The Ascendant Son

by ifthemoonsmiled

Summary:

The chalk piece hovered next to the board and he took a breath before beginning.

"Imagine that Lord Voldemort is still in power now. You don't know who his supporters are, you don't know who is working for him and who isn't: you know that he can control people so that they do terrible things without being able to stop themselves. You're scared for yourself, and your family, and your friends. Every week, news comes of more deaths, more disappearances, more torturing."

His hands had come up, gesturing with each sentence. The students hung on every word.

"The Ministry of Magic is in disarray, they don't know what to do, they're trying to keep everything hidden from the Muggles, but meanwhile, the Muggles are dying too. Terror everywhere... panic... confusion... that's how it used to be."

Lupin paused, hands frozen in the air.

Then he continued, "That is, until the night of October 31st, 1978."

Chapter 1: Prologue

5th of January, 1996
History of Magic Classroom, Hogwarts Castle, Scotland

"Alright, listen up! Boy and girls, ladies and gents, wizards, witches and hags; let's have you all looking this way, please and thank you! Bravo, Mr Finnagon, three points to Gryffindor! Miss Davis I'm delighted to see that you will be participating in my lesson this year, evidently my Christmas wish came true; three points to Slytherin. Your eyes should be on me, Mr Weasley, not on the back of Miss Lupin's head, despite how fascinating I know it to be." 

The class laughed and broke out into light murmurs as Ron's ears grew gradually warmer and his eyes flitted quickly away from where they had been rested on the girl sat on the desk in front. His friends around him snickered, rolling their eyes, and one with particularly disheveled black hair elbowed him in the ribs playfully. Ron scowled, blush climbing its way up the back of his neck.

"Right then," Professor Lupin said, grey eyes sparkling and a broad grin stretching across his face, "welcome back. I hope you all had a good Christmas break, I know I did."

Dorcas Lupin sighed when her father sent her an over-exaggerated wink, a light pink dusting her cheeks from the earlier comment, though everyone could see the slight quirk to her lips. 

"But, now we must move forth from the Yuletide cheer, and onto less exciting times." At this, Lupin gave a small wave of his wand and from the desk on which he was perched upon, three piles of parchment levitated up and floated gently down all four rows of desks, landing in front of every student. An animated buzz wafted over the classroom and he smirked at the reaction. "Or, perhaps, more exciting. Academic-wise." 

He jumped down off the desk and onto the floor, bringing attention to his bright green and red fluffy socks which just peeked over his dragon-hide boots. Dorcas huffed, but wasn't embarrassed. She'd experienced four years of her father working at Hogwarts, far too long to be affected by some colourful socks. It wasn't nearly as bad as when he and her Aunt Lily had pranked the entire student and staff body with purple skin dye in their morning pumpkin juice. 

That had been mortifying. 

"What you have in front of you is the syllabus for the upcoming term, and, due to the nature of the subject, we will also be studying it for the remainder of the year. You can all bid the 1960 Squib Rights Marches adieu." He rapped his wand twice against the chalkboard to his right and the students fell silent, watching with rapt attention as his smile slowly slipped off his face and his eyes lost their usual spark.

It was not often that Professor Lupin was serious; he was one of the more well-liked staff members due to his laid-back and mischievous demeanour, but they all could understand why this topic would take its toll. "I think this goes without saying, but I'll say it anyway. I expect each and every one of you to treat the work we will be completing these coming months with the upmost respect. Some of you are lucky enough to not remember or know the affect these events had on our society," his eyes washed over Hermione Granger and Dean Thomas, both of whom were staring down at the syllabus sheet with deep intrigue and undisguised horror, "and some of you experienced it firsthand." 

Harry Potter, Neville Longbottom, who were sat beside Ron Weasley, Dorcas Lupin and Arcelia Sayre, sandwiching Hermione on the row of desks in front of the three boys, all flushed, but held their heads high under the considering gazes of their classmates.

It was common knowledge, cemented into history from newspaper articles, novels and through word of mouth, that their parents had all had an incredible impact on the War effort. Fighting in the Order of the Phoenix, and for the Ministry, they'd been acknowledged for their heroics, each being awarded Order of Merlin's and other acclamations over the years. 

"That being said," Lupin continued, wand twirling through his fingers and attracting their attention once more, "I don't expect you, even the more informed of you, to show understanding of why Aurors and other duellers and Hit-Wizards acted how they did during these years. I expect queries, I bank on there being questions, I anticipate debate and startling realisations. My classroom and subject will no doubt become the most interesting of all your Hogwarts study very quickly."

He said this without exaggeration, and they all knew him to be telling the truth, each of them fidgeting in their seats, excited and anxious for what was to come. 

"As per usual, I will not be repeating myself. I will say things you will not have read before in your history books, heard from your other Professors, from your parents and older siblings and cousins and I will not say them twice. Therefore, I expect your attention to be on me," He gestured faintly to the large bay windows behind him that looked out onto the Forbidden Forest; it was a spectacular view and the afternoon sun shone directly through it and lit up the classroom, only not forcing them to squint due to the protective magic no doubt charmed into the glass, "not on what is going on behind me, even if there is a hippogriff flying past with the Giant Squid squirming in its talons, I expect you all to sit there and stare at me like I am water and you are dying of thirst, am I understood?"

"Yes, Professor." The class intoned back to him, some fighting smiles at his imagery, and he crossed his arms, pleased. 

"Good. Now, if we can get back into the practice of putting our wands on our desks before I start the lesson, I would very much appreciate it." With little to no grumbling, the students reached into their robes, bags, and even, in Tracey Davis' case, socks, and pulled out their wands, placing them on the desks where the Professor could see them easily.

It was a rule of his classroom which he had introduced during his first year as their History Professor, and they had grown to understand it. It did, after all, mean that their attention was firmly on him and his lesson. Not that it wouldn't be anyway; the way that Lupin taught the history of Magical Britain and Europe made it seem like storytelling, fascinating and intriguing and everyone wanted to know how the stories began, continued, and ended. 

"Okay, how to begin?" Lupin moved back to his desk, sliding a tray filled with blank parchment and the bronze name plate reading S. LUPIN to the side, and leaped up onto it, crossing his legs and waving his wand in the general direction of the chalkboard. A small piece of white chalk that had rested on the ledge picked itself up and began to pen three dates written by an invisible hand; 1940s, 1970s, 1980s. Each one was drawn into its own separate column.

The chalk piece continued to hover next to board and Lupin took a breath before beginning.

"Imagine that Lord Voldemort-" there was no flinch, and his eyes regained some of their spark as he was reminded of the change from his own childhood, "-is still in power now. You don't know who his supporters are, you don't know who is working for him and who isn't: you know that he can control people so that they do terrible things without being able to stop themselves. You're scared for yourself, and your family, and your friends. Every week, news comes of more deaths, more disappearances, more torturing."

His hands had come up, gesturing with each sentence. The students hung on every word. 

"The Ministry of Magic is in disarray, they don't know what to do, they're trying to keep everything hidden from the Muggles, but meanwhile, the Muggles are dying too. Terror everywhere... panic... confusion... that's how it used to be."

He waved his wand toward the chalkboard and the chalk piece moved just above the drawn columns, and began to paraphrase the information as he spoke it. Some of the students also started jotting down notes with their quills, filling the quiet room with a faint scratching. "The War was a major conflict, one of the first of its kind, the foundations of which had been building as early as the 1940s, but officially beginning in 1970, and ending in 1984. Lord Voldemort's tyranny was supported by his Death Eaters, a covert and violent group of dark wizards and witches who served him and brought terror to both the Muggle and Wizarding societies. They were opposed, in turn, by the British Ministry of Magic, and the Order of the Phoenix, an equally secretive organisation founded and led by Albus Dumbledore.

"Of course, all this stemmed from one man. And you must remember as I talk us through this horrific time period, that's all he was: simply, a man. A man who gained an army of followers so great that the leaders of the world came inches away from bowing at his feet. A man, who, like you, sat in this very classroom, walked this castle's many corridors, slipped through its hidden hallways, and slept under its ancient and protective roof. He seemed, to all the world, a student like any other." 

Here, Lupin paused. Not even a breath was heard being taken and he felt a thrill of delight. Despite the horrors of the past that he was retelling, it was always incredible to watch the faces of younger generations become absorbed in a different time. 

"His name: Tom Riddle. Of course, for almost two decades, he was known all over the world by another name."

Now under the column titled the 1940s, the chalk piece began to bullet-point his words.

"The War had its roots planted, though of course no one knew it yet, when Tom Marvolo Riddle was born on the 31st of December, 1926, to wealthy Muggle aristocrat, Thomas Riddle Senior, whose family was the locally unpopular gentry within the village of Little Hangleton, and Merope Gaunt, a Pureblood witch born into the antisocial and heavily inbred House of Gaunt, who lived in poverty across the valley from the village. 

"Having eloped with Riddle Senior, while he was secretly under the influence of a Love Potion, the couple caused a great scandal amongst the village due to the common unpopularity of the two families. But soon, Merope grew tired of living a lie, and, while pregnant three months later, lifted the bewitchment on her husband in the hope that he would either return her feelings, or stay for their child's sake. Instead, Riddle Senior fled back to Little Hangleton in utter disgust, leaving Merope in a state of depression in which she gave up the use of magic."

Some of the Pureblooded students gasped at this, and Lupin fought his smile as Hermione Granger glared at them. He didn't blame them; after knowing nothing but magic all their lives, it would be hard to imagine a life without such a luxury. 

He continued, "Merope Gaunt spent the rest of her life as a beggar on the streets of London. She sold a few stolen Gaunt heirlooms and died in childbirth while sheltered in a Muggle-run orphanage. As a result, the orphaned child Tom Riddle was left to spend the first eleven years of his life in said orphanage, where the circumstances of his conception, and lack of parental love, is said to have contributed to his many early warning signs of juvenile delinquency and, as it would turn out, his affinity for dark magic."

"Sir!" 

He nodded to Lavender Brown, who raised her hand and waved it impatiently, already anticipating the question she would ask. 

"Do you think that... well... do you think that, maybe, Voldemort should be offered some sympathy-"

There was immediate outcry. 

"Sympathy!?"

"Sorry, Brown, I wasn't aware we had a secret Death Eater in our midst-"

"Merlin, Lavender, haven't you heard a word he's said?"

"The amount of shit he caused and you-"

Lupin held up a hand, silencing them all with a quick, "Language, Mr Thorpe."

He smiled gently at a quietly seething, and slightly embarrassed, Lavender which seemed to ease some of her tension. "I understand your question, Miss Brown. After all, it's an age-old query. Should people who had terrible childhoods, and furthermore grow up to become terrible, be offered a lesser sentence? Our Headmaster thinks so."

A hush fell over the classroom and Arcelia shifted uncomfortably as eyes drew to her. 

"But he agrees, as do I, that Lord Voldemort exceeds the limit of which he could be given such. This man we're discussing murdered thousands, arguably millions. Perhaps not at his own hand, but he was in charge of those who held the wand, and more than likely gave the order. To answer your question, I think that Tom Riddle deserved our sympathy. With hindsight, his upbringing should have highlighted him as an at-risk student when he first came to Hogwarts, but he wasn't. I do not think, however, that Lord Voldemort is owed our sympathy."

He saw the confusion in Lavender Brown's eyes, but before he could confirm what he meant, he saw Parvati Patil lean over and whisper something in her ear which made her nod and smile. Leaving the girl to her friend, he clasped his hands together, twining the wand around his fingers as he did so. 

"During this time, our secret world, to which Riddle unknowingly belonged to, began developing new levels of anti-Muggle sentiment and economic growth. At some point before Riddle's birth, for instance, it is unclear exactly when, the Dark Wizard Gellert Grindelwald, who we've studied already, began launching his own magical supremacist revolution on the European mainland, fuelled by..." Lupin looked out across the class and nodded towards Neville Longbottom in the back. 

"Mr Longbottom, what was Grindelwald fuelled by? What was his main, overarching goal?"

His brow furrowing, quickly flipping through his book, Neville said after a few moments, "Uh... wasn't it the Death Stick? Or... sorry, I can't remember what they're actually called."

"That's alright. Miss Granger? Any idea?"

Hermione, who had been practically vibrating in her seat, sighed in relief and Arcelia smothered a grin behind her hand. "Grindelwald was obsessed with the fable of the Deathly Hallows and his desire to expose the Wizarding World's corrupt and unethical laws and establishments."

