wall behind him, breathing out shallowly. The ceiling rattled above him, and he swore he could feel little pebbles burrowing into his hair.

‘Come back down into yourself, Tom.’ He thought, pinching his own leg. ‘Not here. Not now. Stop it.’

Slowly but steadily, sound came rushing back in, and in the dampness of the underground, Tom could hear children wailing, and people crying.

For a moment―just a spare moment―he truly, honestly felt he could’ve joined them, just for the fear that had taken him over. And then that moment was gone, and the utter smallness of Tom’s own existence hit him, not for the first time. He swallowed it down. Hard.

‘Come on. Go back to it.’

And like a welcome, fresh breath of spring, the numbness that had followed Tom for his whole life crept at the edges of his mind, familiar and safe. It was only natural to seize it. Pull it back over himself, like a shield. Or a shroud.

He would be bigger than this, he thought, just like he had a million times before. Tom had to be bigger than this, at least someday, or… and that was all. The same incomplete mantra. The same numbness. Like clockwork.

Right when it was settling over him again, Tom looked up, and saw that Harvey had his head ducked into the head of one of the children he was holding. He was murmuring softly. The other child rested on Harvey’s free shoulder, eerily still and quiet. Harvey’s face shifted, and Tom caught a glimpse of his eyes, the dull, muddy green that they were. He looked exhausted, and pained. Somewhere, like in a distant dream, Tom was feeling the same. But it was fading, now. Like it always did.

Until it didn’t. Suddenly, Harvey caught his stare, and though he thought he should, Tom didn’t look away. He couldn’t. For a flash of a moment, the face Harvey was making looked quite a bit like Evans.

And that.

That was when something changed.

Not as harshly nor as abruptly as it did with Evans. Not a sudden, striking flash like a Cruciatus curse. It just happened. Like pushing a button into place.

At once, the numbness ripped away, leaving Tom raw, exposed.

It stunned him, how quick it dissipated. How thoroughly one glance at a face far too similar to Evans undid him. He tried desperately to dredge up the numbness again, because he needed it, but it stayed stubbornly out of his reach. Scraping his fingertips but never latching.

Tom hated it. He hated it.

This wasn’t normal. This wasn’t how this went.

“I don’t want to lose you, Tom.” Harvey said raggedly, a full frontal assault that Tom could feel every inch of. He trembled. “And I don’t want to lose Harry, either. Not when I just…” He trailed off, and his frame shook. Tom threatened to shake too, because… “Gosh, Tom. Not anyone. I don’t want to lose anyone. Don’t scare me like that. I can’t take it anymore.”

Tom stared, breathing shallowly.

The words did not ping out of his brain like they always did. They stuck. Clung. Tom didn’t understand why. This wasn’t the first time Harvey had said something like this―it wasn’t. In fact, if Tom’s memory wasn’t failing him, Harvey had said something like this at least three times before this occasion, each declaration more weary than the last. Tom had always thought he was full of it.

He should’ve been.

But there, in that tunnel, with pebbles falling in his hair, with the world wailing and burning up above him, with terror in his spine and something in his chest, with something finally slotting into place for Tom―

―Tom believed him.

It was an integral change. An antithesis he could not circumvent. A data point that destroyed the hypothesis, ripped apart the conclusion. Tom could not stomach it. Could not stand it. But he had to sit with it. He couldn’t afford anything else. He had to just sit there, with the unfathomable knowledge that perhaps, just maybe...

Tom felt like he could throw up. He looked down at his feet, and tried to convince himself the world hadn’t just cracked in two.

When the sirens finally shut off after screaming for years and the world had ended after all, Harvey led Tom towards the pod of fellow orphans. Tom followed, empty.

There was nothing else to do. They reached the other orphans. Marley was still holding Charles. Tom looked at the baby for a while. He remembered Evans playing peekaboo with him for an hour, and… something about the memory seemed different now. Like it had fundamentally changed. But Tom didn’t know how.

Tom didn’t know.

Charles was still crying, though the wails seemed to have long tapered off into whimpering little sobs. Tom didn’t know how to make it stop. He watched, mute, as Harvey gave the two kids he was holding to Marley, and took Charles instead.

“You alright, Marigold?” Harvey asked, quiet but just loud enough for Tom to hear.

Marley sighed. “You know I hate that name.”

“That wasn’t an answer.”

Tom caught a glimpse of Marley’s eyes. Blue. Not like Harvey’s green ones. Her eyes had deep rings beneath them, though. Like Harvey’s. He looked away before she could notice him staring, and looked at the other children. He watched Charles settle down, bury his little face right into Harvey’s chest. His back quivered.

Tom stared at that tiny, trembling back for a long time as Harvey rubbed it, and something foreign welled up in his throat.

When most of the underground had finally cleared out, and Harvey offered Tom his arm, for the first time in his life, Tom took it. They never spoke; they didn’t have to. As Tom climbed the stairs up and out of the underground with his arm linked through Harvey’s, and he stood outside and smelled the soot and felt the heat in a way he never had, a realization struck him. That he didn’t know the names of the kids Harvey had been holding that whole time.

Something about that hurt. It never had before.

“Come on,” Harvey said, ignorant to the new storm rising inside of Tom. “Let’s go...well. Not home. But you get it.”

“It’s as good as we’ve got.” Tom said pointlessly, lips numb.

They passed a still, unmoving body on the way back to Wool’s, covered in burns and ash. Tom tried hard not to think about Evans, and kept walking.

It was all he could do.

‘What happened to me?’

Through some wild chain of events, Harry had been roped into helping fight the fires.

There was a joke to be made here about “”immigrants stealing white people’s jobs”” he thought, recalling Vernon’s purple-faced complaints as he puttered around and suffocated tiny flaming patches. He almost laughed but couldn’t quite get there, fighting the urge to scrub his face. Smearing more soot on his already filthy face would do him no favors.

“Still doing alright?” Ernest bellowed from somewhere down the sidewalk.

Without looking up, Harry shifted the pail he was holding to one hand and held a thumbs up. He was not alright―he was sure he was more than mildly singed in some spots―but it was easier to just say he was fine and keep doing what he was told to do. Made the situation feel slightly less insane. Because Harry was feeling just a little bit insane right now.

Ernest, the man who had unceremoniously yanked Harry from his stupor, did not need to be made aware of this.

Harry glanced up, watching Ernest jog back the way he’d come before getting back to business. Yeah, Ernest was the one who’d woken him up, been subject to his brief melodrama, and dragged Harry some ten minutes away from where he’d been blown up. Despite being, again, blown up, for some godforsaken reason Ernest had had Harry lend a hand in mitigating the blaze. Something about the AFS needing all the help they could get and Harry seeming “slightly less than worse for wear” whatever the hell that was supposed to mean.

Why the AFS needed help from a half-charbroiled teenager, Harry didn’t know, but it was nice to have a single task to focus on. Take a bucket of sand, and dump enough of it on little fires to snuff them out before they got bigger. In truth, he was meant to be using something called a “stirrup pump”, apparently, but the ones these guys had on hand were all already being used, so he’d been plonked with a pail of sand and sent on his way. Hence where he was now. Holding a giant bucket of sand and dumping it on fire willy nilly.

It was kind of heavy―-the sand―but Harry had carried heavier things before, and done it for longer―a trend that would likely continue in the future. The sand-bucket didn’t even slightly measure up to lugging Dudley clear across his neighborhood, after all.

In between looking for more little fires to stamp out, Harry took to watching the other “fire-watchers” do what they were doing and trying to imitate them. Some of them had good tactics for smothering flames. There was one woman who poured sand in a circle around the fire and then plonked a bedraggled garbage can lid over the flames til they died, which was absolutely brilliant―if not, a little labor intensive.

When they didn’t have good tactics, though, they were all just fun to watch. Harry watched them scamper around and yell at each other for help as they tugged people out of the warzone, which was objectively heroic… but they did all this while wearing a dark blue tunic with the dinkiest-looking peaked cap Harry had ever seen in his life. It made them all look like a bunch of blue and white cue balls pinging amok on a smouldering, black billiards table.

At least, kinda. Harry hadn’t played billiards in awhile. Was that even a thing in 1942? He had no idea. He assumed it was, but he’d also assumed penicillin was a thing. It was not. No, seriously. Marley had given him a very blank look when he’d suggested it for one of the kids when they got strep throat.

He hoped she was alright.

Anyway. Yeah. In any case, these guys were all uniformed, so, obviously, this was some sort of group. But what group, Harry wasn’t sure. He had no idea who these people were supposed to be. He’d heard two names thrown around. The Auxiliary Fire Service (Ernest had abbreviated it to AFS), and National Fire Service. Something like that. He could’ve sworn one of his old primary school teachers had waxed poetic about these guys a millenia ago, but that was about it. Well, whatever the case may be, these were the guys he was running around with in his shredded, burnt clothes and half-melted shoes. Just him, all these dinky cue balls, and his bucket of sand against the world.

Which was still on fire, he might add.

Speaking of―Harry snuffed out yet another little flame. “Good job, kid!” Someone yelled.

“Thanks,” He mumbled, and kept walking.

He wasn’t sure how, exactly, his little bucket of sand putting out spitfires was supposed to be helping considering everything was on fire, but apparently it was, because as one might’ve noticed back there, just putting out one fire got some tangible praise. In fact, whenever Harry made eye contact with some of the firefighters, he got approving little nods, and on occasion, a hearty slap on the shoulder that stung like hell.

It was the nicest anyone (aside from the orphans at Wool’s and wizards) had been to him since he got to 1942. Let Harry tell you―WWII era racism was no joke, and then let him leave it at that before he got upset.

Sometime, well after the sky went dark and the world did too, Harry wound up being herded into one of the cars the firemen drove. Something about the firemen having a little party to celebrate a ‘job well done’ and eating dinner. Harry didn’t feel like he’d done a good job―just a job―but for lack of anything better to do, he went along with it. Where his bucket of sand wound up in this process, Harry didn’t know.

What he did know was that, somewhere during the drive, Harry definitely conked out for a moment, because for one blink, he was by the factories, and in the next, someone was grabbing his burnt arm and making him gasp back to consciousness. A shard of the left lens of his glasses was lost in the jostle, falling pathetically into his lap. At least the women at the station were nice enough to wrap his arm up for him, tutting about boys and not wanting to go to the doctor. And then he was apologized to, curiously.

Ernest looked upset when he did, but not at Harry.

He said, “I wouldn’t have put you to work if I’d known you were that burnt up, laddie.” to which Harry had responded, bemused, “Well, I guess it’s hard to tell, with me already being golden-brown.”

That had set off a nuclear bomb’s-worth of laughter in the station. Harry hadn’t joined in. He felt like he should’ve, but he didn’t.

Ernest, after calming down, clapped Harry’s shoulder for the umpteenth time, knocking another shard of Harry’s glasses out of the left lens, and told Harry to wait. And then he left. Harry waited, in the same spot, still thinking of nothing―just like he had been all that time since the blast. And then Ernest came up to him, and handed him a baseball bat. Or tried to. Harry stared at it like it might bite him, uncomprehending.

“Well, I’m not holding it out for my health, my boy.” Ernest said with a half-grin, wiggling the bat. “Go on. It’s yours.”

Harry stared some more. It was a bit difficult to do so through shattered glasses, but he managed. “Why?”

“Aren’t all the kids playin’ baseball these days? Take it and go show it off to your friends―or use it to fight off some Nazis, right?” Then Ernest laughed, like he’d said something funny, and continued. “Just don’t vandalize something with it, y’hear?”

Harry took the bat.

Ernest clapped his hands once, looking proud of himself. “Well! Consider that a reward for a job well done, today. Now, you go ahead ‘nd eat something, and once you’re done, go find Adelaide. She can phone your folks to let ‘em know you’re right as rain, and―”

“―Don’t have any.” Harry said blankly, like he had a million times in his life.

Ernest’s face wavered. “...Erm. Alright, then. Well, she can call whoever you’re with, and let ‘em know we can, er, give you a ride home?”

The bat rested in Harry’s hand, heavier than it should’ve been. He tried not to look at it. “I live across the Thames.” He mumbled, looking nowhere. “At. At Wool’s. The orphanage.”

Ernest’s eyebrows shot up, and for a moment, he looked distinctly uncomfortable. He coughed. “Well, there’s a bridge one of our cars can go on. We’ll get you back there.” He said, and then walked away quickly―or tried to, before stopping suddenly. “By the way, erm―a job. If you need a job, I s’ppose you could work here. If you ever do want to, talk to Preston, tell ‘em Ernest talked about you. Your name was…” Ernest snapped his fingers a couple times, and then said, brightly. “Harvey Evans, right?”

“Harry.” Harry said.

Ernest grimaced, smiled, and said, “Alright. Anyway. If you decide to join us―door’s open, kid. Thanks for your help today, and―er―enjoy the bat. Smack loads of baseballs with it; not people.”

And he was off, leaving Harry alone with a bat.

“Okay.” Harry said to no one.

He stared down at the bat in his hand. Clenched his fist around the haphazard grip tape. The scar Umbridge left on his hand felt raw underneath the weight of the bat in his palm. Something unrecognizable swirled up in his guts as he held the bat aloft. Like he knew something without actually knowing. That was what it felt like.

“Smack loads of baseballs with it; not people.”

“Uh huh,” Harry breathed, letting the bat fall limp in his grip, thocking on the ground with a dull sound.

The impromptu celebration for a job ‘well done’ continued, everyone laughing and chatting, playing little games. Harry still stood in place, bat still held limp in his hand, numb. And without another word to anyone, Harry turned heel and, with the bat dragging on the ground, walked all the way back to Wool’s.

Harvey had spent the last couple hours pacing. Suicide Charles seemed amused by it, but Marigold, evidently, was not.

“Harvey, you’re going to wear a hole in the floor.” She muttered, absently patting Eloise’s back, who was fast asleep in her lap.

“And you’re going to wear a hole in her dress,” Harvey shot back, nodding towards Eloise. “But you don’t see me saying anything about that, now, do you?”

As if sensing she was being spoken about, Eloise wriggled a bit in Marigold’s grip before resettling, rubbing her face into Marigold’s nightgown. Harvey grimaced, noticing the snot she inadvertently smeared in her wake. Marigold would not be pleased to see it.

“That’s not the point,” Marigold sighed, shutting her eyes in a brief display of exhaustion. “Harv, I know you’re worried about Harry, really, I do, but staying up all night waiting for him to come back isn’t going to make him get here any quicker. Please, let’s just go to sleep―”

Harvey breathed out through his nose hard, guts twisting. Marigold was right, of course. She usually was. But she just didn’t understand…

“―It’s not that simple for me, Marigold.” He sighed, resting his cheek on Charles’ head. “Harry...he’s…”

Marigold grimaced, scrubbing her face with her hand. “Yes, he might be family, I know. You’ve already told me. And unlike you, I actually remember the things you tell me.”

Harvey could see the bait for what it was, but bit anyway. “Oh, yeah?”

Marigold cast him an attempt at a dour look. “Just how many times have I told you to just call me Marley like everyone else, hm? It must be up in the hundreds by now.”

“Well, have you considered that I like being the only person who calls you by your name?”

“No, but I have considered that you’re an arse.”

Damn. That was a good one.

He turned his face so she wouldn’t see him starting to smile―that was how she knew she was winning, and he wasn’t going to give it to her. “Whatever, Goldilocks.” He muttered.

She snorted in that undignified way that Harvey found funny, and he watched her nose crinkle out of the corner of his eye. “Goldilocks?” And she smiled, revealing the tips of her white teeth. “Where’s my porridge, huh?” And, craning her leg at an awkward angle, she prodded his stomach with one of her freakishly long toes. “Did you eat it?”

“You get your nasty monkey toes away from me, you animal,” Harvey said, fighting a smile.

“And here I was, thinking I was Goldilocks. Harv, you should really make up your mind―”

“Watching you two is literally making me sick.”

A new voice sounded from somewhere down the hall, making Harvey jump near two feet in the ear and accidentally jostle Charles. He “OUGH!”-ed in clear complaint, and cast Harvey a very baleful baby glare. He apologized under his breath, and before Harvey could turn to see who on earth it was―

“Tom!” Marigold called, sounding exasperated. “Goodness gracious, you sure know how to scare the living daylights out of a woman, don’t you?”

Tom (who, true to his earlier word, did indeed look a smidge nauseous) left a lingering look on Harvey as he drawled, “Oh, I didn’t realize I was looking at lesbians.”

Before Harvey could decipher what the hell that meant, Tom carried on, slinking closer,

“He’s not back yet?”

And just like that, Harvey’s mood was back in the gutter.

Marigold drew in a long, heaving breath, and shook her head. “If he was, the three of us wouldn’t be awake at this unholy hour.”

Harvey watched Tom’s face flicker at the word “unholy” and his insides squirmed. Millard was in the orphanage again tonight. Something about helping the children cope with the bombing that happened earlier today, nevermind that it was clear on the other side of the Thames. Harvey didn’t know if he was still around, and he didn’t want to know. He held onto Charles a little tighter.

“Four,” Tom said a little belatedly, nodding towards Charles.

Marigold looked up. “Oh,” She said, blinking. “I thought he’d been asleep by now.”

Harvey peered down at Charles. “Yeah. I s’ppose he’s taking a leaf out of our books and waiting for―”

And just like that, with little preamble save for a muted thud, the door to the Orphanage swung open. Hardly daring to believe Fate had lined up so well, it took Harvey a moment to turn to see who was there. Like magic, it was―

“―Harry!” Marigold exclaimed, moving to rise to her feet before noticing Eloise was still on her and stilling. “Good Lord, what happened to you?!”

And boy, wasn’t that the question of the hour? Standing in the doorway, covered in soot, scrapes, and burns, wearing shattered glasses and greying bandages, and with his black hair sticking up all over the place, there stood a gently swaying Harry Evans. Charles squealed in joy upon seeing him, completely ignorant to the mood. Harry stared at him, expressionless.

“I got blown up,” He said.

He was holding a baseball bat. Somehow this was the most absurd thing about his appearance. Harvey stared at it, speechless. At the silence that met his declaration, Harry even waved the bat and croaked, “Got this as a reward for not dying.” and then he dropped it on the ground with a clatter. A shard of his glasses fell to the floor with it, and he stared down at it, looking lost. “sh*t,” He mumbled. “That’s the third one.”

“Swear,” A sleepy voice mumbled, and Harvey watched, still struck mute, as Eloise slid off of Marigold and toddled right into Harry’s chest for a hug.

Harvey watched Harry’s arms tremble as they settled around her, and he looked down, still looking helplessly lost. “Hey, Eloise. Say, did Potato Pete’s bad luck wear off yet?”

Eloise’s eyes welled up. “I think so.”

Harry nodded jerkily, slowly. “Good.” He said, and then after a moment, repeated himself. “Good.”

Harvey exchanged a deeply worried glance with Marigold. And then, surprisingly, he got a similar look from Tom. Shocking Harvey further, it was actually Tom who took the first step.

“Evans,” He said, shuffling towards him. “You should...sit. I think.”

Harvey had never seen Tom look so uncertain, which was perhaps the best testament to how awful Harry looked.

“Sit?”

As if Tom had catalyzed her, Marigold stood and went to Harry, splaying an arm across his shoulders and gently steering him towards the couch she’d been lounging on with Eloise, who was regarding Harry curiously. “Yes, sit. Come sit―I’ll have Tom help Eloise get a bucket and cloth for you, and we could wipe all that dirt off of you. I bet it’s really heavy, huh?”

Harry stumbled towards the couch, and more fell than sat. The bat stayed on the ground, forgotten in the open doorway. He looked at her strangely.

“You look a lot like Petunia,” He said abruptly. “And it’s ash. On me. Loads of ash.”

Marigold grimaced. “Well, a flower name isn’t too far off the mark, I’ll give you that.” She said, politely ignoring what Harry had followed his first declaration with. “Tom, please, would you―?”

Tom didn’t say a word. Just turned heel, paused for Eloise, and left. Harvey hoped he was actually getting a bucket. Charles wriggled in Harvey’s grip and, despite knowing he’d get a disapproving glare from Marigold for doing it, he plonked Charles on the ground near Harry. As Harvey expected, Charles crawled right towards Harry, and tried to stand up using Harry’s leg as a pull-up, cooing happily.

Harry didn’t greet Charles. Just sat there, stony faced, empty. Charles held his arms up, signalling that he’d like for Harry to pick him up, but Harry didn’t move. Not for a while. It felt like a million years passed, with everyone in the room frozen, waiting for Harry to so much as twitch. But he didn’t. He just stayed, staring emptily down at Charles. Staring at him with eerie, empty green eyes. Harvey tried not to think about how much they looked like his own.

Harry only moved when Charles began to cry.

Stiffly, limbs jerking like they did when he went to hug Eloise back, Harry reached down with trembling hands and lifted Charles up. Placed him in his lap. And just as Tom came back with the promised bucket of water and Eloise close in tow, holding a ragged cloth, something seemed to crack in Harry’s face. Like egg whites sliding down the rim of a bowl, something like pain crept into the edges of it, bringing to life lines that had no place on a teenage boy’s face.

When Harry was clean enough to look human again and Charles was dozing into his shoulder, no one moved to stop him when he stood and said, voice cracking, “I’m going to put Charles down for bed.”

Instead, Marigold said, “It’s far past that time for Miss Eloise here, too. Come along.” And as she shepherded Eloise up and off the couch, blinking sleepily, she sent Harvey a very meaningful glance, co*cking her head towards Harry.

Harvey nodded minutely, and once Harry trailed listlessly down the hallway towards the nursery, Charles cradled carefully in his arms, Harvey followed, barely noticing Tom being left alone in the entryway.

“Put that bat somewhere sensible,” He muttered over his shoulder, looking towards the still-open front door, and left Tom behind.

He waited outside the door as Harry wandered, silent as a ghost, into the nursery. Waited til the rustling stopped before he stood away, expecting for Harry to come back out any moment so he could guide him to bed.

But he didn’t.

Just when Harvey was wondering if, perhaps, Harry had simply laid on the floor by Charles’ crib, he heard him speak.

“Why are you in the nursery?”

The stringent, strangled tone Harry used set the hairs on the back of Harvey’s neck upright. Instantly, it felt as though air raid sirens were going off in Harvey’s head, and his breath stilled.

The worst possible voice answered.

“Why, I’m helping Judith with the little ones. With all the time you spend minding that one, I’m sure you know how difficult they can be at night.”

It was Father Millard.

Harvey wasn’t proud of what happened next.

He never was, not when it came to what he did because of Father Millard.

He didn’t barrel into the room and whisk Harry away. He didn’t make a plot to draw Father Millard out of the room. He didn’t even go and find backup.

Like he’d been forced to do so many times before, Harvey stood there, and did nothing at all.

In fact, he stood right where he was, feet rooted to the ground, and he listened.

It was all he was ever able to do.

“I heard what happened today.” Father Millard said, his voice sounding almost sympathetic. “It must’ve been hard. Getting caught up in all of that... nasty business.”

“Well, it didn’t kill me.” Harry said stiffly.

“Yes. It didn’t.” Father Millard said.

There was nothing behind his voice. It shook something in Harvey. Silence rang, until Father Millard inhaled sharply.

“There’s a story I tell children like you. Ones who get caught up in...bad things.” He paused momentarily, and tacked on, “Like what you experienced today, for example.”

There, in that hallway, breathing shallowly and with a deep-seated, cold hatred roiling in his chest, Harvey listened to a story he knew like the back of his own hand.

“In this world, there are two... entities, so to speak. Lambs, and wolves. Most people―like you, or the other children of this orphanage―are lambs. Peaceful, innocent little things that do no wrong, and exist in bubbles. Perfect. Untainted. And…” And he paused, like he always did. “...naive. Foolish, and naive.”

Harry said nothing.

“And then, there are wolves. Evil, disgusting people who do bad, bad things. Like the Nazis, for example. And you hate wolves, don’t you?”

Still, Harry said nothing.