"Good, five points to Gryffindor. And three points to you, Mr Longbottom for giving it a go." Neville smiled gratefully as he scribbled down no doubt an abridged version of what Hermione had recited in his book.

"Which one of the three Deathly Hallows was it please, Miss Greengrass, that Grindelwald desired most of all? Mr Longbottom's already given you a hint."

Daphne Greengrass blushed under his gaze and Lupin didn't need to see his daughter and her friends to know that they were rolling their eyes at her reaction. "It was the Elder Wand, sir."

"Correct, take five for Slytherin. Does anyone remember who he stole the wand from?"

The class was quiet for a moment or two, until Harry raised his hand. Lupin grinned, "Go on, Mr Potter."

"Mykew Gregorovitch." He said, sharing a similar grin and added, "Sir."

"And how is it you know that?"

Ron snorted at his right and Harry narrowed his eyes at his Professor, smile falling. "I just know it."

"Oh, is that it? I thought it might've been because Viktor Krum said in the last issue of Quidditch Daily that his wand had been one of the last-"

"Nope." Harry interrupted, now glaring. "I'm just really interested in wand history."

"Oh right, apologies," Lupin said, mirth shining in his eyes and lips twitching, as he waved his hand next to his head, mimicking wafting away fairies,"must of slipped my mind. Take five points."

He twisted his body to face the class at large, ignoring Harry's pointed glare as the three girls in front giggled, occasionally glancing back at him. "With his army and the Elder Wand in hand, Grindelwald aimed to abolish the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy, and subjugate Muggles under a new world order run by wizards, until his defeat in 1945. Of course, this meant that when Riddle was brought into the Wizarding World in 1938, Grindelwald was still at large and the Hogwarts he joined as a first year was one that'd been ladened with protective charms and defensive wards. Professors were far more focused on suspicious adults, older students and guests to the school, rather than measly first year students who had been living as a Muggle. Well, all but Transfiguration Professor and Deputy Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, who'd been the Professor sent to retrieve Riddle from the orphanage and inform him of Hogwarts and his magical blood. Professor Dumbledore, despite being concerned about his preference for malignancy, was otherwise impressed with the child, considering him to be a misunderstood young prodigy."

When he saw a good few of the students go to speak, to raise question into Dumbledore, he talked quickly over them. "I know what you're all thinking; that Albus Dumbledore went on to found and fight in the Order of the Phoenix against Lord Voldemort. Later on in his life, during the war and following the numerous casualties on both sides, he struggled with enormous guilt and all the deaths weighed heavily on his mind," he quirked a brow and muttered under his breath, "or so I'm told."

There were some laughs and he smirked at them, "You didn't hear that."

"No, we all went very suddenly and momentarily deaf." Dorcas said, mirroring his smirk and Lupin laughed. 

"Good. Now, where was I?"

"Um," Arcelia said, eyes darting to the chalkboard, "Riddle's at Hogwarts in his first year."

Lupin nodded. "Oh, yeah. So, he was sorted into Slytherin House where he, unsurprisingly, quickly proved to be an exceptionally gifted student. Although his unhealthy mental state secretly worsened as he started his quest for magical power and social domination, he simultaneously got better at concealing his nature and used his good looks and charm to befriend his classmates and ingratiate himself with his teachers, with the notable exception of Dumbledore, who it is assumed, Riddle didn't trust due to the Professor's own renowned intelligence and power. Many of them were instantly taken in by his charisma, and by the start of his second year, Riddle was made unofficial leader of a like-minded gang of Slytherin boys."

His eyes swept the room, resting only for a moment on a boy in the far left back corner with dark eyes, curly brown hair and a green tie, who looked supremely uncomfortable at the topic.

He quickly looked away and back to the classroom at large. "The members of this gang, who all came from wealthy Pureblood families, were involved in a number of nasty incidents during their school years, though Riddle was careful to never become implicated in any wrongdoing and was held as a model student.

"Over time, Riddle grew obsessed with discovering his magical ancestry. He came to the conclusion that his father must have been a wizard because his mother died, a terrifying fate that secretly was Riddle's greatest fear above anything; which he foolishly assumed powerful witches and wizards could avoid." Lupin nodded at Harry and Ron's amused faces. "Yeah, in hindsight it is funny that Riddle assumed his mother was weak due to this, but can anyone tell me how we can confirm that Merope Gaunt was, in fact, an extremely powerful witch?"

Nobody could. 

"Fine, I guess I'll tell you." He huffed, blowing a fallen strand of his black hair out of his eyes and grinning when the action brought out some smiles. "One argument could be that Thomas Riddle Senior had no magical ancestors, therefore the only reason Voldemort had the levels of magical power that he did was due to his mother being astronomically powerful, she just didn't know it as she suppressed her magic following her husband's desertion. Another was- oh, Miss Granger, go for it."

Hermione had slowly raised her hand, uncommonly uncertain, "I think I've read somewhere that to brew a well-sustained and strong Love Potion you have to continually cast... I'm not sure what the spell is, but your magical core must be powerful to brew one. Or, I suppose you could purchase it, but to keep someone under the influence for a long amount of time, you would need to buy several batches and stores are required, by Ministry law, to inform Aurors if any one person continues to buy several batches of love potions."

He smiled and pointed at her, "Good! Ten points to Gryffindor. So, assuming that Merope Gaunt was brewing these batches of love potion she was dousing Thomas Riddle Senior with, we can infer that she was a powerful witch, but of course Tom Riddle wasn't as smart as our Hermione, here," Hermione blushed heavily and someone in the Slytherin section of the classroom snorted derisively and continued to laugh under their breath, until they looked up and were met with the furious glare of Harry Potter, "and didn't know this, which meant he underestimated her.

"When he could find no trace of any Riddles with magical blood, he was forced to accept that his father was a Muggle and that the magically powerful could indeed, die. Enraged by this discovery, he forsook his given name and rearranged the letters to create a new title: 'Tom Marvolo Riddle' becoming 'I Am Lord Voldemort', and he even began going by Lord Voldemort while still a student, though only with his closest friends.

It is said that Riddle finally found his magical ancestry in his fourth year, when he discovered the Gaunt's and their descent from the Slytherin family. This, to him, explained his exceptionally rare ability to speak Parseltongue, and named him as the 'Heir of Slytherin', rumoured in Hogwarts: A History to be the sole person who could open the legendary Chamber of Secrets. However, his obsession at the time remained the Chamber itself, rather than his blood line. He spent the majority of his fifth year searching for the hidden entrance, despite most people insisting it was nothing but a myth. 

"Finally, near the end of the year, he succeeded. He discovered the entrance in a girl's bathroom, which led down into the sewers beneath the lake. Entering the Chamber, Riddle encountered the millennium-old Basilisk living inside, and confirmed his connection to the historical dark wizard who bred it, Salazar Slytherin. 

"From June 13th 1943, to just before the end of the school year, Riddle unleashed the beast into Hogwarts, purging the school of Muggle-born students. Several students were petrified, and one named Myrtle Warren was killed, becoming Riddle's first recorded murder victim."

His lips set in a grim expression. "I'm sure you have all seen the plaque placed outside the second floor girls bathroom and have met Myrtle."

The majority of the girls nodded slowly, too shocked at the knowledge of how Moaning Myrtle came to be, and even some of the boys looked surprised and disturbed. "I'm sure none of you will, but I'm going to ask you not to bother her with questions concerning her death. She has given all information she has already to the correct authorities and is making use of as much peace as she allows herself." 

Here, Lupin paused. He waited until he'd seen each of the students nod their understanding, before moving on.

"As I said, Riddle stopped the attacks just before the end of the 1943 school year. This was due to Armando Dippet, Headmaster at the time, and the Hogwarts Board of Governors discussing closing the school in the interest of safety. Faced with returning to the Muggle orphanage, where he was unable to use magic, Riddle abandoned the Chamber of Secrets and secretly framed third year Rubeus Hagrid and his pet acromantula Aragog for the crimes. 

"As a result, Hagrid was expelled but offered to be trained as the school's Groundskeeper at Dumbledore's request, whereas Riddle was rewarded the Special Award for Services to the School by Dippet. With his fear of death enhanced by having stared it in the face, he used the murder of Myrtle to turn his school diary into his first Horcrux."

Lupin took a long, deep breath and sat back, using his palms to hold himself up on the cluttered desk. "Well. So far, what are our thoughts?" He craned is neck slightly to look over them all equally before deciding and making a gesture with his head towards the right of the room. "Mr Thomas, any questions rattling around in that brain of yours?"

Dean smiled, though there was a hint of discomfort in his eyes. "Um, no, no questions. Not yet, anyway. I'll probably have some when we get to the more... recent stuff."

"I have a question." Pansy Parkinson raised her hand and Lupin's left eye twitched slightly, but he nodded and smiled invitingly, so she continued, "are we going to be learning anything about the Horcrux-making process?"

"Why, interested in making one, Parkinson?" Ron spat, leaning over the desk and Pansy looked back at him, squinting like he was nothing more than a flobberworm she'd stepped on.

"If I were, you'd be my first victim, Weasel."

"Five points from Slytherin." Lupin said sternly, "And I wasn't aware that Ron meant so much to you, Miss Parkinson."

When she frowned, he smirked, "To... create a Horcrux, one has to... well. I'll spare you the gory details, that's more of my husband's area of expertise, and no doubt you'll learn of the theory of Horcrux-making soon." He, as well as the Gryffindor's, delighted in the green-tinge her face took on, other than Ron, who also looked deeply disturbed. "In any case, I'll move on, shall I?"

He leaned forward again on the desk, resting his elbows on his his knees. "Around August-time in 1943, Riddle tracked down his Gaunt relatives to Little Hangleton, where his maternal uncle Morfin Gaunt gave him a biased account of his father leaving his mother to die and abandoning him to the orphanage. In a desire for revenge, he entered the Riddle House and used the Killing Curse to kill his father, Thomas Riddle Senior, alongside his Muggle grandparents, Thomas Riddle I and Mary Riddle, then framed Gaunt for the crimes by placing him under the influence of a False Memory Charm. As a result, Morfin then boastfully confessed to killing his own in-laws and was sentenced to life imprisonment in Azkaban, while Riddle stole the Gaunt's House ring, which is important, and I will come back to it at a later date."

As he said this, the chalk piece darted down to the bottom right corner of the chalkboard, quickly penning down Reminders:, and then writing underneath it: Gaunt House Ring. 

"Riddle then began wearing the ring as a trophy. Shortly afterwards, he returned to Hogwarts for his sixth year-"

Lavender Brown's gasp of horror interrupted him, "He was our age when he... murdered people?"

"Still think he's owed sympathy?" Seamus muttered and Lavender blushed, ducking her eyes down. Lupin rolled his eyes. 

"Three points from Gryffindor, Mr Finnagon, let's not be snarky, please." Seamus reluctantly nodded. "Good, thank you. After Riddle returned to Hogwarts for his sixth year, he discussed the theoretical possibility of creating six Horcruxes, which meant for him, splitting his soul into seven pieces, with Professor Horace Slughorn, the Potions Master and his Head of Slytherin House, who was taken aback by Riddle's extreme interest in such powerful Dark Magic.

"Although reluctant at first, Slughorn nonetheless gave him an overview of such an experiment with the promise of keeping their discussion between only them. It was revealed to Riddle by Slughorn that Horcruxes were objects that a wizard could place part of their soul into, in order to become immortal and avoid death; though Slughorn warned that in order to split one's soul they must commit murder: killing rips the spirit apart and is a violation against nature. When Riddle mentioned the possibility of creating six Horcruxes, Slughorn was deeply horrified at the idea. This apparently gave Riddle what he wanted to hear, and he used the murder of his own father to turn the ring into his second Horcrux."

"He was sixteen and he already had two horcruxes?" Hermione asked no one, sounding disgustingly astonished. She wasn't the only one; the entire class looked horrified by the idea of immortality and the lengths Voldemort went to achieve it. 

"Surely more of the point is: why did Slughorn give away all this information to him?" Dorcas asked, incredulous. 

A murmur of agreement went up around the class. Lupin cleared his throat and said seriously, "What we have to remember is that, with hindsight, it's very easy for us to sit here and view Tom Riddle as a future Dark Lord, as a psychotic and evil human being. From 1943 Slughorn's point of view, Riddle was a child, not unlike any of you. A bright, charming student who had grown up a Muggle in an orphanage who had an affinity for his, and all, subjects at Hogwarts. 

"In fact, by the time it came to 1945, Dumbledore is considered as the only person who could see through Riddle's facade, and resorted to keeping a close eye on him. Of course, in that same year, Dumbledore demonstrated his own legendary magical skill by defeating Grindelwald in the famous duel and then obtained possession of the Elder Wand. As we already know, Grindelwald was then imprisoned for life in his own prison Nurmengard in Austria, the Global Wizarding War ended, and peace was restored to the wizarding communities of continental Europe.

"Dumbledore became an international celebrity and it is said that even Tom Riddle showed a reluctant respect toward him. Around this time, Riddle also graduated from Hogwarts and quickly applied for the position of Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor, which had just been vacated by Galatea Merrythought. Dumbledore, now a world-famous household name, argued against having him on the staff, warning Headmaster Armando Dippet of Riddle’s untrustworthiness, so Dippet ended up cordially rejecting Riddle on the basis of being too young, though encouraged him to reapply for the position in a few years.

"Meanwhile, Riddle was developing an interest in the relics of the Hogwarts founders, and before leaving the school, he charmed the Grey Lady, the ghost of Ravenclaw House, to reveal where the hidden famous diadem was located, and she told him. It was in a remote forest in Albania. So he travelled there and retrieved it from a hollow tree, using the murder of an Albanian peasant he encountered along the way and brutally killed, in order to turn the diadem into his third Horcrux.

"When he returned to England, Riddle was offered several positions in the British Ministry of Magic, but turned them all down and began working at Borgin and Burkes."

Lupin smiled at the students' mutual wrinkled noses and puckered mouths at the reminder of the shop in Knockturn Alley.

"It was, at the time run by Caractacus Burke, and many believed working there was a waste of his talents. He was tasked with smooth-talking people into parting with their possessions for far less than the actual cost, he used his position to instead secretly learn more about the Dark Arts and ended up forming a one-sided fake friendship with Hepzibah Smith, a wealthy old antiques collector and descendant of Helga Hufflepuff, who fell for his charms.

"At some point between 1955 and 1961, we don't know exactly when, Riddle visited her to negotiate the sale of a goblin-made suit of armour in her possession, which Hepzibah used as an opportunity to show him two of her most prized treasures: Helga Hufflepuff's cup and Salazar Slytherin's locket, the latter of which, in an ironic twist, Riddle's mother sold to Burke after stealing it from the Gaunts years earlier. In a desire for more selfish gain, he used an unknown poison to secretly kill Hepzibah two days later, then framed her house-elf Hokey, for the crime by placing her under the influence of another False Memory Charm. As a result, Hokey was convicted of accidental manslaughter, while Riddle resigned his post at Borgin And Burkes and disappeared without a trace, eventually using the murders of Hepzibah and a Muggle tramp whom he encountered in London, England; to turn the cup and locket into his fourth and fifth Horcruxes respectively."

At Hermione's, a known house-elf sympathiser, distraught face, he smiled gently. "Hokey has been since memorialised as one of the house-elf statues stood along Diagon Alley's entrance way." She looked placated enough, and Lupin spied his daughter's hand on her arm comfortingly, so he continued. 

"Now going exclusively by his preferred name 'Lord Voldemort', Riddle laid low and travelled around Europe and Asia. Little is known of his activities during this period, though he explored the Dark Arts extensively, studying the most obscure and dark branches of magic and consorting with an array of dark wizards, who would all turn out to become his followers in the years to come. As a result of magical experimentation and transformations, Voldemort underwent several physical and mental changes, which made him more powerful but less human, and was occasionally accompanied by a group of followers he came to call his 'Death Eaters'.

"By the time he was a full-fledged adult, around 1968, Riddle donned a hooded cloak, though he physically still didn't resemble the creature he would later in his life, the one we see in all the historical photography and newspaper articles, which concealed him completely and he began plotting a wizarding coup, claiming that he was greatly dissatisfied with the current state of the Wizarding World and that he would succeed where so many, including Gellert Grindelwald and Salazar Slytherin, had failed. Voldemort convinced his followers that to truly create a world full of peace and power, the old regime needed to be torn down at any and all costs and only those who shared pure blood, will and idealism would be allowed to live and thrive in it.

"In truth however, Lord Voldemort had little interest in political idealism himself. He was completely devoted to amassing his own magical power, and in becoming the most powerful and skilled wizard to have ever lived, invincible and eternal. I believe he still, after all those years, harboured an incessant need to outdo Albus Dumbledore, who, by this time, had become Headmaster of Hogwarts and was still being nodded at for the Minister of Magic position. 

"As we know already, Voldemort devised a personal sigil, one of a serpent protruding from the mouth of a human skull, which he called the Dark Mark, and that he magically branded onto the forearms of his followers as a tattoo, enabling him to summon them to his side at any moment of his choosing. They then began establishing relations with various kinds of dark creatures, including Giants and Werewolves. Though the Death Eaters were generally even less tolerant of them than wizarding society in general, these creatures were receptive of their violent and destructive goals. Dark activity suddenly arose throughout Great Britain, a country that had been totally untouched by dark magic; even during the reign of terror of Gellert Grindelwald; and Voldemort began surreptitiously killing poor and homeless Muggles, who would not be noticed by the Ministry as missing, with his followers so that he could reanimate their corpses with Necromancy until he had created an army of Inferi, a feat no other dark wizard in history had ever done."

Neville tentatively lifted his hand, and Lupin nodded to him, taking a breather. "What's Necromancy?"

"Really, this is a question for Professor Lupin during your next Defence lesson, but-"

"You are Professor Lupin." Harry said, grinning, and despite the heaviness of the topic at hand, the class broke out into light laughs.

Lupin rolled his eyes. "Yes, that's hilarious. Y'know what, it gets more funny each time you say it."

"Actually, the funniest bit is you getting bored of it." Ron said, and Harry laughed, agreeing.

"Can we actually learn about Necromancy? Please?" Hermione said, her quill tip dripping ink into her parchment, the third page she was on which was already half-way filled with her delicate calligraphy.

Goyle, or possibly Crabbe, he could never really tell them apart, snorted. "Why, Granger, you thinkin' of doin' it? Wouldn' surprise me, seein' as how much you've taken a fancy to Potter-"

"Enough." Lupin snapped, suddenly serious, and the boy fell silent, as did the quietly tittering others. Harry's eyes were downturned, staring hard at the table and Ron was palming his wand, having grabbed it from atop the desk, even as Neville grasped at his forearm with silent warning. 

The girls, however, weren't as mindful and Arcelia's head whipped around, fire burning in her cool blue eyes, as Dorcas dragged wand under the table tapping it on her thigh dangerously, despite Hermione whispering at them not to bother. 

"What was that, Goyle? Did I just hear you, of all people, accuse someone else of looking like they'd just been dug up and animated to pretend like they're alive?" She narrowed her eyes and Goyle straightened in his seat, "That's got to be the most ironic thing I've ever heard. It would be funny, too, if it wasn't just terribly sad."

"Miss Sayre, Mr Goyle, please shut up." Lupin said, eyes like steel and voice just as strong. Arcelia fell silent, but her face was furious. Goyle had turned a blotchy purple and he glared at her back. Lupin dragged a hand down his face. "Dorcas, put your wand back on your desk. If you want to curse each other, do it outside of my classroom and well out of my earshot."

Though he said one thing, his following frown directed towards Goyle made it known that if he heard of anyone cursing his daughter, or her friends for that matter, he would have something to say about it. And they definitley wouldn't like it. 

Dorcas, grumbled but dropped her wand on top of the desk, small blue sparks falling out the tip accidentally. She brushed them off the half-empty parchment with her jumper sleeve and then placed her chin in her hands, staring with innocent doe-eyes up at her father.

Lupin rolled his eyes at her dramatics and sent an obviously fake smile at Neville. "Good question, Mr Longbottom. Necromancy is the Dark Art of raising the dead. It is also the branch of magic used to create Inferi and Charmed skeletons, as well as Zombies. It was banned in the Ancient Magic Laws introduced in 1876, if you recall us going over those...?"

Neville nodded, seemingly the only person around their area listening, the others too engrossed in either their own self-pity (Harry and Hermione), or their own rage (Dorcas, Ron and Arcelia).

He continued, "In my opinion, it could also be considered as a branch of magic that never truly worked. Assuming the original goal of Necromancy was to bring people back from the dead: whilst it is possible to create Inferi, these are mindless creatures with no soul or intelligence, despite possessing human corpses and hence are not actually 'raised' persons. But, really, if you have any more questions you want to ask about it, it's probably best to mention it in your next Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson."

"Yes, sir," Neville said, rapidly taking down notes, "thanks."

"No worries." He cast his eyes over the class, taking in Harry's scrunched up face, Hermione staring at her lap and the other Gryffindors mutinous silent fury, paired with the majority of the Slytherin's obvious glee at getting them all so riled up, and sighed. "Ready to move on?"

Only Neville and Parvati nodded, Hermione only leaning forward and half-heartedly picking up her quill again, but he began again anyway.

"Between 1965 and 1971, as well as being appointed the position as Headmaster of Hogwarts, Dumbledore was also appointed as Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation Of Wizards and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. In these positions of influential power, Dumbledore passed extreme legislations to prevent any possible dark forces from threatening overall security around Great Britain; while refusing the position of Minister Of Magic, claiming it would give him far too much power. It was these laws and measures that openly and secretly prevented Voldemort and his Death Eaters from initiating their revolution right away; something which, in my mind, could have only fuelled Voldemort's hatred of Dumbledore in the years to come.

"Voldemort then returned to Hogwarts to reapply for the position of Defence Against The Dark Arts teacher; only this time, he was annoyed to find out that Dumbledore had succeeded Armando Dippet as Headmaster. Unlike the last time he applied for a teaching position, Dumbledore suspected that this desire to teach was completely insincere, and his main goal was to recruit students to his cause and train them in the dark arts.

"As it turns out, Voldemort was hoping to search the school for artefacts like the sword of Godric Gryffindor and turn it into his sixth Horcrux, which would complete his goal of splitting his soul into seven pieces. Unsurprisingly, Dumbledore declined to hire him; telling Riddle that he knew full well that his desire for the position was insincere and that he secretly held more nefarious desires. Perhaps out of spite for the Headmaster, or perhaps for being denied a genuine desire to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts, Voldemort secretly placed an unknown dark jinx on the position, making it so a professor could not hold it for more than one school year. Whatever the reason, this ended up having insidious benefits to his long-term plans, as decades of students, including myself, would be stuck with erratic, poor-quality knowledge of Defence Against the Dark Arts, unless we taught ourselves, which a lot of us in my school year ended up doing.

"While in the school, Voldemort took the opportunity to conceal Ravenclaw's diadem. He was also unsuccessful in finding Gryffindor's sword.

"In 1968, Minister Of Magic Nobby Leach left office for mysterious health reasons, leading to a conspiracy theory that he had been poisoned by his Muggle-prejudice advisor Abraxas Malfoy. He was then replaced by Eugenia Jenkins, who, like her predecessor, was sympathetic to issues of social justice.

"As we went over last term, Squibs then began marching for their rights, which spurred pure-blood supremacists to riot. Throughout the decade, with various minority groups demanding to be treated as equals, many of the old, elite Pureblood Houses, to which all of the Death Eaters belonged, increasingly felt that their very way of life was being threatened. Many Pureblood supremacists who did not join the ranks of the Death Eaters nonetheless gave their wholehearted support to Voldemort's cause in secret even still.

"It was in this charged climate that in 1970, Voldemort revealed himself openly, proclaiming himself the Dark Lord, and started to commit extreme acts of terrorism in Britain. With his army of dark wizards and dark creatures at his command, Voldemort launched an assault against the British Ministry of Magic with the intention of toppling it and creating a new world order run by pure-bloods, with Muggle-borns either killed en masse or kept in utter bondage, and Lord Voldemort himself as an immortal leader, though likely ruling from behind the scenes."

Lupin sighed, stretching out his arms and wincing as his elbows cracked. He went to move his legs, before making a pain-filled face at his numb legs, and staying put. Dorcas snorted humourlessly, no doubt still thinking of ways to obliterate Goyle into a thousand pieces.

Whilst cracking his neck, Lupin said, "So, that was a brief overview of the 1940s and Voldemort's childhood, which should help us understand why he committed certain acts during our next phase," he gestured to the chalkboard with his wand, where the chalk piece moved over to the next column, "the 1970s." He winked at them all, "Which I know a little more about. Continuing on:

"To make headway in this assault on the Ministry, the Death Eaters and their allies began openly carrying out attacks on Muggles for sport and to create chaos. Cleaning up these attacks, healing survivors, modifying memories, searching for the perpetrators, and attempting to prevent future attacks occupied more and more of the Ministry's time and attention. As their confidence grew, the Death Eaters also began targeting Muggleborn and blood traitor witches and wizards, torturing and sometimes killing their victims, which shocked wizarding society. Other 'inferior' magical beings such as house-elves and Goblins also suffered under their reign of terror. To inspire yet more terror, the Death Eaters would cast the Dark Mark in the sky over every house or scene that they killed at.