Undeterred, Father Millard continued. “That’s the obvious thing to do. They do bad things to lambs. Break them. Beat them. Eat them. Spill what you deem unnecessary blood.”

Father Millard began to pace. His boots clicked on the floor.

“But that’s the problem. You must understand, Harry, the blood these awful wolves spill...it’s not unnecessary at all. Why, I do believe it’s very necessary. There is evil in this world, hatred and betrayal. And lambs...you cannot be kept from it.”

“...And why is that?”

Goosepimples rose on Harvey’s arms, and he swallowed the lump in his throat.

“Because, dear boy, if lambs are kept from struggling, from the horrors of this world, they become... complicit. They never learn to fight. They never learn the value of struggling. They run amok, indulging themselves until the fragile balance that keeps this world together falls apart…caving under the weight of their greed.”

The room was still.

“Harry, you don’t have to like wolves. No one does. But what you must do, is accept them.” Father Millard paused, and then continued. “Because wolves, evil as they are, are necessary. They give lambs a healthy fear. Just enough to remind them of their place, of their role in keeping things the way they ought to be.”

And then, he laughed. “Why, they even help! Who else takes care of the crippled, useless lambs, after all? Who takes care of the most naive, pathetic lamb? Who picks out the worst of them, for the sake of all of them? The wolves.”

He sighed, then. “I hope this helped you understand, Harry. Why bad people―like those who started the war you got caught up in today, I suppose―are necessary. Necessary to balance the naivety of lambs. And I pray that you’ll keep this in mind when it comes to other bad people.”

He waited to speak. Drew it out. And then, he finished:

“After all, I’m sure we both can guess what happens to the loudest lambs.”

Harvey mouthed along the words he hated the most, and squeezed his eyes shut.

After the story sunk in, Father Millard breathed in deep. “Do you understand now, Harry? Why lambs need wolves?”

It took Harry a very, very long time to respond. Long enough for Harvey to believe, for a moment, that he might not say anything at all. But then, in the smallest voice, Harry said,

“I guess.”

“Good.” Father Millard said. “I’m glad we agreed on this.” And in the same way Harvey had always hated, he said, “Goodnight, Mr. Evans. I’ll pray for your burns to heal.”

And then he left.

He didn’t even notice Harvey standing there as he passed.

The silence buzzed in the Orphanage. Somewhere down the hall, he could hear someone clanking around in the bathroom. His eyes stung terribly.

When Harvey finally got his wits about him and walked into the nursery, Harry didn’t look at him. Didn’t even move when Harvey put his hand on his shoulder. They stood there together, by Charles’ crib, in pitch blackness. Just breathing. Listening to Charles breathe. Listening to all of the children breathe, ignorant to the horrors of the world. They both knew they’d see them soon enough.

“I hate this.” Harry said suddenly, voice punching out of him, and he didn’t speak again.

Harvey tried his best not to notice that Harry was crying silently next to him. Tried not to make it obvious that he was crying too. Just a little.

It was all he could do.

“I’m sorry, Harry.” He whispered, voice shaking. “I’m so sorry.”

It saw her, saw her fighting what could not be fought. When It approached her, pity was a distant thought.

Chapter 13: Thirteen.

Chapter Text

The way morning crested over Wool’s Orphanage the next day made the horrors of yesterday seem so fictitious.

Was it really such a short time ago that the world had caved in?

Tom pondered this as he lied in bed, struggling to identify what he was feeling. Some other early bird had already removed the blackout curtain from the window, and Tom spent much of his morning in bed, lost in thought and staring at the condensation dripping down the glass, just thinking.

He watched the sunlight refract off of the water, how it shone oddly into the room. Listened to feet pattering on the ground. Girls giggling, children shrieking and babbling. Shadows flitting outside. Random bangs and bumps―sometimes with shouts following them. At some point, the smell of food wafted into the room, rich and hot, and Tom...Tom was lost in that for what felt like hours.

Food had never smelled good before.

It had never tasted describably good, either. It was a non-factor; a simple, necessary cud to keep him moving. He could recognize what was good food and what was bad food, but he never comprehended it. And he had never wanted it, per say. Felt the need for it, yes. But wanted it? Not once. Until now.

Something had changed yesterday. Something deep and integral.

Tom knew what it was just as much as he really, really didn’t. It was quite confusing. Just when Tom was on the verge of working this out without confusing himself more, a sharp inhale somewhere near him startled him. He heard sheets rustle, and he turned his head towards the noise.

It seemed that Harry Evans was still in bed too.

Tom looked over his face, not thinking of much at all. Just observing what he saw. Evans was panting softly, and Tom could see sweat shining on his brow. Like the condensation on the window. His lips, full, were mumbling inaudibly. His eyebrows were creased.

Tom had spent his entire life staring at faces and feeling a whole lot of nothing. But now, looking at Evans, something was there. Squirming in his chest in a way that wasn’t fully unpleasant. He could recall wiping the wet rag down Evans’ face, watching soot come off on it. Had that really been just scant hours ago?

“Hey.” He called on a whim.

Evans didn’t jump. His knee jumped, and his head just jerked a bit, as if towards the direction of the sound. He huffed a shallow breath that Tom could’ve sworn he felt right against his ears. He made a low noise, and Tom watched him kick at the blankets pooled around his knees. His eyebrows creased further, but he did not open his eyes. His hand searched the mattress. Tom looked at the bandage on his right hand, and realized he’d only seen him without it once. When they first met. Somehow that seemed important.

“Are you...too cold?”

Evans made another low noise, as if to say ‘yes’, and he kept kicking. He kept at it until the kicking tapered off into pathetic little half-kicks, until it stopped entirely. His left foot was now sticking out, even more out of the blankets than it had been before, and he watched Evans’ toes curl as he made a short, frustrated little huff. ‘Cute’, came to mind.

He wasn’t sure why that was, either. He’d never thought anything was cute before. He also didn’t know why, with a petty flick of his fingers, he used a burst of wandless magic to pull the sheets back up over Evans, tucking him in firmly. The action made him feel warmer, somehow.

He couldn’t even help the strangest twitch in his lips when Evans sighed, almost in relief. The twitch lingered when Evans eyes crinkled open, glassy and somewhat confused. The light hit them dead-on, making him cringe, but Tom was too caught up staring at the green of his eyes to notice. It was just...so vibrant. Like the grass blades under the bridge he always sat beneath. Such a peculiar color, inlaid in a body like that. But not terrible.

They were...pretty, even.

He watched Evans peer at him―watched him squint, as if he wasn’t sure what he was seeing. Tom glanced at his shattered glasses, left pitifully on the nightstand, and figured that he actually probably couldn’t see after all. Another flick of his wrist―and they were fixed. He didn’t know why he did that, either. But the warmness increased. Like a sunray beaming straight in his chest. Or out of it.

“Thanks,” Evans croaked more than mumbled. Tom didn’t know what he was referring to.

He held Evans’ stare―it had grown more than a little sleepy-looking. Evans shuffled down into his blankets, until just his eyes remained above his coverings. ‘Cute’ came to mind again. He felt, somewhere, that maybe he ought to be more worried about this, but the green of Evans' eyes kept him thoroughly occupied. Perhaps too occupied.

“Go to sleep, Harry.” He muttered.

Evans shut his eyes accordingly, the most obedient Tom had seen him in the scarce two weeks he’d been here, and he then burrowed so thoroughly in his blankets that he was barely visible. Like a caterpillar in a cocoon. For the first time in his life, the smile―for that had been the twitch in his lips all along, it seemed―Tom suppressed wasn’t a mean one.

When Evans’ breaths slowed back down into the even ones of sleep, though perhaps shorter and quicker than usual, Tom went back to staring at the condensation on the window. It seemed Tom could lay in bed like that all day, listening to the steady puffs of breath that came from Evans, watching water trail down the glass, feeling the softness of his sheets, and just being.

Tom was lost.

So utterly lost. But not in a bad way. It was only once a weight pressed down on the edge of his bed and a hand, warm and steady, came down to rest on his blanketed calf that he came back to himself again.

“Tom?”

With an almost languid speed, Tom pulled his cheek away from his pillow, hair tickling the back of his neck. It was such a noticeable sensation, now. He took in the sight of Harvey Evans sitting on his bed. He looked concerned. His eyes were green, too. A bit like Harry Evans, but not quite as bright. Perhaps they were related.

“You alright?” Harvey asked in an oddly soft tone, squeezing the hand that was over Tom’s calf. “You’ve been in bed all day. That’s not like you.”

And it was true. Normally, Tom was up and at it at the crack of dawn, slicing away at the day with a pointless ferocity. Spending as little time as necessary performing a function he found useless, just to get up and do more useless things to distract himself from the fact that it was indeed all useless. Like a machine. A cold, metal, heartless machine.

Tom had been cold his whole life. Now, he was warm. Inexplicably, impossibly warm. Or getting there.

“I felt like it. Today.” He said, unable to think of anything else to respond with.

That was exactly the problem, he realized. He felt.

He looked up at Harvey, who’s green, green eyes were glittering, creased. He didn’t look convinced. Tom wished he could say something to make him understand―and that was just another thing that Tom did not know the ‘why’ of. Tom had never wished to do something like that. Or, maybe once he had, once a million years ago, when he was younger and stupider, but he couldn’t recall.

He couldn’t ever recall feeling like this. It was new, and Tom didn’t have words for it. Everyone else did, he was sure, but he had never needed them. Not until now. And now that he needed them, they were lost. Lodged somewhere in a distant dream he’d once had and one day accepted he’d never achieve.

Incorrectly, of course.

Tom had never been so wrong in his life.

“I’m alright,” He said finally, at a loss, and not even Tom was convinced by his own tone.

He didn’t know what he was.

Harvey just smiled at him, in a bitter, pained sort of way, and sighed. “Yeah, fair. It...yesterday was pretty rough, wasn’t it?”

Tom stared at nothing for a minute. For a moment, he could swear he was in the Underground again, with those pebbles pinging out of his hair.

“You don’t know even half of it,” He said, sitting up.

He looked to the right. Evans was still in his cocoon, barely visible.

Not for the first time, Tom thought, with a twist in his chest, ‘Just what did you do to me?’

Harvey followed his gaze, and in his peripherals, Tom noticed his eyebrows shoot up. “Oh.” He muttered, standing. Tom could feel his weight leave the bed without even looking. “And there’s the other person I’ve been looking for all day. Funny, that.”

“What time is it?” Tom asked, not actually curious or worried, but feeling that he ought to know anyway.

Harvey gave him a wry, amused look. “Around two.” Now it was Tom’s turn to shoot his eyebrows up. “I hope you’re prepared for double baby duty tomorrow to make up for staying in bed all day.”

“Well, at least I’ve got Evans to commiserate with,” Tom said, knowing Harvey wouldn’t know what “commiserate” meant.

Sure enough, he rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, why don’t you take you and your big boy words to the loo to freshen up before the girls jump you for skimping out on today’s work?” He leveled a faux-stern look. He said, very gravely, “Might be your last ten or so minutes with working kneecaps if they’re as rowdy as I think they are.”

Tom had a very vivid mental image of either Marley or Evelyn kicking his legs backwards and suppressed a good shudder. The girls here were very mean; Tom wouldn’t put that past them. Perhaps Harvey had a point. But just as Tom was about to leave the room to follow Harvey’s advice, the latter turned to murmur to Evans, and he heard Harvey mumble a short oath.

Tom paused. It wasn’t his business. He had never cared before.

He pivoted all the same, and peered over at Harvey, who was hovering over Harry’s bed. “What is it?”

Harvey looked at him, clear concern on his face. He watched him grimace, and then―turning back to Evans―brush his wild hair off his face to feel around his face. It took Tom a minute to get the memo, and it was only further confirmed when Harvey said,

“He’s warm. Like, really warm. I―er―I dunno if it’s a fever because, well…” He gestured at Evans’ skin and it took Tom a second to get it. “A flush is the usual cue, f’r me. Bit hard to tell with this one.”

sh*t.

“If he’s too warm, he’s too warm.” Tom said, with a strange sense of guilt. It took him a minute to pinpoint why, but then it hit him upside the head―he’d been the one to tuck Evans in. Normally he wouldn’t care, but....Tom bit the inside of his cheek. “Try...Try wrestling him out of his blankets?”

“Yeah, that’s not a bad idea.” Harvey said, like he’d been expecting one, and he went for the corner of the blanket that Evans had wedged beneath himself, trying to tug it off.

This was clearly easier said than done, Tom noticed, watching in faint... something as Harvey eventually resorted to trying to pry the blankets off of Evans. Note the use of “pry”, as that was the only word Tom could think of to describe what it looked like. The second Harvey had tried to gingerly lift the blankets, Evans seized the blankets in a death grip and absolutely refused to let go. This went on for several minutes with Tom standing there on the sidelines, utterly useless.

“Harry, mate, you’re boiling in there.” Harvey eventually snapped, and his voice grew more strained as he tried yet again with a white-knuckled grip. “C’mon, now.”

Of course, this was when Harvey lost his grip, and damn near capsized on the ground. Harvey stared at Evans, looking quite dismayed. He sighed in a very put upon way, shaking his head.

“Harry. I’m not going to let you roast yourself alive. Please.”

Finally, Evans poked his head out of his blankets, eyes still glassy, and croaked in the smallest voice, “Ron?”

Somehow, Tom did not think mistaking Harvey for someone else was a good sign.

Harvey cast him a very pointed look. “Right. New tactic.”

And then he stood, and Tom watched―very bemused―as Harvey wrestled an arm beneath Evans in his knee area, and behind where his neck ought to be. He wondered, briefly, if Harvey was going to catapult Evans off the bed, but he understood what he was actually doing very quickly when, with almost insulting ease, Harvey lifted Evans straight off the bed in a bridal hold―and began to spin him in a circle.

Tom had seen this used on the younger children several times to cheer them up when they were under the weather―or just wake them up in general. For some reason, watching Harvey do this to another boy who (while substantially shorter than him and Harvey) was the same age as them both was absurdly... funny?

Tom, without thinking much about it, laughed . Because he thought it was funny.

Harvey stopped dead when he heard it, and stared at Tom in bewilderment. Tom stared right back, feeling much the same. The silence stretched for a moment, interrupted only briefly from a pathetically small sneeze that came from the bundle of blankets Harvey was holding up.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you laugh before.” Harvey blurted, sounding almost aghast.

Tom hadn’t either. That was what made this moment so monumental. He’d fake-laughed so many times in his life that he’d perfected it, but this…

This was new.

Almost exactly fifteen years (with one to three months’ worth of spare change) beyond the late-most milestone age, Tom Marvolo Riddle laughed for the very first time in his life, and the realization damn near floored him. It was yet another baffling, previously completely implausible thing had happened. It was damn near too much to bear.

Evans’ little mumble that he wanted to be put down, please, did very little to distract Tom.

He turned heel and, refusing to look Harvey in the eyes, walked as fast as he could out of the room without it being embarrassing. He made a beeline straight to the communal bathroom and, almost panicked, stopped right in front of the mirror. Took a peek at himself. Facial features that had once been nigh indistinguishable stood out to him now, like his own eye, and the sight of it, of all the little dots in his face, of every pigment that came encroaching around him nearly knocked him over.

“This isn’t supposed to happen,” He said to no one, voice so much calmer than he felt.

It didn’t make sense. It didn’t make any sense.

Why now? Why now? Why was this―why was feeling only happening now, right when he’d finally convinced himself it never would?

Why did it hurt?

Harry groaned low in his throat as he struggled back into consciousness in full, feeling very disoriented and sick. His head swam nauseatingly as he pried open his gummy eyes, and he coughed pitifully as he roused, head throbbing in tandem with every one of them. He would’ve rolled over onto his side if he could, as he felt much hotter than he ever wanted to, but he couldn’t.

“Easy there, Harry.” A voice rumbled in a low, indistinguishable voice, making his cheek vibrate, and he jerked a little.

“What…” He looked around, seeing the world from a much different vantage point than usual. “.. .What?”

It took Harry an embarrassingly long time to work out that someone was carrying him like a princess. Blinking dumbly, he squinted up at whoever was doing it, trying to figure out who the hell it was. He felt, for a moment, that he should be panicking much more than he was, but he was still a little laggy. Like he wasn’t quite all there.

He squirmed in the mystery person’s arms, feeling the soft material of whatever blanket he was trapped in grating against his tender skin. It was distinctly unbearable. He huffed in rising agitation. Every single inch of his body felt like Vernon had finally snapped and run him over several times with the family car (like he had threatened more times than seemed altogether healthy) and he sighed, feeling his lungs ache and rattle with mucus as he did so.

“I can’t see sh*t, who are you?” He said dumbly, trying to squint again.

It looked quite a bit like Harvey, but it couldn’t be―that’d be completely absurd―

“Hullo, Harry.” Harvey’s voice said very distinctly this time.

...Alright.

“Please put me down.” Harry said, blinking quickly.

Harvey made a series of muffled grunts as he heaved himself downwards, and Harry occupied himself with praying that Harvey wouldn’t drop him―especially when Harvey misjudged his proximity to the bed and almost took himself down with Harry. It was only Harry throwing out an arm (full-body socking his blanket in the process) to seize the bed that kept them from capsizing entirely, and Harvey laughed breathlessly as he all but bodily shoved Harry on his bed.

Harry fisted the fitted sheet, thoroughly discombobulated and still trying to process the fact that he was awake. Slowly, he lowered his face til his forehead was resting on the mattress, and he breathed out slowly as it throbbed. At this, Harry gave up on life and slumped over onto his side, head too fuzzy and empty to think of much else rather than “what the f*ck just happened and why does my head hurt”

There was a brief lull before Harvey said, voice muffled, “You’re not even going to ask why I was carrying you?”

Harry thought about that for a while, and decided it was too early to think about sh*t and promptly stopped. “Ask me that again when it’s noon.”

“It’s two.”

Harry lifted his head and stared at the distant, incredibly fuzzy wall. “In the morning?”

“In the afternoon, mate.”

What.

Harry took a while to process that.

Two...in the afternoon. When was the last time Harry slept in that late? Never, probably.

A sudden thought came to mind and Harry damn near jackknifed upright, whipping around and falling back down on his elbows. “Oh f*cking f*ck, where’s Charles?”

The words came out far more slurred than he wanted and Harry tried his damndest to get his sh*t together. ‘ Harry, focus. Stop being stupid. Where is the baby.’

Instead of answering him immediately, Harvey sank on Harry’s bed with a sigh. “You’ve really taken a liking to Suicide Baby, huh?” He poked Harry on his exposed side, making him squirm. “Are we going to need to be worried about you running off with him when you go to your big-man school?”

Father Millard flashed in Harry’s mind, and he squinted. Maybe glared would’ve been a better word to use. “Quite possibly.”

Harvey just laughed. “I believe it. He’s fine; I think Reuben’s keeping an eye on him today―”

“―And now that you’re back in the land of the living, he’s not anymore.” Someone said quickly from clear across the room, sounding more than a little ragged. “Hi. Hello. Been here for a couple minutes, but Evans, I don’t know what kind of evil magic you have that makes you able to watch this one every day, but my gosh it’s made me forget how horrible it was when I did it all the time. He’s tried to kill himself at least six times today and it’s―it’s hardly a couple hours into the afternoon. I’m dying here, mate.”

Harry beamed when he heard Charles squealing and tried to sit up a little better. Rapid footsteps approached the bed, and he accepted (who he was reasonably sure was) Reuben dumping Charles on his bed. He reached over to put a hand on one of Charles’ little feet. He almost reached for his glasses, but remembered suddenly that they had shattered yesterday.

It felt like a stone dropped in his stomach.

sh*t.

This wasn’t good. ‘Guess I’m blind til I go back to Hogwarts,’ He thought bleakly, trying to be okay with that. He had his wand, yeah, and he was sure he could fix them with a single tap...but he couldn’t use magic outside of school, and Harvey had already seen them broken. And Marley. And Edith. And Tom.

Alright. What now?

Harry was very, very useless without his glasses. Like. Useless. He used the hand that wasn’t holding onto Charles’ foot to scrub at his face, and shook his head. ‘Break it down in steps, Potter.’ First order of business...let people know he was now blind for just over a month now?

“Y’know, I’d love to watch him now, but if I’m not wrong, I think my glasses are out of commission.” Harry said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck and coughing slightly. “When I got―erm― blownupeyesterday, they shattered pretty good. Bit hard to watch someone when I can barely see my own hand.” Now that Harry was thinking of it, he was amazed he hadn’t accidentally killed himself on the way here yesterday, wandering back in the dead of night. There was something to be said for muscle memory, it seemed.

Instead of the sympathy Harry was expecting, something else happened.

“What are you talking about?” Reuben said, sounding puzzled. Harry was just about to explain that he was blind as sh*t without his glasses, but then Reuben immediately followed with, “They’re right there, aren’t they?” There was a small scrape, and a tongue click. “They look fine to me.”

Harry gaped at Reuben, and gingerly, he reached out for his glasses, cradling them in his palms. He thumbed the glass, and found it intact. Then regretted thumbing it, as now there was a large fingerprint in the center of the glass. Slowly, haltingly, he shoved them on his face, and voila, he was no longer blind (other than, again, in the space where his thumbprint was). He squinted, thinking. He distinctly remembered these being shattered. Erm. ‘You’re a wizard, dumbass.’ He thought suddenly, and blinked. Oh.

“OH. You had another pair of glasses, I guess.” Harvey said suddenly, voice sounding a little stilted. “That’s smart of you. Good thing they wound up on the―er―on the night table, eh?”

Harry couldn’t remember fixing these, but...well. He must’ve. The only other wizard here who could’ve was Riddle, but...

Harry looked up. Looked around.

“Where’d Riddle run off to?” He said slowly.

It was sad that it was weird to not have a second shadow for once.

“I dunno.” Harvey shrugged, looking perturbed to some small degree. “He laughed―honest to goodness laughed―at me spinnin’ you around, looked really horrified with himself, and booked it out of the room. Might just be freshening up in the bathroom.”

Reuben began to laugh, but tapered off. “Wait, why were you spinning him? Isn’t that what we do with the little ones?”

Harvey looked faintly embarrassed, ears growing pink. Harry felt a distinct sympathy for him; his ears burned like that too when he was embarrassed. Thankfully, it didn’t happen often. He watched Harvey pick at the lint on his sheet.

“He wasn’t waking up. Didn’t know what else to do, did I?”

Reuben exchanged a look with Harry. “So you hefted him up and just went at it?”

Harvey swoggled his head and looked to the side, like he was mocking Reuben in his mind. “S’not like it was hard. Lookit him.”

Harry immediately put a hand over Reuben’s eyes. “He can’t, he’s blind.” He said primly, prodding Charles’s stomach to prompt a laugh.

All of them erupted into laughter, Harry’s more half-hearted than usual. He rubbed at his throat with his free hand when it began to tickle uncomfortably midway through it. This action was not missed―he watched Reuben frown out of the corner of his eye.

“I thought your hand was weirdly warm. Are you ill?” He asked.

Harry shrugged a shoulder, keeping his eyes on Charles. “A bit. Probably just a headcold from yesterday’s…” Harry struggled for a word, and wound up with a lame, “...excitement.”

“Harry, you literally got blown up.”

Harry cast Harvey a withering look as Reuben went stark white. “Did I die, though?”

“Blimey!” Reuben hissed, seizing Charles. “Mate! If I knew that, I wouldn’ta thrown suicide baby at you! Gosh al-bloody-mighty! How did you survive that?”

“Apparently well enough to put out fires afterwards.” Harry said, a bit more bitterly than he wanted to.

“Past curfew?”

Harvey’s face had closed off. Harry blinked, thinking. Yeah, that had gone on til after curfew, hadn’t it? He held his hands palm-out in some facsimile of a shrug.

“You got blown up and you put out fires?” Reuben reemphasized, and when his words were met with nothing but an embarrassed stare from Harry, his jaw dropped. “Mate, I know patriotism is important, but I don’t think Britain needs that much. Gosh al mighty!”