"Many Death Eaters also managed to secretly gain strategic positions within the Ministry of Magic itself. They then used blackmail and the Imperius Curse to expand their influence and destabilise the government from within, which was desperately trying to keep order and continue to maintain secrecy from the Muggle world. Augustus Rookwood, for example, was an Unspeakable in the Department of Mysteries and managed to set up a particularly successful secret network of espionage within the Ministry.

"Minister Jenkins was ill-prepared to lead during wartime, and it seemed that the Ministry was incapable of gaining the upper hand. Voldemort himself personally killed hundreds of wizards, though he tended to only fight those he considered worthy of his attention or too powerful for his followers to defeat. In these encounters, he displayed his extraordinary abilities, many of which were thought impossible, and he very quickly earned the reputation of the most powerful and dangerous dark wizard of all time, surpassing even Grindelwald.

"In response to the growing threat of Lord Voldemort and his Death Eaters, Dumbledore formed the Order of the Phoenix in 1971; to take the fight directly to the Death Eaters. Though the Ministry officially viewed the Order as a vigilante group, a number of powerful Ministry officials joined instantly to participate in more secretive, sudden assaults to crush the dark rebellion."

He grinned at Harry, who, at the name of the Order had finally looked up from quietly stewing, and at Neville, whose parents were among those powerful Ministry officials. 

"However," here, Lupin grew more serious, getting lost in the memories of his time, "despite our best efforts, Voldemort continued to grow in magical power and influence, and his attacks, whether carried out personally or by his Death Eaters, became more frequent and brutal. It was clear that Dumbledore was the only wizard in the world who rivalled Voldemort in ability. In the Order of the Phoenix, we initially had very little success, and many continued to be killed by Voldemort.

"Terror and chaos gripped the populace of wizarding Britain to the point that many began to fear to speak Voldemort's name. He became widely referred to as 'He Who Must Not Be Named,' or, less formally, 'You Know Who' within the first year of his reign. Numerous ordinary witches and wizards lost their lives, and the Death Eaters frequently cast the Dark Mark over the scenes of their murders.

"To protect the organisation, Voldemort ensured that Death Eaters did not know the identities of too many of their fellows, and, to society at large, their identities were completely unknown. Increasing the confusion and paranoia even further, Voldemort placed many dozens of innocent victims under the Imperius Curse simultaneously, and forced them to carry out his orders. Even friends and family members were not above suspicion of one another.

"In 1975, Eugenia Jenkins was ousted as Minister Of Magic and replaced by Harold Minchum, who placed more Dementors around Azkaban. In addition, Council of Magical Law Head Judge Bartemius Crouch Senior rose quickly through the Ministry's ranks until he became the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Minchum and Crouch then began to make serious headway, though the anonymous and elusive Death Eaters still retained the advantage."

Slowly moving his legs out from underneath him, Lupin groaned as they clicked and the bottoms of his feet, as soon as they hit the floor, rapidly grew uncomfortable with a needling sensation. He leaned back against the desk and crossed his arms, just putting enough pressure on his legs to hurt but also to gain feeling back. He looked up at them all, smiling slightly, "But then, in the bitterly cold December of 1978, an incident occurred."

He grinned out at their confused faces, feeling anticipation rise in his belly. "An incident that has never been spoken of to more than a select few previously. An accidental incident that changed the tides of the War. Despite my own personal experience in these dark times, as part of the Ministry and in the Order of the Phoenix, there is someone else in this school who had a much more crucial impact on these turn of the tides and though he may lack the charismatic retelling talent I hold, I grant he would be a better person to talk to you lot about all this than I am and, as I'm sure you're all aware, I'm speaking of our Headmaster."

Arcelia's pale cheeks bloomed into a soft pink blush as the many eyes of her peers seemed to drag to her, whether they were aware of it or not, even as she maintained the burning anger inside of her. It had lessened in the last few minutes as Professor Lupin had spoken, but it was still there, and she maintained that she wouldbe finding Fred and George Weasley after this lesson and forcing them to help her set a prank so perfect on Gregory Goyle that he wouldn't be able to even look his pumpkin juice for another month. 

Despite her embarrassment at the attention brought to her, a characteristic her mother had always said she'd inherited from her father, she was extremely proud of him and she held her head high even as Professor Lupin shot her a somewhat commiserating glance. She'd known, ever since the news had broken that there would be an updated History of Magic class, that they would cover her father. He'd been a major part of the war, and it wasn't like she wasn't used to the attention already, five years of being the Headmaster's daughter had forced any unusualness of the situation out of her system. 

"Following the end of the War, Headmaster Sayre sat down with-"

"The White Knights?" Parvati Patil leaned as far forward as she could in her seat. 

Arcelia's rigid posture relaxed as the stares now were shared out between the usual four of them; herself, Neville, Harry and Dorcas. And by being friends with them since their first years, Hermione and Ron also took on that burden. It helped to not have all the pressure of the public eye on just herself.

She could feel the Slytherins glaring into the sides of their skulls and felt a vicious pleasure run through her.

Professor Lupin's grey eyes glinted at the title. "Yes, Miss Patil, the White Knights, though we always thought that name was in poor taste. Well," he considered, "some of us did."

Harry's lips twitched against his will and Lupin smiled when he saw he got what he wanted out of the comment.

"As I was saying," he said, continuing, "after the end of the War, following the years of violence and death and bloodshed, Headmaster Sayre sat down and informed the nine of us of his life story, and how he had come to wind up in Great Britain during this time, post previously said incident. And now, after the far too long awaited update to the exam board and the syllabus, he has given me special permission to inform you all of what happened, from his perspective. For the first time ever. Of course, I anticipate after this you will all go out and tell your friends, brothers, sisters, mums and dads, perhaps even the press, but if you please, allow me to get through this. We have," he checked his watch, "four hours until dinner, and today, luckily, is the day each of you has no more classes. Because I've cancelled them for you, surprise!"

Their eyes were as wide as cauldrons. No one, not even the daughter of the man himself, had heard the full in-depth account, other than the White Knights. And they, a group of thirty-two sixth years would be the first to hear it.

It seemed... well, it was a world-ending, heart-stopping moment. 

Lupin cleared his throat, reached behind him and picked up a stack of parchment, which was littered in a messy, looped scrawl. He waved it at them. "He has written down some notes for me, but as always, I will put my own dramatic flair on it."

This time, no one chuckled at his remark and they all held their breath as the Professor's eyes dipped down to the starting line of the first sheet of parchment.

"Right, then," he said, shaking out his wrists, "he's started us off with a bang, my good students. The Great War with Voldemort, from the perspective of the Headmaster of Hogwarts, esteemed holder of an Order of Merlin First Class, and many people's personal hero: Mister Rigel Hadrian Sayre. Or, should I say," He paused, possibly for dramatic affect, though more probable was due to the fact that even after all these years, he still couldn't believe it himself, "A Mister Harry James Potter, time traveller from his original timeline: Great Britain, 2006."

The current Harry Potter's quill snapped in his hand, splattering ink everywhere, and the classroom very quickly descended into anarchy. 

Chapter 2: Misplaced in Time: The Hedge Debacle

Notes:

nope, definitely didn't listen to someone new by hozier on repeat when writing this.

21st of December, 1978
Godric's Hollow, Devon, West Country

There was a flash of gold and unsteady feet landed on solid ground, followed by a swift curse and the sound of shattering glass. A shadowed figure's knees appeared to buckle and shudder under the unexpected burden of gravity after the weightlessness of only moments before. They stumbled forward uncertainly, feet tearing against the damp grass, trying desperately to regain balance. 

In the low light of the night, only a sliver of the darkness draped over the unknown surroundings was invaded; there were soft rays of light shining from a streetlight on the pavement just beyond a large hedge to the figure's right. Several oddly disjointed gaps in the thick green wall allowed the light to peer through, and though the individual and all else was shrouded in darkness, the chain dangling precariously from their fingertips glinted like a golden gem as it was caught in the gentle beams and the their eyes were drawn to it like a beacon.

With a low hiss, they brought both hands up to their chest, cupping the chain carefully. Moving closer to the hedge, the figure crouched, paying no mind to the few branches they'd upended upon their untimely arrival, and held the jewellery in the peering light.

The chain was pure gold, thin and delicately crafted. Goblin-made, for there was no other magical being who could forge such power into such a little amount of metal. On the end of the chain, opposite the clasp, was a circle of glass moulded into a matching golden hold which caught the light and reflected it gently onto the figure, revealing only that they donned a dark, hooded cloak. Inside the glass was a pile of amber sand and shards of silver metal differing in shape and size. 

The figure breathed a long sigh through clenched teeth as they dragged their thumb along the rim of the glass circle before tilting it slowly to the right, watching with keen eyes as the sand followed the movement. A heavy shudder ran down their spine as a pulsating surge of magical protection forced their thumb from the glass. 

Drawing a wand from their cloak, they lifted and, using mostly their wrist, twirled it in a tight circular motion around the circumference of the glass. A faint pink shadow drifted from the tip of their wand and melted into the grooves of the jewellery and the figure sighed, muttering lowly about "protective enchantments", "secretive Goblins" and "Notts".

Just as they prepared to stand once again, a sudden light sliced through the night that reigned over their surroundings. 

With the area thrown into light, the figure's face was revealed and though pale and riddled with surprise, it was recognisable to even the most sequestered magical; Harry Potter, the Chosen One, with green eyes as wide as cauldrons and lips set in a grim line. The famous lightning scar, faded and near impossible to see, had company: he was sporting a nasty cut over his right cheekbone, brutal and gaping.

The light also gave way to his calloused hands, drenched in blood that was not his own. 

From wide to focused in seconds, demonstrating his years with the Auror Corps, Harry's eyes narrowed in on the glass double doors which entered out onto a back garden he'd inadvertently landed in. He was content to remain in his crouch for a few moments longer, watching and waiting for any real threat to reveal itself and force him to move from his relatively safe position. That was until an elderly Muggle man armed with a shotgun rounded the corner of the doors, eyes squinting out and roaming what was assuringly his garden for intruders.

Or, perhaps, small mammals that ran across his lawn, because as soon as a rabbit hopped unawares into his line of vision, the man unlocked and slid open his doors at record speed, firing a shot that severed the silence, rattling Harry's brain as the rabbit slumped onto the damp grass. 

Holding his breath, Harry watched as the man stepped down onto the small patio and stared out over the rest of his garden, squinting into the dark depths that the light hadn't reached. He pushed himself back against the hedge as far as it would allow without falling all the way through, hesitating on the balls of his feet, before a twig snapped underneath his uneven footing at the same time the man's eyes finally landed on him. 

As he found himself at the barrel of the gun, Harry shot to his feet, clutching the chain tightly in a fist, and held his hands up in surrender.

"Good evening." Harry greeted the shotgun more than the man, but he hoped he appreciated the sentiment despite this. 

The man narrowed his eyes, holding his gun steady, "Says the intruder to the victim."

Well, Harry thought, at least he knew for definite that wherever he was was an English-speaking country. The man didn't sound particularly European, more British than anything else, but he wouldn't place any stock on his geographical knowledge, nor his familiarity of accents. Harry's eyes flittered down to the deceased rabbit near the man's feet and gestured toward it. "I would argue that poor sod's the victim here."

Looking down to his feet, the man stared at the rabbit for a long moment, looking momentarily upset until Harry took a wary step back and the man's eyes snapped back to him, anger rising in place of falling remorse. "Where do you think you're going?"

"Nowhere," Harry replied quickly, eyes darting between the man and his gun which hadn't moved from the aim at his chest. "Sorry, I..." he looked down at the rabbit and back up at the man, "it's just, I'm a vegetarian."

"A... vegetarian?"

"Yes. Someone who doesn't eat meat."