Harry hunched down, just enough for him to give up and flop on his back. “Well, what was I supposed to do when they gave me a bucket of sand? Throw it at them?”

“ Yes.” Harvey said in a surprisingly terse, angry voice. “Yes, you should’ve. You―they just―”

Harry stared. Coughing a bit, he put a too-warm hand on Harvey’s knee. “I was fine.”

“You got caught in a direct bomb blast!”

Harry went to exchange a look with Reuben again, but this time, he was met with horror. “They should’ve given you a shock blanket and some water, not a bucket of sand.” He said, sounding faint. “Mate. They really did that to you?”

Harry pressed his lips flat in aggravation. “I wasn’t injured.” He pointedly ignored the bandage on his hand. “Just… had a nasty shock, ‘s all. I’m okay, now.”

Reuben drew Charles into his own lap in full. “I’ll believe you tomorrow morning, yeah?”

Harry sighed deep. Great. “You’re going to make me go back to bed?”

“Yep.” Reuben said, popping the ‘p’. “Harvey, stop being angry and go get him something light to eat, ‘nd some water too. I’ll make sure he doesn’t go out and get himself blown up again.”

Harvey nodded, apparently now mute with rage, and stood. Harry watched him leave the room like there was a hefty stick up his ass. Then, he scoffed loudly in realization.

“I never even got socks.”

Charles began to laugh.

An indiscernible expanse of time passed by Harry and he woke sporadically, feeling less and less like ass every time he did. He had no idea how long he’d been sleeping, left only with a smattering of snapshot memories of being borderline force-fed soup, holding on to Charles at one point which may have resulted in Marley yelling(?), and a cat curling on his pillow before being shooed away by another unknown party, among other things. At some point, he drifted off to sleep in full.

Unlike falling asleep, waking up was not nearly as easy. In fact, there was no ceremony nor was there any form of warning to be found in the way Harry jerked awake. Something like white-hot terror―but not quite that brave―lanced through his chest alongside a heaviness that he elected to ignore, and it was only once Harry managed to wrench himself out of those second hand feelings that he noticed he was drenched in a cold sweat and trembling.

He huffed out sharply, and struggled in his bed sheets, trying to sit upright but wound up opting for a half-slouch when he found himself too tangled in his blanket. He spent a short time shaking his head vigorously as if to force the inexplicable fear from his mind.

Once he felt he’d done that enough, he scrubbed a sweaty palm over his equally sweaty face, and looked out the window. Or, tried to. The blackout curtain was in the way. If that was up, it meant it was well into the night. So, the best guess he had in terms of how long he’d been down for the count was that it was very dark outside, and it had not been dark when he’d conked out.

Either way, a whole day had passed on by, it seemed. Lovely. Sighing, Harry wriggled out of his blankets just enough to breathe before listlessly flopping onto his back again. “f*ck.”

He groaned low in his throat, trying to beat back disorientation with a mental stick and only finding mild success. His head swam nauseatingly as he coughed pitifully, head throbbing in tandem with every one of them. He rolled over onto his side, suddenly feeling hotter than he wanted to and tried to struggle out of his sheets in full, annoyed. This wouldn’t do.

With some modicum of strain, Harry heaved himself upright, feeling balmy but unpleasantly chapped, like someone had rubbed his skin with some sandpaper but then turned a blowdryer on him on the low setting in recompense. He wondered, vaguely, where Charles might’ve gone while he was out. He could remember the baby being in the bed with him at one point, but that was fuzzy at best. At least he probably did his job a bit today. Since that was what he was supposed to be doing―looking after Charles. Wasn’t it?

This was right when Harry remembered Father Millard, and remembered his f*cked up story.

He froze. Went ramrod rigid. At once, white hot panic flooded him at once, because where had Charles gone? It didn’t hit quite as hard as it should’ve because he was still feeling off, but it was enough to send him haplessly stumbling out of bed, trembling on his legs and trying hard not to tip over.

Somehow, it was just so vitally important that he found Charles, and that he did it rightthef*cknow. As quietly as he could possibly manage so as not to wake the multitude of orphans who he shared a living space with, Harry crept across the room and opened the door. It creaked softly as it opened in full and Harry shuddered involuntarily when a gust of cool, musty air wisped around his naked shoulders and ankles.

He looked down the hallway with some measure of trepidation, the walls yawning upwards and contorting strangely in the inky blackness of night, but he had to find Charles, make sure that sonofabitchbastardmotherf*ckerpieceofsh*t man hadn’t laid a goddamned finger on him or any of the other kids, so he took a step out. His bare feet plodded softly on the hardwood, audible only to himself and only barely, so he quickened, throwing his hand out to grasp the wall for balance when he almost fell. He’d managed to drag himself almost a quarter-way down the hallway when he heard it.

A baby was crying.

Moving faster than he’d previously thought he was capable of, Harry hurried down the hallway with a single-minded focus.

It was only when he was scant steps away that he heard the humming.

A low, drawling hum. Like an attempt at a lullaby, but with no inflection behind it. No feeling. Hollow. It made the hairs on Harry’s arms stick straight up and he paused. Stopped just before the threshold of the door. A dark, dreadful feeling sank deep into Harry’s chest, not unlike the dread he felt in the darkness of Hogwarts just weeks ago. It was just as amplified, bigger. Deeper.

Somewhere inside, Harry knew that if he walked into the nursery, he would be in terrible danger.

But Charles was there.

This was not the first crossroads Harry had faced in his life. It would be far from the last. No matter what the case may be, Harry had to make a choice at this moment, standing in the pitch blackness of the orphanage hall.

If it was just Harry, he would’ve turned heel and walked away. He had no business walking into a room that reeked of danger to himself. He wouldn’t have cared enough to investigate at all. Nothing would have been in the balance―nothing would’ve been contingent on the choices he made.

But there were children in that room.

Twenty-three little children, one of which whom he’d grown to care for quite a bit.

If Harry didn’t walk in. If Harry left that room alone, that room that made the hairs on his arms stand straight up. If Harry left those children, orphaned and unwanted like himself, to whatever might be inside there…

He stepped inside the room.

Years and years after now, he would still lie awake at night, wondering what things might have been like if he hadn’t. He’d spend just as much time wishing, somewhere inside, that it was a decision he didn’t feel he had to make. He’d mourn the time that followed this night, brief as it would be. Mourn what he’d sacrifice. All the same, Harry would vehemently refuse to regret it.

Father Millard was inside.

“Somehow, I didn’t expect to see you again.” Father Millard said to him, toneless.

In the darkness of the room, Father Millard seemed like a formless mass of blackness, looming up out of the murk like an enemy tower in a storm. It was like the shadows clung to him, melted into him. Made him bigger. Insurmountable.

Harry swallowed. Hard. “It’s late, Father.” He croaked.

“It is.”

“Shouldn’t you be home?”

It was then that Harry noticed that Father Millard was holding a baby. In the darkness of the room, he couldn’t tell who it was. His guts went cold. He knew what Millard did to children in the dark.

“It’s my duty to take care of the wretches,” Millard said.

A lump grew in Harry’s throat.

“No,” He said, twitching towards Millard. Towards the baby in his arms. “I―I do believe it’s mine. It’s all of ours―the erm. The bigger kids. So―So, if you’d give me them. You could leave.” His voice cracked. “Get some sleep.”

“Ah. But I don’t want to leave, Harry.”

Harry froze. His breath stilled.

“I want you to leave.” He said suddenly, breathing shallowly. “So you―you can rest.”

The lack of sound made his skin crawl. Silence meant something was about to happen, but nothing ever did. It was the worst sound Harry could’ve imagined for that moment. He wanted to hear banging, slamming, and crashing. He wanted feet to stomp on the stairs, he wanted hands slapping the wall, he wanted to hear someone screaming across the orphanage.

Any sound, any sound at all. Anything that could possibly convince him that here, in this moment, he did not exist in a vacuum with a monster. With every passing second that nothing happened, that no one made a f*cking sound, his chest got tighter and tighter and suddenly, he almost wanted to start crying.

He was scared.

“Perhaps we could come to a deal, Harry.” Father Millard said. Harry could hear the edge in his tone.

“A deal?”

“It’s a simple... arrangement.”

Harry said nothing. He didn’t think he could.

“You’re worried about these children. I understand that. However, I also understand that if there was something else... someone else that could keep whatever you’re worried about... interested, why, I’m sure that might be enough to keep them safe .” Silence. Tense, buzzing silence. “Don’t you agree, Harry?”

Harry wasn’t stupid.

He knew what Millard was asking him to agree to.

Harry looked towards Charles’ crib, hands freezing.

A deal with the devil. It was hard to make the decision just as much as it really, really wasn’t.

“I think I could.” He whispered, still staring at Charles’ crib. “But I’d need a promise.” He swallowed the lump in his throat, trying to will back the burning in his eyes.

“Oh, I promise, Harry. With you standing in their way, I’m sure no harm would come to these children.”

It seemed at once that there were a thousand voices in the shadows, urging Harry, don’t. Don’t do it. Turn around. Walk away. This isn’t your business. This isn’t your time. You have no place in the history here. You don’t need to get hurt. Stop. No.

No, no, no.

Harry’s neck prickled.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from Charles’ crib. His breaths came shallow.

No, no, no.

Don’t.

He squeezed his eyes shut, and he nodded slowly.

It was like the entire room froze instantly, stuck in a glacier that hovered over the abyss of the ocean. Harry felt so very close to falling.

He could hear his heartbeat in his ears, thundering in the silence that swamped the room. For a long time―too long―the only sound in the room was that, and a strange, ragged breathing. Then, Millard said, voice low and almost... hungry,

“Go put her down in her crib. And then come here.”

Harry took the baby from Millard’s arms. Did his best not to cringe at the way the man ran his fingers over Harry’s wrist bone. He held the baby girl, nameless and formless in the darkness, heart hammering in his chest. If he put her down, he’d have to go back. For a moment, he wished he’d never have to. That he could bolt from the room with her in his arms, bolt into the night, and never come back.

But there were other children here. He put her down in her crib, hands trembling. He watched her limbs wriggle in the darkness, burrowing into her threadbare blanket. His eyes burned.

“Good, Harry.” Father Millard said, tone warped into some facsimile of praise. With a rustle of fabric, his hand fell like dead weight on Harry’s shoulder. “You’re so... good.”

Harry will not describe what happened next.

He has stripped himself to the bone and laid himself bare to you already, shown you some of his darkest moments. This would not be one of the ones he shared. It did not deserve to be considered, thought about, or written. You will not know the details. You will not know the hopelessness he felt that night, bent over that crib. You will not know what he thought. You will not know what he heard, what he saw, what he felt, what he smelled, what he tasted.

Every detail of what happened that night, and what would happen to him deserved to be swallowed in the darkness of that nursery. Lost in an orphanage that no one cared about with orphans no one cared about either, gone and lost forever in the unfathomable blackness of that room. Every last one. They deserved to be erased. He would erase them.

This was a scar he would never allow anyone else to see.

Not even you.

When it was done, when it was over and the Devil laid back down to rest, Harry postponed his own. He waited, tears on his face for the second time in as many nights in that nursery, and shook until it seemed he might break into a million pieces on the spot. He spent so long in that nursery, cold, and alone. So terribly, horrifyingly alone, left only with a lingering touch.

And then he swallowed it all down.

He let it burn to death in the hatred that only just began to scorch the depths of his very God damned soul, and he stilled himself. He told no one at all that this would not be it. That this would not be his undoing. That he would not take this any quieter than he had to. That he’d do this until he found a way, and that until then, he would be stronger than this. People needed him to be.

‘ I need to be stronger than this. For them.’

He looked down into the crib, throat tight.

Because no one else can be.

He wiped his face. Forced steel into his spine. As he always did, he stood again.

And yet.

That night, Harry brought Charles, still sniffling, all the way back to the boy’s sleeping quarters. His arms trembled the whole way―the only part of himself he could not make still. He laid that baby down on his bed with utmost care, keeping a hand on him at all times, and tried to crawl in.

As he stood on the edge of his bed, foot scraping the floor beneath, he felt his toes brush something smooth and wooden. It rolled, the only sound aside from his own ragged breathing that pierced the silence of the room.

His heart thudded in his ears.

He couldn’t. He couldn’t do it.

Harry swallowed, wondering how long it would take for those words to feel hollow. He didn’t know what he hoped―if they would or wouldn’t. He just laid down. Tucked Charles into his arms, close and secure. Felt his heartbeat, listened to him breathe. Refused to let the noise of the bat beneath his bed haunt him anymore.

‘I’m doing this for you. For you, for you, for you.’

It was so…quiet.

Millions of nonexistent miles away, held steadfast in the embrace of a Fate, a Time, a Reason, a Home that warped and writhed with every event in every other world, the Arthur Weasley who loved our Harry Potter so dearly laid awake in bed.

His heart pounded in his chest, just as it had since the night before. He kept his wife’s hand clutched in his own―his only lifeline. He felt her eyes on the side of his face, which he knew was tight and pale.

Out of the corner of his eye, he swore he could see familiar―so disgustingly familiar―long, flowing locks of silvery hair. The fabric of a shimmering, floor-length dress with sleeves down to bony elbows flickered in and out of sight, quick enough to drive him mad with the idea that perhaps it had never been there at all. All the same, he could hear a rich, deep sort of voice.

It was weeping.

Whether she saw the ghost in the room or not, whether or not she cared, did not matter―Molly spoke softly to him all the same. “Arthur. Please. You have to go to sleep, darling.”

Arthur wanted to. If only to rid his eyes of the sight of that awful specter that did not―could not exist. But his eyes refused to shut. His heart refused to calm. He lay awake, frozen.

He heard tears plip on the pillowcase. “His funeral is tomorrow. Please, Arthur. I need you―I need you there.” Her voice caught on a sob, and Arthur felt something crack.

He rolled over, and bundled the shattered pieces of his wife into his shuddering arms. And that was how he laid all night.

Tormented with the sound of two women mourning in his room.

The ring was her legacy, a monument to an ill-fated victory. A boon that belies great misery.

Chapter 14: Interlude III: Neville's Glory

Chapter Text

“I can't believe it. It's Harry Potter's bloody funeral, and this entire day, the sky hasn’t had the decency to spare a single drop of rain. For shame."

This was how, on a cold and gray day in March, Fred Weasley opened his eulogy. His voice cracked halfway through it, but that didn't even slightly diminish how completely indignant he sounded. To cap off the statement, he looked skyward with an expression of total derision, and made the universal gesture of "what-the-f*ck".

Believe it or not, this series of events actually managed to startle a couple laughs out of the attendees of the Boy Who Up and Died Out Of Nowhere’s funeral, including one Hermione Granger—whose immediate comical expression of horror got a couple additional people to do it as well. Nonetheless, for once, Fred wasn’t fully joking—the sky had indeed been gray all day with absolutely nothing to show for it.

Really, for all of March 3rd, there’d hardly been any weather to speak of at all. No sun. No humidity. No wind. And of course, no rain. Nothing but an endless expanse of writhing, dark clouds that hung above them, clouds that stubbornly refused to weep. It was almost as if the world had frozen, paralyzed with shock not unlike the one that had swept across the Wizarding world when the Prophet learned and divulged the news that Harry Potter, the boy known quite well for living, had been declared dead .

Neville Longbottom could remember precisely where he was when he found out that his favorite roommate of five entire years was no longer among them. He could remember it with such startling clarity that sometimes he worried that the feeling of dread that had sloughed over him that day would never disappear after all.

It was such a vivid, clear memory in his head, in fact, that he knew―with full confidence―exactly which socks he’d been wearing. This, one might understand, was quite the feat, considering his socks hadn’t matched at the time. It was that thought that made Neville crack a half-smirk at Harry’s funeral, as he privately considered that perhaps he could’ve pulled off a speech like Fred’s was shaping to be. The sock joke would’ve gotten people to laugh too, Neville thought, especially if he finished with “not that I could ever beat him in the realm of horrendous socks. I’ll miss his one tartan and one bright blue ‘set’. I’m still convinced he wore that combination simply to see my look of disgust.”

But, Neville thought, watching but not hearing Fred, who was he kidding, anyway? No one had any hope of beating the Weasley charm. It didn’t matter anyway―Neville’s speech wasn’t going to be for everyone. What he was going to share…Harry wouldn’t have wanted it like that. So he’d wait. In the meantime, Neville planned only to try to focus and not feel the intense weight of the letters in the satchel by his feet.

“I always thought Harry was a bit of a seer, you know?” Was what Neville tuned back into. He looked up at Fred, and watched his fingers drum nervously on the podium. “Because he―he always just kind of knew sh*t―sorry, mum― stuff, you know? ”

A mental image of Molly Weasley scourgifying her son’s mouth on-stage at a funeral came to mind so vividly that Neville cracked a smile again.

“It was a variety of things too. Like. He’d say “ You’re Fred, and that’s George,” whenever we tried to punk him, and he was never wrong. Or he’d look in the room and say “Who died?” if anyone was ever upset, like he just got a whiff of the air and knew something was wrong. Or he’d look off at nothing in the house and mutter something to the effect of, “Something horrible is going to happen to me this school year,” and whaddaya know? Never wrong.”

That last joke made Ron huff a laugh so hard that Neville felt his breath on his elbow. Neville ignored this and looked over at Molly Weasley as Fred carried on, and the mental image he had fizzled away and died at the sight of her half-tucked into Arthur’s side. They both looked so pale and thin, like a hefty gust of wind would send them skyward. It was such a far cry from the jovial, red-faced-and-haired people he knew that Neville’s stomach clenched. Not for the first time, he was grateful for Matthew Cork, who sat stoicly beside them and remained their relentless shield from “well-wishers” and other mourners.

With a remarkably accurate imitation of Harry’s tone, Fred continued, “‘Hermione don’t stay up all night reading you’re going to get a headache’, ‘Ron if you keep eating that fast you’re going to choke’, ‘Colin if you don’t stop taking pictures of me I’m going to end up punching you’, ‘George if you do that your mum’s going to kick your ass,’” Neville bit his lip to stifle a strained laugh. “You see what I mean? CLEARLY he was a seer. He was right about those every time.”

It was at this point that Fred’s smile went a little wooden, and he paused. The silence stretched, and Neville watched, bit by bit, as his smile lessened. He looked down at the podium. It took him a while to speak again, but it was alright. It seemed everyone knew better than to rush him.

“I’m joking, obviously, but to be fair, there were times he was eerily on the ball about things.” Fred continued suddenly, voice softer. “He knew before anyone else when dementors were going to swarm the Quidditch Pitch. He was the first person to raise the alarm when my dad got attacked. He knew there was something wrong about his spot in the Triwizard Tournament. Hell, sometimes I swear he felt what was going to happen at the World Cup in his bones or something, because that night, he looked so tense. I remember asking him what was wrong, and all he said was that he had a bad feeling. And a couple hours later, boom, fire everywhere. Point is, he always seemed to know when something bad was going to happen to him, or to his loved ones. Maybe not consciously, but he knew. ”

He fell silent again, this time just barely shorter than the previous stretch.

“And knowing that. It makes me wish I’d taken him seriously when he ‘joked’ this summer that he’d have to have his funeral planned before he was 16.”

Neville’s insides froze.

“Because if I had, maybe things would’ve been different. Or at least I’d remember what he said he wanted. Because I know he said a couple things. About what kind of flowers, the colors, the music, the place. But I was so occupied with making the joke products he invested in that I hardly even listened. I just said, “That’d mean Trelawney was onto something, though” and…and carried on.”

There was such a deep sense of regret and shame that ran underneath the words, and Neville watched as Fred lowered his head to rest his chin on the podium, eyes squeezed shut.

“Harry wasn’t too much of a talker. That must’ve been my first hint―I should’ve known that what he was saying was important, because whatever he decided to say usually was. But all I remember from everything he told me―and it was a lot― was that he said he wanted rain for his funeral.” He lifted, then tilted his head to look skyward, and scowled at the clouds pointedly once again. This time, no one laughed. “And knowing him, it wasn’t even because he wanted the atmospheric sadness or what have you―Harry just really liked rain.”

And that was true―Neville knew that much. Neville and his friends had moaned up and down about the frankly ridiculous amount of rain Hogwarts saw, but Harry had never once voiced a complaint about it―unless it was about the effect it had on Quidditch practice. It hadn’t taken him long at all to notice how much softer Harry’s face became when it rained, or how often he liked to sit in the dorm’s bay window when it did. He’d caught Harry tracing his finger after rolling droplets on the glass several times.

“I don’t think he ever knew I was there. But one of my most…I suppose formative memories of him was from a time when it was raining. It was in July a couple years back―with really miserable weather. It was early. Around 3am. I’d been woken up by the lightning, and the thunder that was just about shaking the house. The rain was coming down hard― it was pelting the glass on my window so hard, in fact, that I distinctly remember worrying that it might shatter. Which would’ve sucked, because Mum would’ve blamed us somehow, like we’d done something to personally offend God or whatever. I mean, I’m sure me and Georgie could, but that wouldn’t have been the point.”

Fred cast his mother a faux-withering look that earned him a watery laugh.

“After I tried to wake George and found him to be completely dead to the world, I went downstairs to get a glass of water alone. As I passed by the backdoor, I noticed it was open a little, so I took a second to shut it so that if the yard got flooded, no water would come inside. Or at least I would’ve, if the lightning didn’t flash and show me that someone was back there.” It was probably Harry in the backyard, but privately, Neville thought that he’d have been terrified if he was Fred.

“I was really scared at first because whoa, intruder! That never happens! But the lightning flashed again, and I could see they were really short. Shorter than me, so I thought, oh, if they try anything I can just pick them up and toss them into the sky. As you do with every home intruder, obviously. But then I noticed they had black hair, and it finally clicked. It was just Ron’s apparently cracked-out friend.”

‘Cracked-out’ was not a term Neville ever thought he’d hear describing Harry, but it made him laugh anyway.

“He was standing barefoot in the grass, turned sideways to the door so that he was face-to-face with the storm. His hair was soaked but the wind was so strong that it was whipping it around anyway. He wasn’t wearing trousers, but that was probably for the best because they would’ve been drenched in seconds anyway. And he was wearing one of his cousin’s t-shirts, so with his arms outstretched like they were, his shirt was quite literally billowing in the wind, like he was some sort of massive flying squirrel.”

He paused, eyes far.

“When more lightning came, I saw that his eyes were shut…and that he was grinning. Not even a small one. To this day, I still think it was the most manic smile I ever saw from him. He was beaming.” He shook his head, face softened into something close to a smile. “I called out to him, but the thunder drowned out the sound. I took that as a sign to just sort of…leave him be. Because he looked so happy , and so relaxed. For once. I didn’t want to ruin that. It was like the storm was where he’d always belonged―I guess with that scar of his, it made sense―and I wasn’t going to mess that up for him.”

Neville could see Harry in his mind just like that, and agreed with Fred.

“So I just left a towel by the door, and got my water. And as I made my way back towards the stairs, I got a glimpse of him running, and then flopping into our pond just in time for the thunder to roll. I don’t know how he timed it so well, but that was the last I saw of him that night anyway. The sound of him trying not to laugh too hard followed me up the stairs, and I figured I could just ask later. This, of course, didn’t happen, because the next morning, he was at the kitchen table looking all serious and trying to hide a stuffy nose. I just grinned at him and left it alone, and by the time he was better, I’d already forgotten. And I never breathed a word of that memory til just now, actually.”

By this point, Fred had been smiling brightly, but it quickly fell. “I’m not sure why. But it felt almost like some sort of private privilege, to know Harry, and to know that he could laugh like that. And ever since that night, whenever it rained, I’d be in a good mood because I would know Harry was in a good mood, even if Oliver would’ve spoiled it by practically laying an egg about Quidditch.” He shook his head as if haunted, and cast Wood a dour look. “Don’t even give me that face, Ollie, you were a menace about it and you know it.”

“It made the ground too muddy!” Oliver Wood’s watery voice yelled from somewhere in the crowd.