Face pulling down with both anger and confusion, the man spit out, "I know what a-"

"Well," Harry continued over him, "more pescatarian, really. If we're being technical." He grinned self-deprecatingly, half-shrugging, "Can't fight the lure of a barbecued salmon, I suppose. It calls out to me. Don't mind the odd bit of tuna either, here and there, but the breath afterward isn't worth it in my opinion, far too... fishy. Though, it would be, considering. It would be strange if it wasn't fishy. I imagine tuna would lose their marginalised popularity should they taste of, oh, I don't know... pulled pork? Or perhaps not pulled pork; I've been told it's the best bit of a pig. The... pulled bit. Do you like pulled pork?"

The man was now staring at him with an expression of disbelief. "Do I like pulled pork?"

"Barbecued, preferably. But I'm not fussy."

"Barbecued pulled pork?"

"Yes, sir."

"You- you're asking me if I like barbecued pulled pork?"

"I am."

"You've broken into my garden to ask me if I like barbecued pulled pork?"

"Ah," Harry winced, "I don't want to make a point of arguing with you, but I would dispute that part about 'breaking in'."

The man's eyebrows rose. "Oh, you didn't break in?"

Harry shook his head determinedly, but then followed the man's pointed look toward a gate in the back of the garden. "That gate locks on the inside."

Spotting the lock, fully intact, and ignoring the unease rising in his stomach, Harry nodded. "So it does. Wonderful lock you have there."

"Yes." The man narrowed his eyes at Harry. "It clearly doesn't do its job, though."

"Oh, I would say it does."

"The intruder says my lock works well, does he?"

"Again-"

"Right. Not an intruder."

Harry grinned, "You've got it." 

"I'm not sure I do." The man rolled his shoulder back, steeling himself, and took a step closer. Harry tried not to feel like he was being backed in; a predator trapped by its prey. "An unknown man, in hiding in my back garden-"

"I wasn't hiding."

"No?"

"No." The hand gripping the gold chain started to shake with the cool night wind that blew over the garden and concerned about dropping the precious item, Harry quickly and, he thought, rather stealthily slipped it into the pocket of his cloak. He tried again to smile winningly at the man, purposefully ignoring the way his eyes had widened and tracked Harry's arm move before flickering between him and the house. "You see, I'm old hat at hide-and-seek. So, if I was hiding, forgive my boastfulness, I don't think you would have found me."

"What was that?"

Harry's heart rate kicked up a notch and he edged back slightly until his back made contact with the hedge. "What was what?"

"That, what you just put in your pocket." The man's eyes then properly scanned Harry for the first time and he frowned. "What're you wearing? Why do you have blood on your hands?"

"This old thing?" Harry asked, choosing to ignore the last part. He spread his arms out and displayed his thick, black velvet cloak to the man. It had been one of the first wizarding items Harry'd bought with his first paycheque from the Aurors; spelled with long-lasting warming charms and undetectable extension charms woven into the pockets should he need them, it was his best cloak and really, he didn't wear any other. All pictures of him during the winter the press managed to get ahold of included this cloak. Ron teased him mercilessly about it and Hermione begged him to let her buy him a new one. Harry pulled at the cuffs proudly, "It's all the rage in France."

"France?" The man asked, confusion coloring his tone. 

Harry nodded. "Paris."

Then, his confusion switched to immediate anger so fast Harry had to bite back his flinch. "So, you wear French clothes and have to steal from lowly men and their wives, is that it?"

"Wha- steal?"

"Yes," the man started to advance slowly with a menacing look taking over his wrinkled face and Harry pressed his back deeper into the hedge, feeling the branches curl around his shoulders uncomfortably, "steal. I saw you, I watched you hide my wife's necklace in your pocket."

Flabbergasted, Harry couldn't raise an adequate reply. "Your wife's- you think I've- why would I-?"

"I don't know. Perhaps your rages in France don't have jewellery like hers."

"I haven't-"

"Perhaps you can't help yourself. Perhaps you need to steal from hard-working couples."

"No, I-"

"Perhaps you have no money. Perhaps you're homeless and want to pawn it off." The man had continued walking closer and closer until Harry was half-in the hedge and the gun's muzzle was pressed against his sternum, hard. "You certainly look homeless," his eyes darted down to his cheek, where Harry could feel a slight sting and assumed he'd been caught with a jinx of some kind, "get that at your last house did you, you little prick?"

It appeared he'd lost control of the situation. 

"I think there's been a bit of miscommunication here," Harry said placatingly, putting his hands back up in surrender. The man scoffed. 

"Do you? Well, when the police get here they can decide for themselves whether there's been a," he leaned closer and sneered, "miscommunication."

Harry felt his face pale slightly and had the miraculous thought that this Muggle and Snape would've gotten along swimmingly. They had a similar sneer, and the same relished look when it became clear that Harry was uncomfortable with the direction a particular conversation was going. "The police are hardly necessary."

"You and I have two different ideas of what is necessary." Holding the shotgun firmly into his chest with one hand, the man made to grab at Harry's pocket in which he'd put the golden chain. Harry balked, hand coming down to hold the pocket entrance against his thigh and his eyes widened as the branches in the hedge he was leaning against made a worrying crack.

Then it hit him, his position and who the man he was feeling threatened by was, and a hysterical laugh bubbled up at the bottom of his throat. It escaped, despite his better judgment, as a snort which only heightened the Muggle's glare. 

Fighting for breath, and desperate to not laugh in his face, Harry looked to the side, staring at the hedge, and held up a hand to the man. "S-sorry. Two seconds. I'll be alright in a second. Sorry."

"What is so fucking funny?!" Practically spitting with rage, the man leaned close into Harry's face and snarled. Harry bit his bottom lip in an effort not to outright laugh in his face. 

"Nothing. Nothing. There is nothing funny about this, of course." Harry put on a faux-stern expression and nodded. "I am, after all, being held at gunpoint with a very dauntingly sturdy hedge behind me."

The Muggle man's eyes bugged out of his head as he realised too late what Harry was about to do, "Wait- don't move- I'll shoot-!"

Pushing off the lawn firmly, Harry launched himself backward through the hedge, landing heavily on his back, the hard pavement making him groan and arch his back in pain.

"Bloody...  buggering... Muggles... stupid..." Harry muttered to himself as rolled onto his front and clambered uneasily to his feet, hands pushing off against the floor with every few steps as he struggled to find his balance. When he was further down the road, and could only hear the Muggle man shouting to himself and slamming what he assumed were the double glass doors behind him again, he slowed to a walk and picked his head up, looking around. 

He was coming up to a small roundabout with four roads; one the way he'd just come from and back to the man, another straight-ahead, one to his left, and one to his right. Praying to the Gods, and to Merlin, Harry chose the road to his left, hoping that it was less likely to double back on itself than the road to the right.

There was no chance of apparating, not when he had no idea of his location and was still unsure of any injuries he had gained either in that garden or in... whatever it was that happened before. He wasn't about to compliment Theodore Nott with the favour of calling it a duel. 

Wouldn't compliment himself that way.

His mind took that moment to flash through scenes of the last hour, and Harry shook his head desperately thinking of something else and landed on how he hadn't felt that brand of fear since... since he'd lived with his Uncle and Aunt in Privet Drive. 

Merlin, he thought humourlessly as he moved at pace along the road as it curved around to the right, he hadn't felt that crippling, stilling fear in seven years. He mused that the fear stemmed from the fact that he couldn't fight with magic against Muggles, though the thought sprung to mind that he knew now how to throw a punch. 

Perhaps it had just been too long since he'd been threatened by someone he wasn't legally allowed to throw a curse at. 

After his graduation from Hogwarts, and the following long-awaited growth spurt, Muggles stopped looking down their noses at him and instead silently respected the tall, muscular man in the clearly expensive cloak whenever he walked along the Muggle streets in London. 

Though it helped that he was more often than not flanked by Ron and Neville, or even Hermione. Both Neville and Ron were well over six feet in their own right, and Hermione was almost always dressed head-to-toe in office wear and had this intimidating flare about her. Not even the most idiotic of Muggles were foolish enough to stare at Hermione Granger when she was in work mode like she was lesser than them. If they were to do so, Harry had no doubt the outcome would be positively disastrous. 

And whenever he walked along Diagon Alley, or through the halls at the Ministry, magicals continued to treat him like a Knight who'd finally come home from war, so he never had to worry about people thinking lesser of him there. 

Not that he was. 

Worried about it. 

He wasn't. 

Rounding the corner, Harry spied an alleyway across the road and picked up his pace, racing over, immediately pressing his back against the wall as soon as he got there, facing the way he'd just come.

Breathing hard, adrenaline coursing through his veins, Harry took him a moment to gather himself.

It took him a few minutes to properly calm down, and Harry thought he was owed that time after the last drama-filled hour. After all, if he didn't have the chance to go out for that drink Ron had promised him after work, then he was going to take his time now.

What eventually succeeded in slowing his heart rate was lifting a hand to his hair to pick out the leaves and small sticks which had tangled themselves there after he'd rolled through the hedge, and his eyes catching Nott's blood drying on his hand.

The Muggle had pointed it out, and Harry'd spotted it when the lights had come on firstly, but it still came as a shock to the system to see it without having a more pressing issue to deal with. 

Nott wasn't the first man, adversary or otherwise, to die in Harry's arms. He wouldn't be the last. But knowing that never made it easier.

Though he was the first to... do whatever it is that he had done to him. His final act, Harry supposed as he reached into his pocket and lifted out the golden chain. His shoulders drooped slightly in relief after examining it and confirming that there weren't any parts missing or further broken following the... hedge debacle. 

Harry's lips quirked. 

That was henceforth how he decided he'd refer to it in the future.

He lifted his hand and hung the time-turner from his fingers by the chain, the glass circle swung gently back and forth in the breeze.

He forced his mind to think back to the last time he had seen a time-turner in the flesh and came up with third-year, with Hermione in the Hospital Wing.

Brow furrowing, his lips curled down again as memories drifted back up of scuttling rats, broken legs, old rivalries, wolf howls, pumpkins, hospital wings, swirling school robes, and golden flashes.

Harry choked as his breath caught at the bottom of his throat.

Golden flashes. 

He thought back to half an hour ago when he'd landed in that garden. 

Golden flashes. 

Perhaps he should...

Harry lowered the time-turner carefully, warily, and with his other hand he reached into the pockets inside his cloak and pulled out his wand. He lifted it and with an action like flicking paint onto a canvas, whispered, "Tempus."

A vibrant orange mist was pulled from the tip of his wand like it was being dragged by an invisible fishing line and lit up the dark alley. Harry was reminded of his surroundings and quickly cast a furtive glance around the corner, in the direction of the Muggle gunman's house and the roundabout. 

No one was there, the street deserted in what he supposed was the early hours of the morning. He looked back at the spelled mist as it began to pull at itself and twist into wispy, fire-like numbers. 

02:43
21/12/1978

The time formed first and Harry had the momentary, ridiculous thought that surely the man should have been asleep at this time, not shouting and accusing innocent wizards and shooting at rabbits, but then his eyes had trouble moving from the date that finally contorted into existence from the orange mist.

21/12/1978.

The 21st of December, 1978.

1978.

Harry lowered his wand and stared blankly at the opposite alley wall as the orange spell dispersed, the wind blowing the few sparks left down the alley and around the corner, disappearing behind the brick wall.

1978... how was that even possible?

He scoffed at himself and glanced at the time-turner now clutched painfully in his palm. But, Harry had never heard of a time-turner manufactured to send someone back further than six hours. It was... absurd. Impossible.

Harry's mouth twisted; clearly not.

He didn't like this at all.

Suddenly finding the small space in the alley to be far too much, Harry spun and faced the brick wall behind him. He pressed his forearms against it, bracing his head between them, and breathed heavy gasps of the cool air. Catching the corner of his eye, he saw that the time-turner had pushed itself through the gap in his fingers, which had begun to shake minutely. He willed the tremors to stop as his mind was flooded with a rushing noise, not unlike a waterfall, opposing the quiet street. He bit down hard on his bottom lip, shoving past the confusion and fear, and multitudes of other emotions he couldn't begin to decipher, trying to grasp onto what was important as he stared at the device that had evidently sent him twenty-eight years in the past. 

What was it that Ron always said whenever Hermione got too caught up in a particular legislation?

One thing at a time.

His vision blurred and he could taste bile clawing its way up his throat. He was either going to pass out or be sick- probably both.

Hold it together, Potter. Harry closed his eyes and forced himself to take a deep breath. Focus on your breathing. Count to three… breathe in, breathe out… remember your training; you didn't let Hermione attack your mind for months just to lose it over something like this… breathe in, breathe out…

It took longer than it usually did, but Harry soon calmed his racing thoughts enough so that he was no longer on the brink of a panic attack. Six months of Occlumency training- not really the standard for new Auror recruits, but he was Harry Potter and Hermione needed to practice her Legilimency skills, so he'd offered his mind in exchange for her expertise, which was much gentler than Snape's- and had come in handy more times than he could count. It was more about finding inner peace and a sense of control than it was about being defensive, and that was a skill that was applicable to nearly all situations. 

Well, the situations he often found himself in. 

Harry opened his eyes again, glaring at the brick wall ahead of him. 

He was injured, or so the stinging on his cheek told him, covered in blood. He had no idea where or, more importantly, how he'd come to be here. 

He had…nothing. 

Harry screwed his eyes shut again, halting the dizzy spell that hit, and thought back.

An hour ago, he and his team of Aurors had been in the Entrance Hall of Nott Manor, Hertfordshire.

They'd been working on getting a warrant to search the residence for seven months, Harry becoming Head Auror two months into them vying for it only accelerated the process.

Following his graduation, Harry had joined the Auror Corps, helping make arrests of on-the-run Death Eaters and Voldemort sympathisers. He was there for two years as a newbie, before moving up the ranks and being awarded the role of Team Leader. He was in charge of his own six recruits and would adventure out on missions with them, fighting as a team and working together on plans of attack. He was good at his job, he wasn't ashamed to admit it, wasn't too modest. It was what he'd done with Hermione and Ron for five years, and then with a larger group of people for the last two during his schooling at Hogwarts. 

But what he wasn't used to was being the sole person in charge of hundreds of people, which is what threw him when six months ago, he was promoted to Head Auror. He hadn't been enjoying it; there was far too much paperwork, far too many meetings, far too many people to please, and worrying about the public's view of missions.

This one in particular. 

Several calls from neighbours and concerned members of the public had made them aware of flashes of gold and silver at Nott Manor, followed by loud shouts and screeches, sometimes even continuing on until the early morning. That and Nott's title as one of the only suspected Voldemort sympathisers not on 24-hour surveillance due to the wards surrounding his property, had put him at the top of their watch list.

Once the Wizengamot had granted Harry's team the warrant, he'd announced that they were going to act straight away to general acceptance from both his boss' and team members.

They'd apparated directly into the grounds, the wards allowing them through on a technicality. Harry had hoped not waiting until the morning meant they would catch Nott unawares and in the midst of something illegal.

Due to the nature of the warrant and the specification he'd requested, they hadn't even needed to request access to the gates, merely were permitted to apparate onto his doorstep. Instead of being met with a snivelling, terrified Theodore Nott, as expected, they'd learned that he must have been tipped off by someone at the Ministry because he'd known they were coming and had put up a fight.

Four of Harry's six team members were taken down within the first five seconds after walking through the front door, and the two of them that were left were more focused on the device that Nott held mockingly in his hand: a time-turner. One that they'd presumed, if they got too close, he would use and go back six hours, fleeing the country before they got to him, or something equally as dangerous.

So, instead, Jenna, Harry's last standing team member who was only four months out of training, had tried to sneak up on him while Harry kept him talking, which he was rather good at, especially with Nott, considering their history. 

Harry grimaced as his memories grew murkier as he tried to remember what happened from then on, but all he could recall was Jenna casting a cutting curse at Nott after he;d spat out a particularly nasty insult, and the man tackling Harry to the floor at the same time. The spell, instead of hitting Jenna's intended target of Nott's shoulder, hit the man's jugular instead, spraying dark red, thick blood up the wall and all over Harry's hands. He choked, gripped onto Harry's forearms, and leaned into him as they both slid down the wall. Nott pushed something, with more force than a man furiously bleeding out from his neck should have been able, into Harry's hand and on instinct he gripped it tight. Nott smiled toothily, blood spilling out between the gaps in his teeth... and then, flashes of gold.

He frowned, trying to keep a tight grip on his simmering panic as the hand not holding the time-turner clenched tightly. None of this made any sense, but with the tempus charm screaming the facts at him, what else could Harry think?

Some practical joke? Unlikely. Perhaps he'd hit his head when Nott had collapsed into him and was unconscious in St. Mungos.

But as Harry shivered lightly in the slight wind and focused his eyes, staring once more at his bloody hands against the wall, he knew this wasn't a figment of his imagination. His mind wouldn't and couldn't possibly make this up.

A car drove past suddenly, headlights flashing over the alleyway's walls, breaking Harry out of his stupor. He quickly flattened himself against the bricks, hands coming down to his sides.  

Something heavy settled itself in his chest: he couldn't stay out in the open. Who knew if the Muggle man had actually called the police? Surely he would've if he'd been frightened enough to shoot at a rabbit, accuse Harry of stealing, and all but shove him through that hedge.

That meant that Harry had to be cautious now; there may be police roaming the streets looking for a figure in dark clothing and Harry wouldn't be able to explain to them that he hadn't meant to land in this man's garden, but the magical device that had been planted on him against his will by an experimental Dark Wizard in the year 2006 had forced him too.

They would either lock him up or send him for a psych evaluation. Both, with his luck.

Harry came to the realisation that he needed someplace safe to stay for the night, somewhere preferably out of the area. But the only way to find a safe place was to move from the alleyway and come to a vague understanding of his whereabouts.

Nott's time-turner was confirmed to send him more than six hours back in time. Who knew what else it could do; where it could send him?

Slowly, craning his neck to see over his shoulder, Harry stepped back from the wall.

Glancing at the golden chain still wrapped around his left fist, Harry sighed deeply before lifting it up, unhooking the clasp, and bringing it to rest around his neck, locking it in place. He fiddled gently with the glass circle, ignoring the low thrum of pulsating power as the sand shifted in its hold. Then, letting go and watching it fall back against his sternum, Harry tucked it underneath his cloak. He shivered at the feel of the cool metal against his skin.

After considering it for several seconds, he also pulled his hood up over his head, leaving enough space for him to see but not enough for outside viewers to catch a glimpse of any defining facial features.

Keeping his wand down at his side, ready to cast should any real danger present itself, Harry poked his head around the corner of the brick alley wall.

He decided, upon confirming the emptiness of the street, that he would go in the opposite direction that he had run from, therefore there was less chance that he would be confronted by psychopaths, or angry men with guns, though he was now sure the two were synonymous.

When certain that no one was around, he ducked out of the alleyway and walked at a brisk pace down the left-hand-side pavement, skidding slightly on the ice as his stride quickened with each step.

It was December 1978.

Harry shook his head in astonishment, eyes flickering over each house's door and front windows, watching for any sign of movement, though he doubted there would be any at all at this time; the man with the shotgun must have been an unlucky chance. Though if Harry knew Theodore Nott, it had probably been purposeful.

Despite the fact that he had no idea how the man would be able to configure that. When he and Hermione had used the time-turner in their third year, it'd brought them back in time but they had stayed in the same location as when they'd left. Would Nott have been able to change the location Harry would end up in?

Harry shook his head; focusing on the past would get him nowhere.

Focusing on the future.

If Ron was with him, as he usually was when something like this occurred, he would want to apparate to the Leaky Cauldron or Diagon Alley to see if they could haggle a room and a meal out of someone. Knowing Ron he probably would be able to; he smiled despite himself as he thought back to countless times the three of them had been summoned to Professor McGonagall's office, Harry and Hermione with their heads down stifling laughter as Ron talked absolute rubbish to an angry, but exasperated, McGonagall.

And managed to get them out of trouble every time.

Well, the majority of the time; transporting illegally bred dragons to the Astronomy Tower after hours wasn't something even Ron Talk-A-Lot Weasley could fix. Despite how much he begged to differ.

Harry knew Ron's chattiness in the face of immediate, deathly danger had rubbed off on him, and he would be forever grateful for it.

If Hermione was with him, it would be a different story. If she was here... well, Harry most likely wouldn't be in this position in the first place.

She either would have had Nott in ropes and bound before he'd managed to get a word out or would've known how to work the time-turner and sent them straight back to Nott Manor to help Jenna and get the rest of the team medical help. 

Merlin, he hoped they'd got help.

He swallowed past the hard lump in his throat and focused on the team member left standing: Jenna.

Harry sighed; he hadn't known her very long, but as a Team Leader, it was his job to know everything about his group.

She graduated top of her class from Hogwarts and was fresh out of Corps training, twenty years old, almost twenty-one. They were going out for drinks on Friday at the Hogs Head to celebrate her birthday.

She'd invited him on a whim, he assumed. Not many of the younger trainees and officers had the balls to personally come up to any of Dumbledore's Army, let alone him (he wasn't completely unaware of the effect he had on people who hadn't known him personally during the war) and invite them to after-work drinks and parties. But she'd done it following her first successful mission detaining an on-the-run Death Eater and Harry suspected she'd been on a high.

Armed with the knowledge of how he'd felt after his first rodeo, he had accepted, promising to bring along some friends; Neville, Ron, Hermione, and Luna. Ginny was in the northwest of Wales, training for an upcoming reserves match with the Holyhead Harpies and Dean and Seamus were holidaying in New York, enjoying their freedom and peace, so none of the three had been able to come.

But Jenna, and friends, had been ecstatic all the same. Hermione had teased him when she'd heard the giggles and murmurs of the 'great Harry Potter going to Jenna Smithe's birthday party', but he knew she had been pleased he'd accepted the invitation.

His social life had taken a hit after the war. Not that he had been a party animal beforehand, but with the further recognition that defeating a Dark Lord for the second time, and in front of about one-hundred people, gave him, he was never eager to venture out into the public. People stopped in their tracks just to stare and summoned items into his path so that he would have to stop and walk around it, and then that's when they would pounce and hug his arm, pressuring him for an autograph.

Which he didn't mind, not after fifteen years of it. It's just that... this was a different magnitude than before.

It was nicer, in a way, however.

His friends now understood his woes, even Ron got sick and tired of the attention after three months of it. It was part of the reason, Harry knew though his friend didn't tell him explicitly, that Ron had moved from the Aurors to working at Weasley Wizarding Wheezes with George two years ago.

Little kids didn't stare as often when there were desirable treats and fantastic tricks waiting on shelves just a few steps away, and parents didn't ask after autographs when they had to make sure their children didn't destroy the shop in their effort to trial every item. It was still just as fast-paced as chasing after Dark Wizards and creatures, but with less paperwork.

He didn't need to say anything, but Harry knew that Ron was also happy that Harry had plans that involved social interaction. His own acceptance of Harry's invitation laid that out clear enough, though Harry suspected Hermione had put pressure on Ron to accept that too. They were a package deal, and the majority of the wizarding world knew this; Ron and Harry were equally unsociable these days. 

Startlingly enough, Hermione was the one most visible in the papers; grainy pictures of her and Ginny at lunch, family dinners at the Burrow, walking through the Ministry with scrolls and parchment floating behind her as her nose was stuck deep in a book. This meant that she did, unfortunately, have a leg to stand on when she bullied and harrumphed them both about getting out. So, Harry had accepted Jenna's invitation. More to shut Hermione up, than anything else. 

It hadn't helped that Jenna's blonde hair had been curled and heavy from where it'd been tied up for the mission, her face was flushed with exertion, and her blue eyes bright. 

Ron and Neville mocked him vigorously about his 'type evolving' whenever a blonde waitress served them at lunch, or when the toned blonde bartender passed him his beer with fluttering eyelashes at the Ringo Dingo bar down the street from the Ministry after work, but promised to not say anything to Hermione. 

That would be bad. He'd never get away from the amount of 'potential interests' she'd try and set him up with.

He threw these thoughts behind him and tried to ignore the burning in the pit of his stomach at the thought of Jenna, helpless and surrounded by her older and more experienced teammates bleeding out on the floor. Instead, he focused on his steps, watching windows and doors and cars parked out on the street as he passed them. 

Which meant he noticed when the number of cars began to dwindle until there were none.

Harry blinked and stopped walking.

He was standing in a snowy lane, the pavement thinning out into road before him, under the pitch-black night sky in which the stars were glimmering feebly against the strains of cloud that were trying to settle in. Cottages stood, in place of houses, on either side of the narrowing road, all with their curtains drawn closed, each window dark and gloomy.

A short way ahead of him, a glow of golden streetlights indicated the centre of a village.

It was recognisable. Harry knew he should know where he was and the name of the village whispered in the back of his mind as he started walking once more, slower this time, eyes searching for something that would give away his location.

The icy cold air stung his face beneath the hood as he passed more cottages: any one of them, he thought bitterly, could have a witch or wizard who'd be willing to help, be willing to take him in until he could figure out a plan of action.