“You don’t even need the ground with Quidditch, we’re flying― whatever. Point is. Even if it’d result in Oliver birthing chickens, I wish it would’ve rained for Harry’s funeral. Because I know he loved rain. It was his favorite weather through and through, and Harry deserved at least that much from the earth for his last day on top of it, y’know?” Fred cast the closed casket a brief, almost guilty look. “But life dealt him a sh*t-hand over and over again. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that the theme kept on after it.”

A sense of somberness swept over the room, and Neville stared down at his lap. ‘sh*t-hand’ was putting things lightly, he thought. More like ‘life took Harry by the back of the head, slammed his face into the dirt hard enough for his glasses to break, and dragged his face across the rocks like a glorified rake for good measure.’ Fred flexed his fingers, cracking his knuckles one by one distractedly.

“I guess that if I want to close this off nicely that I’m saying…if you have a memory like that. Of Harry, or any other loved one. Hold onto it. Try not to forget any details of it, because you don’t…” He puffed out a sigh. “This is going to sound so stupid and cliche, but take it from me―you really don’t know how much you love someone until they’re gone for good.” His voice cracked, and Neville watched, almost amazed, as Fred’s eyes misted.

“Harry was my brother. Not in blood, but in every other way that mattered. I mess with my siblings all the time, but I do love them. All of them. If push came to shove, I’d do anything for them.” He looked up sharply then, and Neville followed his eyes to a significantly cowed-looking Percy. “...But no matter how true that is, it doesn’t change that I didn’t do enough, and just under a month ago, I lost one of them. I lost a sibling. For good.”

He swallowed hard, like he was desperately trying to contain himself. Ron was frozen stiff next to Neville, and wordlessly, Neville put a comforting hand on his knee.

“And now, memories like that are all that’s left to keep him alive in my head.” His voice shook. “Harry is gone. I am never going to see him again. Not at the breakfast table, trying to hide a stuffy nose. Not in my backyard at three in the morning. And not in the rain he loved so much. Only,” He pointed a shaking finger at his head, “in there. So I’ll hold on to memories like that one with all I’ve got, and in doing that, honor him and the place he had in my life. Because it was so much bigger than I thought it was. And I…I―”

Neville watched tears roll down his face suddenly, and Percy and George both made quick strides towards the podium in response.

“ God, this was supposed to be funny ,” Was the gasped-out closing remark, cut off only by his two brothers reaching him and leading him to the waiting arms of their parents.

The room erupted in hushed, tense murmurs, punctuated only with these awful, strangled sobs from a person Neville never expected he’d hear them from. Underneath Neville’s hand, Ron had turned into stone, and he faced forward stubbornly. Neville himself sat, frozen. Seamus was motionless next to him, too. Then, Ron opened his mouth, and then shut it again. Some half-aborted breath escaped him. And then―

“...He really is gone, isn’t he?” Ron croaked, as the room continued to buzz with tense whispers. He sounded almost hysterical, voice wavering like that.

Neville saw Seamus’s head turn in his peripheral vision, but he said nothing. Neville hadn’t been expecting him to, though. What could you say to that? What could you possibly say to a truth so terrible?

“What am I gonna do?”

Neville wished, so fervently and deeply, that he could say anything to answer that, literally anything at all. Even an “I’m sorry” would’ve been fine, but the words remained stuck to the insides of his mouth, like gum on a hot sidewalk. Instead, all he could manage was a very soft,

“Can I come home with you tonight?”

Ron jerked, and blinked rapidly. “What?”

“Can I come home with you tonight?” Neville repeated, keeping his voice low so Seamus wouldn’t hear. “I don’t want you to be alone, and―” Neville licked his lips nervously. “―There’s something I need to show you and your family. Something important.”

It seemed like it took one million seconds for Ron to process and form a reply to this, but thankfully, his response was the one Neville wanted. “I…sure. Mum ‘nd Dad’ll hardly notice.”

Neville nodded shortly, and squeezed Ron’s rigid knee in another gesture of comfort. The rest of Harry’s funeral progressed in a similar fashion to Fred’s speech. Everyone tried their damndest to keep things lighthearted and not act like they were two seconds away from hysterical tears, but ultimately, the efforts failed and wet faces and snotty noses were the result. When Neville finally came back to himself and found that he was stood over the freshly turned earth in which Harry had finally been laid to rest, a profound sense of bitterness crept up the back of his throat.

There was a deep sense of hopelessness that the world had been plunged into ever since Harry Potter had been declared dead, and it had nothing to do with Harry himself.

The letters in the bag that hung limp over Neville’s shoulder, not for the first time, felt terribly heavy.

“You were right after all,” He said to the grave, and turned to find the Weasleys, ignorant of the blood-red eyes that followed him.

As the guests departed, the owner of those eyes inched closer and closer to the grave.

Soon enough, all that remained of the funeral procession was those eyes’ owner: a tall, pale man in black robes. He stood before what he considered a fourteen-year-belated grave, and somehow, he felt forlorn. Slowly, not even sure why he was doing it at all, he raised a bone-white wand towards the sky, and breathed out an incantation. A light spiraled out of it, higher and higher, until it hit the clouds above.

Rain began to fall.

…People act like fame is some great and awesome thing, but honestly Neville, it’s killing me―and I hate that that statement might actually become a literal thing. How sh*tty is that? That the one thing I’m famous for might kill me tomorrow? It’s stupid.

At least I know my funeral would be full of sad people. Not that they’d be super sad for ME―they’d probably be crying just because the apparent last bloke in the world capable of killing some Big Bad Evil Guy is gone.

Because obviously Voldy’d go completely around the bend after I was out of the picture. He’d probably tote my corpse around like a flag to really get people down in the dumps >:( would pin me to that big fountain in the ministry for good measure too. Rude. And then where would everyone be? Feeling real stupid and sorry for themselves after they get my guts out of the fountain pumps, I’m sure. Provided that wizard fountains have water pumps like muggle ones do, at least. I don’t pretend to understand wizard machines.

Well. Whatever happens, it’s not like I could’ve helped anyone beyond being some sort of ‘symbol’ anyway. I’m just some stupid kid who still likes bedtime stories, apparently. Haha.

I think that’s enough melodrama on my part though―in our last letter, you mentioned it was Waldo Strongbark who made the St. Mungo’s mannequin, right? Haha so about that. would you happen to know his address…

Arthur Weasley stared down at the letters on the table with a sense of rapture, and Neville watched his eyes flicker over the words Harry had written over and over again. Fred peered over his shoulder, eyes still puffy and red, and he puffed a small, strangled laugh.

“”At least I know my funeral would be full of sad people. Not that they’d be super sad for me.”” Fred recited lowly, and shook his head. “He really was a bloody seer. I could punch him.”

Around the dinner table came a ripple of quiet chuckles.

“So it was you who told him that Waldo Strongbark made the St. Mungo’s mannequin.” Arthur said in a low, fond voice. “And his address too, I presume?”

Neville nodded, trying not to look guilty. “I didn’t think he’d send the guy a letter.”

Arthur shook his head slowly, a lined smile coming to soften his face. “A very strongly worded one, it would seem. I really enjoyed Strongbark’s recitation of it at…” He trailed off, face falling. “Well. I can’t say I had no idea he hated that thing so much, but goodness. He really hated it.”

“I think he hated it less because it was “a revolting construction that you must’ve pulled from the depths of hell” and more because it reminded him that you were hurt, honestly.” Neville said, looking down at his hands. “He cared a lot about you. You’ll read all about it in the letters.”

Some look of devastation swept across Arthur’s face, but it was wiped away quickly. “I still remember exactly what he said when he told me how much he hated it, back when I was still at Mungo’s. He brought it up randomly and said―and I quote―that “one of these days. I'm going to take it by its fabric-covered plastic neck and just. Do terrible, terrible things to it. I long for the day that I see it dead by my hand.” He was so… verbose about it.”

“That’s how you know he was screwing around,” Ron piped up suddenly, eyes poring hungrily over another letter. “He did that, a lot. He’d make these big, ridiculous threats. I think he used the big words either to mock my vocab, or make it clear that he was mostly joking. Maybe both.”

“He must’ve only done that with you―I can only think of one time that he came close to sounding like that with me, and that was when he told me that he was going to slam his head into the ground like an ostrich if he had to listen to me talk about Hogwarts: A History for another second.” Hermione, who had also followed Ron home, recounted fondly. “I thought he’d gone insane.”

“Was Harry ever not insane?” Ginny muttered, fingers curled over her mouth to hide a smile. “Listen to this: ‘If another blonde person ever so much as breathes in my direction after graduation, I’m going to start biting things indiscriminately. Unless it’s Luna, in which case she could dump a bowl of hot soup on my head and I’d probably apologize to her’. Who says things like that? He was a complete headcase.”

“Runs in the family.” George said lamely, and looked over at Molly, who was resting her head on Arthur’s shoulder.

“You’re lucky I’m too tired to enforce grounding, young man.” Was all she said half-heartedly, trying to hide a grin, and she looked down at her lap. “...I should get started on dinner, soon.”

Neville shook his head quickly, and put his palm over the top of her hand. “Don’t worry about it. I talked to Gran before the funeral today―” He tried not to cringe when everyone winced at the word ‘funeral’. “―and she agreed that it would be a good idea to bring you all dinner. I’d expect her around…” He looked around the room for a clock, but only found the Weasley family one. It took him a moment to realize it wasn’t a real clock, and that was only when squinting revealed Harry’s place on it.

Harry’s clock hand was pointed at “lost”.

Neville stared at that for a long, long ten seconds.

Then he shook himself, and finished his earlier sentence with a lame, “...around 5:30pm. Maybe 6 at the latest.”

Percy, who stayed quiet and tense at the table, looked up and seemed to follow Neville’s gaze towards Harry’s clock hand. His face, stony and unreadable, melted into a brief expression of sorrow before the expressionlessness returned.

“His hand keeps moving,” He said after a moment of tense silence. Something in his brows twitched. “We know it’s a fluke―tracking spells and scrying don’t work for a reason, after all. But we…haven’t had the heart to remove it anyway. The closest we got was this morning―it was on “mortal peril” for the past two days or so. It got a little depressing.” His eyes creased. “But we didn’t. Didn’t take it off. And I’m…glad it’s back on ‘lost’.”

“It was on “hospital” for two weeks. That was awful.” Ginny huffed, rubbing her left eye. “We spent so much time scouring muggle and magic hospitals. Nothing ever came of it, and I regret that, especially because the muggle ones were scary as hell.” She wouldn’t look anyone in the eyes. “The hope sucked.”

Someone snorted, loudly and almost hysterically. Neville jerked to look at the other end of the table just in time to see Dudley Dursley brush away a tear. “God,” He said as he all but collapsed into a chair, face wan and thin. “The wards fell. There wasn’t any hope to begin with.”

The silence grew heavy, and Neville saw Arthur cast Dudley a long, mournful look. “I’m sorry, son.” He said.

Neville felt recognition ricochet through his chest. ‘Oh.’ He thought. ‘This is Harry’s cousin.’ Harry had mentioned him in the letters a couple times. Dudley had always been a strange character in the letters―it wasn’t that Harry spoke poorly of him, per say. Quite the opposite, actually. There’d always been an air of quiet hope in Harry’s mentions of Dudley―like he wished, somewhere inside, that he could form some sort of relationship with him.

‘Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon are utter lost causes. I know that much, and I’m sorry to say I don’t particularly regret it. But my cousin, Dudley? He sort of. I don’t know, Neville. He’s the one that throws me a little. I figured a little while ago that he was mostly a prat because of our his parents, and our little encounter with those Dementors really threw some things up in the air. He was actually almost nice to me before I left, and I dunno. It just put ideas in my head that I almost wish would know probably won’t go anywhere.’

“It wasn’t at ‘mortal peril’ the entire time, though.” Dudley said suddenly, peering at the clock. “I was watching it the other night. When it first pointed there. There was a bit where it was pointed at “Work”, so I guess capitalism still exists in Heaven.” He blinked suddenly, and then made a bitter face. “Christ. I sounded like a commie for a second, there. Can practically hear my dad blowing a gasket down there.” And he looked at the floor.

Ouch.