If he was in his own time. If he could be Harry Potter, the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived, Head Auror.

1978; the year taunted him on repeat.

Harry shook his head and prodded on, gazing longingly at the front doors, their icicle-burdened roofs, and their front porches.

The lane along which he was walking curved to the left and the heart of a village, a small square, was revealed.

Harry felt the breath left in his lungs be sucked out as he recognised it, finally: Godric's Hollow.

He continued walking and craned his neck over the chest-high wall to his left to peer into the graveyard. Looking on ahead he saw the rusty kissing gate at the entrance, the one that always creaked when opened, despite how gently it was pushed. Luna never failed to wince each time, citing that the spirits which resided on the grounds despised the sound.

After years of her accompaniment to Godric's Hollow graveyard, Harry had learned to respect and understand her musings and had begun to wince himself.

Hermione, the few times she and Ron joined him and Luna on Christmas Day to visit his parent's and Godfather's gravestones and lay flowers, scoffed. Luna was nonplussed, as per usual. It always made for an amusing time, when a group of them would go together, whether it was just the four, or Ginny, George, and Neville joined too.

Harry never went by himself; he thought that perhaps his friends had made a pact behind his back to make sure that he was with someone whenever he went near Godric's Hollow. He suspected that the perpetrator behind it was Hermione, after their first experience here.

The cold winter's night had nothing to do with the sudden shivers that jolted down his arms, the goosebumps that rose on his skin as his mind flashed through still images of unfurling snakes, old women deteriorating before his eyes, white necks trembling with high cackles, red eyes, snapped wands and splinched arms.

He didn't let his eyes linger on the graveyard, didn't let them search absently for the three headstones that he knew, logically, wouldn't be there, and instead focused on the point up ahead where the rows of cottages ended and the lane turned into open country.

Walking as quickly as he dared on the icy road, past more and more dark windows, Harry didn't let his eyes stray from his predetermined destination, should he see something that he didn't want to.

The year was 1978, three years before that night, which meant that it should be intact.

In fact, he was almost certain that it would empty; he knew only that his parents moved there after finding out that his mother was pregnant, and the prophecy that Sybil Trelawney gave referenced their unborn child. He knew that Trelawney gave her prophecy to Dumbledore around 1980, and he knew that only a few months later the Potter's moved into the cottage in Godric's Hollow hidden under a Fidelius Charm.

What he didn't know was whether anyone had lived there before that. A friend, renter... ancestor. There could be someone living there now, someone with Potter blood running through their veins.

Harry ignored the longing building in his chest as he manoeuvred quickly around a sheet of ice on the road; he wasn't the only Potter in this time. His parents and grandparents were alive, arguably thriving. They may even be...

His eyes locked onto the last cottage on the final row.

As his stride lengthened and his pace quickened, he could see it was dramatically different to that first night in Godric's Hollow, in which he'd been stupidly surprised to see the wild hedge, the rubble scattered amongst the waist-high grass. Now, eight years later, Harry thought that he should've expected that it would be overgrown and beat down; after all, he had spent seven years at Hogwarts being told he was the last of the Potter line, meaning he was responsible for the properties, even if he hadn't known they existed.

As an orphan, it had fallen to his magical guardian to gradually hand over control of the Potter family artefacts and properties, and inform him of them.

Unfortunately, that had been Sirius.

Due to his Godfather's lack of trial, his incarceration had never been made official, therefore the old magic had never passed along the title of magical guardian to someone else, despite the fact that Albus Dumbledore took on that role in the eyes of the paper and public.

This meant that the Potter family shares had been laid to rest for his entire childhood, until the summer of his fifth year at Hogwarts after when Sirius died. Then, the title had fallen to Remus as requested in his parents' wills, but unfortunately, Remus had been going through his own grief for his friend, and fighting in the Order, and wasn't home often enough to receive and open any mail. 

That meant that he hadn't opened the letter from Gringotts informing him of his new title of magical guardian to Harry Potter.

After Harry turned seventeen, an adult in the magical world, his name was sown into the deeds of the Potter shares, and he was officially responsible for all family properties, companies, artefacts, and monetary items. Of course, he'd been busy fighting Death Eaters and a Dark Lord, and the Goblins hadn't been particularly happy with him due to the whole... escaping dragon, destruction of Gringotts Bank palooza.

But following a grovelling apology made by himself, Ron, and Hermione after the war, of which the Goblins had grudgingly accepted, they'd informed him of his new responsibilities and explained why he might've not known about any of it beforehand.

Harry's first item on the agenda, after overcoming his shock, had been to restore Potter Cottage to its former glory. He appreciated the thought and gesture that Ministry officials had when they'd left the house in its ruined state as a monument to his family and parents, but he thought that his parents would rather he rebuild it. It had been the only place where they'd spent their time with him after he'd been born. 

And he was pleased to note, as he came to a stop outside the front gate, that his restoration had looked very similar to the original.

It was comfortably sized; two stories, both floors with two windows peering out onto the dark street, and a small gate and hedges surrounding the front garden. It was simple, neat, and homely.

But most importantly, Harry decided as he leaned over the gate, peering through the dark bottom floor windows that revealed the living room inside, it was empty.

Which meant he could enter and recuperate without anyone knowing he was here.

Harry lifted his wand and gently tapped it on the latch of the gate. With a click, it unlocked, the latch lifting itself up. The gate swung open, accompanied by a low creaking that had Harry glancing over his shoulder to make sure he wasn't being watched.

He stepped inside, swishing his wand in the direction of the gate behind him and it closed gently like it was pushed by an invisible breeze. Another click confirmed the gate locked again, and Harry steeled himself before moving up the path.

The grass on either side was cut neatly; Harry hoped that the wards around the house made sure to keep the outside of it presentable and a house-elf didn't pop in every week or two to check on things.

For a Potter family property, Harry liked how normal it was; it was nowhere near any of the Purebloodean Manors he'd seen in his time; no brass doorknobs, no silver-plated window frames, no chandeliers, or so he could tell from outside. It was homely, comfortable. It warmed him as he stopped at the front door and lifted his wand to touch the top of the doorknob.

It rattled in its place but didn't click.

Harry scowled; locked. Then he rolled his eyes at his stupidity, it was 1978, a year at the height of the war. Death Eaters and Voldemort sympathisers were roaming the streets of Britain and Europe. Of course the bloody door would be locked.

He chanced a glance to his right, and to his left, before tucking his wand away into his cloak.

He reached out, hooked his left hand tight on the doorknob, and placed his right hand flat against the door. Just as he braced his legs and readied himself to shove into the door with all his might, a searing red hot pain burned into the hand gripped onto the doorknob, and he immediately let go, yelping before the door clicked, opened, leaving him helpless as he fell through, landing on his side and clutching his hand.

"Bloody shitting hell!" Harry hissed, biting down on his tongue to prevent another yell from escaping his lips. He whipped out with his legs and kicked the door shut, quickly cutting off the view of anyone from the outside who might have heard him and come to investigate.

Still on the floor, Harry stared down at his throbbing hand.

There was no identifiable mark, no red burn, or white blister. Harry looked to the door; perhaps that was the wards granting him entrance; had they recognised his Potter ancestry? Was there an identity charm on the handle?

He stayed in his position on the floor for several minutes, long after his hand stopped throbbing, waiting for an investigative neighbour to come and peer through the windows, or even some Muggle police. But when none arrived, Harry heaved himself up into the sitting position and cast a long look about the room he'd fallen into.

It was dark and quiet, the only noise coming from a ticking clock in the corner. It appeared to be a square entrance hall; a mirror directly ahead was hung on the wall next to a coatrack and an empty cabinet, a shoe rack to the right of that, a door, and then in the far corner of the little room was a set of stairs that curved up and disappeared behind the second-floor wall. Harry reached into his robes as he slowly clambered to his feet.

Each movement he made, the wooden floorboards creaked and the hairs on his arms stood to attention.

He raised his wand, after gingerly standing straight once again, and intoned, "Homenum revelio."

Nothing happened and he sighed in relief. 

He was alone. 

The thought hit him strongly in the chest and he ignored the scratching pain that tried to claw its way up his throat. He turned toward the front door and flicked his wand tiredly at the doorknob, glaring at it for burning his palm, despite the fact that it was fine now. "Colloportus."

The door settled into its place with an odd squelching noise and Harry let out a sigh of relief. It wouldn't keep anyone who wanted to get in out, any second-year Hogwarts student with a love of adventure could easily walk straight in, but Harry hoped the wards would sort them out. 

If there were wards. He assumed there were. 

Before he moved any further, he turned and pointed his wand at the heavy cream curtains and they snapped shut of their own accord, dropping the entire room into pure darkness. 

Whispering, "Lumos", Harry's wand tip lit up the space around him in a low glow. Deciding it was better than nothing, he started towards the door, leaving the stairs for later on. He avoided the coatrack as one of the hooks lashed out and tried to grip and snatch the hood of his cloak, being well-versed with charmed coatracks. They were, more often than not, deadly. 

He gave a heavy sigh as he moved past it, promising himself that he would chuck it in a closet somewhere soon as he reached the door.

For a moment, he stood just inside the doorway of the living room. He wasn't surprised that much like the entrance room, and the garden, it was devoid of dust and decay, and once again hoped that there were simply just upkeep charms on the house, rather than the odd Potter house-elf that popped in and cleaned every few months or so. 

He waved his wand at the curtains that sat side by side with the two large bay windows that peered out onto the garden and the dark road beyond and they closed with a snap. Holding his wand high above his head, Harry moved further into the room. Like what he'd seen of the house so far, it was simple and had the bare necessities; a small two-seater couch and coffee table facing the windows. He imagined it was nice during mid-afternoon in the summer when there were people milling about on the road beyond and you could people-watch from the safety of inside. 

The rest of the room was more of the same; there was a small kitchenette overlooking the couch, a countertop with two wooden stools, and a small rounded table with four chairs tucked underneath hidden away in the corner of the room. The fireplace, that Harry had renovated to become much more grand in the future, was unlit and dark just to the left of the couch. In his time, it was constantly roaring with fire, casting warmth across the room. But he decided that it helped there were always people at the cottage after he'd renovated it; currently, it was Teddy's 'bachelor pad'. 

Harry breathed in, wishing for the scent of Luna's citrus candles and Ginny's lemony perfume. 

Instead, there was a lingering scent of stale air that came with the feeling of abandonment and lack of care. He found himself feeling bad for James and Lily Potter when they would eventually come to live here; they'd have a lot to do to make this place homely. 

Against his own wishes, it reminded him of Privet Drive. The quiet atmosphere, the flowery couch cushions, the dead and cold fireplace. 

Harry turned his back on the living room, ignoring the rumble in the pit of his stomach as his eyes glanced over the kitchen cupboards. He doubted there was any food, and if there was, it wouldn't be anything other than mouldy bread and cans of peaches in cream. 

Back in the entrance hall, quickly ducking out the way of the coat rack, Harry stared warily at the staircase. 

Once again he found himself thanking his lucky stars that his friends had pressured him into renovating the house, and then further helped him with the upstairs. 

Harry walked up to the first step and placed his hand on the bannister, thinking of the good and the bad times this staircase had seen. 

Will see.

Lily Potter sprinting up them away from certain death, Voldemort following carrying the stench of certain death with him. Severus Snape hugging his mother's lifeless body out in the hallway just above, leaving him crying in the crib. Sirius Black running up them empty-handed and coming back down with a child who would change everything, an action that changed everything. 

Neville Longbottom tripping on a loose plank of wood and breaking his arm in two places as he tumbled down the stairs. Neville and Luna's first kiss had been at the bottom after she'd healed him. Ginny and his own breakup after he'd graduated from Hogwarts, their getting back together, and penultimate breakup at the hidden cove near the top of the staircase where it curved around at Hermione's 21st birthday. Teddy sliding down the bannister almost every day, and every time making his heart halt in his chest. He thought about late nights in October when it was getting colder and he and Luna would sit on the stairs with their hot chocolates and fluffy blankets, waiting for Teddy and Victorie to fall asleep in front of the fire before Luna apparated her home.

Good times and the bad, but as he started up the stairs, hand running lovingly up the bannister with a small smile, he rather thought the good outweighed all else. 

But then he came to the first room on the left and felt his smile fall. Harry hadn't touched this room when they'd renovated it. Hermione and Ron had sat with him on the front porch while Ginny, Luna, Seamus, Dean, and George went to town; ripping up floorboards and painting the walls, exploding empty rotting cribs and baby dials. 