Well. Perhaps Harry had been right in hoping maybe something with Dudley was salvageable, if he believed―likely correctly, Neville thought with trace irritation―that his parents were in Hell. It looked more and more like Fred might’ve been on the ball with the ‘seer’ thing. Neville rustled through the letters strewn across the table, looking for a good one that mentioned Dudley, and when he found one, wordlessly, he slid it his way. Dudley didn’t comment on it, instead giving him a look of confusion, but it seemed he eventually understood what it was based off of his quiet inhale as he began to read.

Just like that, the kitchen was enveloped in silence again, and Neville sat still, letting Harry’s family sift through some of his last existing written words. Somewhere within this, Neville found himself looking at the Weasley Family Clock again, and pondering.

He knew about the clock―you could only spend so long listening to your Gran mope and moan about family magicks being lost before you picked up on something. She’d complained quite a few times about how jealous she was of the Weasleys for being allowed to keep some of their artifacts after the Wizarding War with Grindelwald, and during those conversations, the Clock had most certainly come up.

The aftermath of that time had seen many family artifacts being confiscated by the Ministry for being “too dark” to be left unchecked. The Longbottoms hadn’t been spared in this―many of their family heirlooms had been lost, stolen before they could be locked up safely in Gringotts, and were now presumably rotting Merlin-knew-where in the recesses of the Ministry. Neville’s thoughts on this matched shockingly well with those of many other magical families; the mass confiscation was less about darkness, and much more about the artifacts being too unpredictable.

See, family magicks, or Arcana Sanguinis, was a different sort of magic than the day-to-day spells, charms, hexes, and curses that existed. From something as simple as the Featherlight charm to something as complex as Fiendfyre, every spell a wizard could know―for the most part―was bound to some sort of rules. Whether it be consistent runes or energy sacrifice, it was possible to break every spell under the sun into the bare essentials of what it was―intent, cost, and purpose.

But not family magicks. Family magicks were entrenched in deeper and more mysterious forces. Always cultivated from the very start of a magical family―one that swore a blood oath of protection to the land they kept―family magicks had one objective, and one objective only. To protect the family to which it belonged. This could manifest in any way. It could be literal protection, such as explosive bursts of magic to enemies. It could be protection from the self―it could bring peace of mind, or prevent self-harm or suicides. It could even grant great fertility, both to the family and to their land.

The Black family had been hit the hardest following the confiscations. Once a great and prosperous family, the crippling of their Arcana Sanguinis following the fall of Grindelwald caused the family to all but entirely shatter. Though perhaps that hadn’t been all there was to it. Arcana Sanguinis protected the family, obviously…but ultimately, the magic that formed it came from the land. It came from nature.

Neville thought of the snow that Harry had disappeared into.

If you were trying to hurt it. Or even if you weren’t careful. Nature didn’t give a damn about you.

There had been whisperings of the Black’s going against Arcana Sanguinis, both their own and that of other families, for the War and being abandoned by the forces of Arcana Sanguinis for their betrayal. Privately, Neville thought that was the most likely story. Empires didn’t fall that fast without intrinsic rot.

Whatever the case might’ve been, the point was that family magicks, Arcana Sanguinis, wasn’t bound to rules. It went deeper than most magic did. And the older the family, the more powerful that magic became. Because as it aged, magic grew a sort of sentience. One that Neville sometimes wasn’t sure aligned entirely with their realm. It was part of why there was such a strict curfew at Hogwarts―there were many secrets left buried in the bedrock, just as well as there was deep, terrible greatness. Or darkness.

Whatever it was, things were buried there. Great and terrible forces that could not be regulated. And in a family as old as the Weasleys, a family rumored to be nearly as old as Hogwarts, a family Harry had been magically and legally claimed into after his death…

Neville looked at the Clock, an artifact of family magicks that they’d been allowed to keep because it was so harmless. Stared at Harry’s clock hand, which had slowly but steadily been inching towards ‘Mortal Peril’ again. It may have just been possible that perhaps, just maybe…

Neville looked over the Weasleys, who were all much paler and thin than they had been just weeks ago. Looked at their teary eyes and shaking hands as they hungrily read through the letters Harry had written, desperately grasping some of the last scraps of his existence that remained. At once, the thought fizzled and sunk back away from the surface of his mind.

He couldn’t do that to them. Couldn’t give them that hope. Harry had been buried today, apparently so mutilated and disfigured that the casket had stayed closed. It was clear that he was gone, and that it would be left like that. End of story.

There was no point in reopening the book, or the wounds his death had caused.

Just as he affirmed this to himself, the doorbell rang. All the ginger heads popped up quickly, but Neville stood before anyone else could, knowing it was likely Gran with dinner. He left them with the letters, and when he got to the door, he saw he wasn’t wrong. He ushered Gran inside (“I’m old, not crippled, boy! Let me walk.” She said with a half-hearted snap) and he helped Molly and Arthur shuffle the letters off the side so dinner couldn’t accidentally ruin any of them.

As everyone ate, silent and studiously ignoring the empty chair between Ron and George, Neville thought of the one and only letter he hadn’t given to the Weasleys. At least, not yet. It was still a little too raw.

‘I’ll do it. It was silly of you to think I wouldn’t,’ He thought, looking at the empty chair. ‘Obviously, I would. Rest easy, Harry. I hope it's raining, wherever you are.’

Unnoticed, Harry’s clock hand finally ticked to a stop on “Mortal Peril” again.

Sometimes I get in my head, and I do actually worry about dying. I know I’ve made jokes about it, but please believe there’s a very real note of seriousness to them. At this point, I’m almost certain I won’t make it to adulthood. I hope I’m wrong.

Just in case I’m not, though. I’ve got a couple requests.

You can ignore the last one if you want. I won’t be upset or haunt you or anything if you do, because believe me, I’d understand it if you did. But the ones I NEED you to do…

When If I do die, and Voldemort is still around, don’t let the Weasleys…I don’t know, don’t let everyone sink into despair or what have you. Make sure they know I loved them. Especially Ron―make sure he knows he was, like, my most-loved person and that I died mad that I never beat him at chess. Make sure Fred and George know that I had full belief that their joke business would be the biggest hit in the world and that they were the coolest pseudo-older brothers I could’ve asked for. Let Ginny know I think she’ll be the most amazing Quidditch player Britain’s ever seen and to punch Dean if he’s a prat to her on my behalf.

Tell Bill and Charlie that I think they’re cool and that I wish I could’ve known them better―and that Bill better take care of Fleur, or I’ll come back from the dead to kick his ass. She still writes me, and I KNOW they have a thing. And tell Charlie that I respect his love of dragons but I’m still pissed about the Hungarian Horntail and that he better HOPE he had nothing to do with that. And let Percy know that I forgive him.

I was mad as hell at him at first, but I understand, and I don’t think he was totally wrong. I don’t think he’s stupid or uptight, and I know he said all that about me because he cares about his family. Still punch him in the head for not visiting dad Mr. Weasley at St. Mungo’s though.

As for Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. Um. Tell them I wouldn’t have minded them being my parents that they were the most amazing people I could’ve asked to be in my life, and that I was always grateful for their presence. It meant a lot to get christmas presents, birthday parties, and quality time from them, and I will always be grateful to Mrs. Weasley for showing up for family day before the last Task at the Triwizard Tournament. It meant the world to me.

Also don’t forget to tell Luna she was cool and that I 100% encourage her to take a leaf out of Ron’s book and start punching people. I’m sure she still remembers how we taught her to do it.

And tell Poppy that I’m giving her the years I stole off her lifespan back to her, haha.

AND don’t forget to tell yourself that YOU are the coolest guy ever and you will always have Harry Potter’s full stamp of approval. Which is supposed to mean something, I think. You rock, Neville. Don’t forget that or I will throw ghost objects at you. They won’t hurt, but I think having a ghost rock sticking out of your head would not be a pleasant sight.

Anyway. My last request, the one you don’t have to listen to, is simple.

Continue my so-called legacy. I don’t care what the hell you do, but don’t let Voldemort win. Snape knows more than I can share, but believe me when I say that if it wasn’t going to be me, it was going to be you. He doesn’t know that I know―but he slipped up a couple times with…remedial potions.

I can’t go into much more detail―not only because it’s dangerous, but because I don’t know a lot as-is. I just know there was a prophecy, and for some reason, it was either me or you in it. That means both of us are capable of doing SOMETHING.

So do…something. Anything. Literally anything at all to stop him. You could do something as small as throw a rock, or something as big as being the stupid symbol I was. I don’t know. If you won’t do it for me, do it for yourself. Or for the parents we never had, who will never be proud of us in a way that matters. Or for the family that remains.

Like I said. You can ignore that.

But no matter what, please. If no one else at all, please. Please take care of the Weasleys, and yourself.

I’m sorry to ask something so big of you, but there’s not a lot of people I know and trust who are dependable or kind enough to do it.

I wish I could close this letter off in a nicer way, but I’m out of jokes. Maybe I’ll visit Fred and George and re-up my supply, or at least force them to fix my appearance before I go see Snape for Occl remedial potions.

See you in the dorm later―and don’t laugh at my hair when you see me. Valentine’s Day is just under two weeks away and Fred will NOT let me forget it. Bastard.

Deeply worried and wishing you well,

Harry P.

Arthur did his best not to startle when Matthew placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. “God, that was hellish.” He said.

And that summed it all up well enough, Arthur thought with no small amount of exhaustion. The day had been hellish. Between burying an empty casket―which was, he’d found, a way to make burying your child even worse of an experience―and every person with “well-wishes” that Matthew just about had to beat back with a stick, Arthur was more than ready to march down to Hell, take the Devil by the shoulders, and shake the living sh*t out of him.

“If Neville doesn’t have the best year of his life, I will finally believe that there’s no more justice in the world.” Arthur said lowly, scrubbing his puffy face with his hands. “And Matt, I’ve seen Lucius Malfoy walk free of Azkaban.”

“Don’t know who that is, but he sounds like someone I should punch.”

Arthur’s shoulders jerked with his sudden, violent, and not-totally-kind laugh. “Oh, I’ve beat you…to the punch.”

Matthew followed his tune in laughing. “Shut up, dude.” He said, shaking Arthur’s shoulder with the hand that was resting on it. “Good, though. If you thought he deserved to be punched and actually followed through, he had that sh*t coming last year. ”

“I still can’t believe he had the nerve to send a card.”

Matthew’s neck jerked towards him. “You’re f*cking kidding.”

“I haven’t opened it, and I refuse to.” Molly’s voice said suddenly as she entered the room. “I couldn’t even be tortured into it, I reckon.” She sank down onto their bed with a groan, and Arthur frowned, wondering where he’d put the massage lotion. Her feet had to be killing her. “What are you two getting up to in here? I saw Matthew wielding one of your muggle sticks and figured I should check before you accidentally blow up the house.”

“No dynamite here, ma’am.” Was all Arthur said as Matthew wordlessly tugged him away from the wall to let her look. She sat up a little straighter, and her eyebrows furrowed minutely, like they always did, when she was trying to read something from a distance.

“Is that…?”

“It is.” Was all Arthur said thickly, and he joined her on the bed. “Matt was getting me that muggle Balance tool to make sure it was hung straight, but I reckon it looks fine.”

Molly stared at the fragment of the letter, safe within the frame. Her eyes were glassy. “I think it’s perfect, Arthur.” Was all she said as she slumped into his side.

“And yes, I guess you MIGHT’VE been onto something with the Weasley family thing. What prize do you want for forcing me to say so? A cookie? God. I hate to admit it, but Mr. and Mrs. Weasley sorta are the closest thing I’ve ever had to parents. It would be nice if they could be the real deal. That ghoul in their attic hasn’t a clue how lucky it is haha. Whatever. Just rest assured―if you EVER tell them how much I love them while I’m still on this earth, I WILL murder you. Yes that is a threat. Kisses.

Don’t forget about the Transfiguration essay!! If Mickey G doesn’t hand you your ass for forgetting again, I sure will.

Living to threaten you another day,

Harry P.”

‘There is no magic, nothing deep and dark, that can return what has been truly lost. There is nothing that is worth the cost.’