He walked past it without a second glance. It had been years, twenty-seven almost, but Harry wasn't able to face it. 

The next door along held the bathroom and the stinging in his cheek suddenly came back tenfold and he winced and walked in to peer at himself in the mirror. 

He came to an abrupt stop when he was immediately confronted with a wide, shining mirror, and stared at the face looking back at him.

He felt bile rise in his throat. 

It wasn't that the jagged cut looked too terribly grave, no. It was simply the jinx that he'd been hit with that made the injury seem so... unreal.

But Harry was only able to examine it for a second before the trickle of blood obscured it. Forcing himself to concentrate, he pointed the wand tip at the wound, and murmured the words, "Vulnera Sanentur."

The gash slowly sewed itself shut. His skin mended, and the bleeding ceased. He wiped at the excess blood with his palm, ignoring the sticky warmth, and stared at his eyes in the mirror. 

He looked terrified; his eyes were wide and sparking and his mouth hanging open like he'd been panting with adrenaline. But, he hadn't.

He didn't feel terrified. He figured that he was probably just in a permanent state of shock, which he appreciated. 

Harry exited the bathroom and peaked his head around the next door, looking with unseeing eyes; it was a simple study with a small desk, a chest-of-drawers and he caught a glimpse of a bookshelf before he left again.

Not finding any purpose or motivation in these rooms, and silently cursing Merlin's name, he moved on down to the final door at the end of the corridor. It was a master bedroom with a double bed, wardrobe, and another set of chest-of-drawers that he imagined would be empty. 

Harry leaned heavily against the doorframe, staring drearily at the bed.

What was he going to do? He could hardly live in this time as Harry Potter. James and Lily were alive during this time and relatively well known. As were Remus, Sirius, Albus Dumbledore... well everyone. He thought that he was relatively safe here, but just in case someone came looking... he didn't know if the wards would alert the head of Potter House that someone had accessed the wards, it was likely they would. 

So, he needed a backstory, a good one. 

He would need to come up with everything he needed to convincingly be someone else… but he couldn't be from England. He couldn't have gone to Hogwarts. It was almost impossible that he wouldn't run into the Potter family while here, and by extension his parents and their friends, and they would surely realise that they'd never seen him in the castle before, and if he was caught in a lie, he was doomed.

He would have to be from somewhere else, from a different school, with a different life.

He was also going to need food. He could summon water, so that was easy enough, and despite the coppery taste, he was happy to survive on an augamenti for however long he needed to. How would he get food; he had no money whatsoever, and no means of walking into Gringotts and demanding some from a vault that didn't exist in this time.

Harry's head was spinning. It appeared that he was going to have to alter history, in one way or another, but he recognised that the least of his concerns should be the employer of whatever meaningless job he was going to find himself in. 

Maybe, he thought, if he was fortunate, he wouldn't make any significant changes at all. He could simply go by another name until he managed to fix or find someone else to fix the bloody time-turner-

A thought stopped him.

Time-turner's went back in time. 

Not forward. 

The suffocating feeling began to build in his chest once again, but Harry quickly cut it off, squeezing his eyes closed to breathing in and out slowly. 

He needed a step-by-step guide. He needed someone to tell him what to do. He needed...

Well, he needed Hermione Jean Granger, planner extraordinaire. 

And so, he asked himself:

What would Hermione do?

Seconds later, Harry found himself sprinting back along the hallway. He ran to the study, barging into the room, almost toppling over and slamming his shoulder into the door in an effort to balance himself. He braced his arms on the doorframe and felt his knees buckle.

"Thank Merlin," Harry breathed to himself, elated. He never thought he'd be so happy to see a bookshelf filled with fictional novels and instructive guides in his life, but found that he didn't care at this present moment that he was probably fulfilling this 'What Would Hermione Do' mindset a little too well, and silently promised that he would bully himself later as he almost danced toward the floor-to-ceiling bookcase. 

As he looked, he found texts on the history of Magical Pharmaceuticals, An Appraisal of Magical Education in Europe and Creatures Of The Deep, which while helpful to some, he was sure, weren't really what he was interested in. 

His eyes came to rest on a thick black text that sat on the end of the third row, almost hidden away; The Pureblood Directory.

Harry grinned and looked to the book in reverence, "Godric bless Hermione Granger."

And then he began to plot. 

Chapter 3: Misplaced in Time: Quiet A Few Books

Notes:

this time i did NOT listen to fool for you by zayn on repeat. definitely not. i also did not get a noise complaint from the batty woman who lives in the apartment beneath mine because my singing is so bad.
because my singing is excellent, so that would be impossible.

23rd of December 1978
Quiet A Few Books, Charing Cross Road, London

He hadn't bought a raincoat.

Amusingly enough, this was Harry’s first genuinely serious thought for the last half an hour. It was honestly rather alarming how quickly one’s mind could wander when surrounded by such an unstimulating environment, paired with the pitter-patter of morning rain on slanted windows.

Hermione would have called the sound relaxing; Harry preferred disconcerting, given the annoyance that was crawling around his belly.

He wasn’t stupid, he was aware impervious charms existed and even the dimmest third year could cast one, it was just the principle of things.

Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived, was stuck in the past. At every waking second, he was at risk of changing something so drastically that his future will no longer exist when – if – he ever got back to it. If they heard about this in 2006, they likely wouldn't believe it. They would think that he would be on top of everything; confident that he would get back to his own time, get past the protective enchantments on the Time-Turner, repair the glass inside the Time-Turner, figure out a safe way to get the timesand back into the glass, and fix the circle of glass after having to shatter it to get into it.

But instead, Harry had forgotten to bring or transfigure a raincoat on a day when it was raining. He forgot to do something so mundane that it was laughable.

He felt as if the gentle rain outside was chuckling away at him, laughing at his situation.

From his well-selected position, Harry could see right through to the street outside, therefore witnessing the so-called ‘gentle’ rain that chose the pedestrians as its victim. It was the kind of rain that when walked in without pac-a-mac or umbrella, you were soaked through to the bone in less than 90 seconds; left a shivering mess, and, with his own unfortunate hairstyle, looking like a drowned rat.

However, though he didn't have to bear the rain outside just yet, unfortunately for him he was instead faced with an onslaught of customers the weather had evidently summoned to the small bookstore.

Due to this factor, Harry had chosen his placement carefully. From here, his back planted firmly against the wall next to the stockroom, he was not subject to any unwelcomed attacks and could easily avoid conversations. Not that he was anticipating an attack in the bookstore, it was just a precaution. And then, also from this position, he could watch the rain and berate himself silently for forgetting a raincoat.

His current plan was to remain where he was. He was not going to move unless absolutely necessary. He was firm in his decision, his feet, he had decided, were permanently planted on the ground. Should someone want to move him they would have to pry his shoes from the floorboards, and then pry his shoes from his feet because the door wasn't very wide, and the floorboards were far too heavy for someone to drag, especially when figuring in his own weight into the equation and the-

“Sayre!”

Harry jumped, thoughts running down and away like the rainwater on the front windows. His eyes flickered quickly to take in the man who was suddenly standing before him.

Mr. Healy was an elderly man; wrinkles dug deep into his skin, almost like scarring, revealing his age and arguable wisdom. His hair, though at some point Harry considered must have been voluptuous and full of life, now sagged in a sad way next to his ears. It was patchy and thin and looked as though it connected with the short scruff of grey tufty beard that sat upon his chin.

He was leaning heavily on a glossy wooden cane in his left hand, and in his right was a dark green hardback novel. Try as he did, Harry couldn't catch a glimpse of the title.

Though Mr. Healy appeared to be the kind of old man children in a small village would sing scary rhymes about, he was nothing of the sort. Harry knew this, despite only having met him a few days before.

Harry grimaced at being caught and tried his best to look helpful, “Mr. Healy, sir. How can I be of service?”

Mr. Healy, without preamble, shoved the novel in his hand into Harry’s chest. Had the wall not been behind him, Harry thought that he would have stumbled as he brought his arms up to catch the falling book. Healy then used both hands to clutch at his cane.

He sneered at him, and Harry felt an astonishing warmth for the man. “'How can I be of service?’” Healy mocked in a high-pitched voice, which sounded oddly amusing with his thick Irish brogue. “Shut yer gob, boyo. Could start with doin’ your feckin’ job.”

A woman with her son just to the left, both holding a few books in hand, shot them a scandalised glance out of the corner of her eye and Harry was reminded of his first arrival into the shop and fought the urge to grin.

It had been the day after his... arrival. Following awakening in the study, back crooked from being hunched oddly while asleep on the desk, with parchment containing a half-written plan stuck to his face, Harry had found himself extraordinarily hungry. Several years of experience living with Ron, particularly those spent in Auror training, stuck to the task of planning the simpler missions, meant the acknowledgement of the fact that he would get no salvageable work done with his stomach rumbling.

Ten minutes later, following a quick rummage through the cupboards at Potter Cottage, he’d concluded, as suspected the previous night, that there was no food in the house. No mouldy bread or even cans of peaches, which at that point he would have gladly accepted.

Through Hermione, during the winter before the Final Battle, both he and Ron together had learnt more of Gamp’s Laws of Elemental Transfiguration than all six years with McGonagall. Which was not to say anything negative against her teaching, it was more because they had been much more interested in transfiguring paper planes out of the wood shavings from desks and launching them at each other’s heads, than listening and learning in her lessons.

It may have been due to the gravity of the situation they were in, but Hermione’s teachings during that time did stay with him. Therefore, he knew that one of Gamp’s Laws was that you couldn't produce food out of thin air, and should the neighbours nearby suddenly enter their kitchens to see foods flying out of the window towards the Cottage, Harry would’ve had to add ‘Stealing’ and ‘Exposure of Wizard-kind’ to ‘Time Travel’, ‘Breaking-and-Entering’ and whatever other illegal excursions he’d managed since finding himself in 1978 to the list of ‘Things That Could Get Me Arrested’.

At this point, he had decided that he would need to get food somehow, and he would need to get food legally. Should he get caught by the 1978 authorities, Harry wanted his rap sheet to be as short as possible, despite the magnitude of crimes he had already committed, inadvertently or not.

Not that he was expecting to be caught. However, eight years with the Aurors at the Ministry had taught him something that he hadn't known while Hogwarts and when fighting Voldemort; planning was crucial. When he had been seventeen and eighteen, plans had felt like an unnecessary waste of time. They’d felt like a chore, something Hermione would bring up out of obligation every time before they went on one of their adventures, but ultimately something that they never did.

He'd had enough injuries throughout his team and on his own person on missions to acknowledge that sometimes plans were the best thing.

So, Harry then did a final sweep of the Cottage, fashioned himself a small leather satchel out of one of the coasters on the dining table, and placed The Pureblood Directory inside, along with the plan he'd half-written the previous night. He then tucked the Time-Turner underneath his robes safely, before he disappeared into the back garden, just on the edge of the wards, and disapparated to the one place he wished he wouldn’t have to: Diagon Alley.

Harry had hoped to remain in Godric’s Hollow purely out of necessity, for however long it took him to figure out how to fix the Time-Turner. But unfortunately, he could think of no alternative to his food problem. To get food or ingredients, in the way he wished and the way in which he would cause no real changes to the timeline, he would need money. And to get money, he would need an income.

Which meant a job.

His aim when appearing just at the entrance of Knockturn Alley had been a small apothecary, a tiny shop down the alleyway, far from Borgin & Burkes and far from the main street. He'd figured that if he avoided both then he was sure to avoid meeting or coming face-to-face with anyone he recognised.

However, of course, luck hadn't been on his side. Throughout his lifetime Harry had already decided that there was no such thing as the so-called ‘Potter Luck’ and in his search for a job he had once again come to this conclusion.

Knockturn had been much like it had been during Harry’s sixth and seventh years. The street was deserted, stores were closed away, many even had wooden panels hammered into the front windows to discourage thieves. There were no jobs in sight, and as he approached the very end of the alley and came about an exit onto Muggle London, he had even begun recklessly thinking of ways to make fast money in the wizarding world.

When he eventually turned out onto Muggle London, he had been surprised, having never travelled the whole way down Knockturn Alley before and not knowing where he would end up. He’d expected Fenchurch Street Station or Cooper’s Row, but definitely not a small street on the outskirts of Chinatown just off Charing Cross Road.

Walking cautiously toward the main road and out of the street, he found himself in the middle of midday bustling Muggle London.

He had never felt more of an idiot in his life as his eyes landed on tens of hundreds of Help Wanted signs in windows of small and large stores up and down Charing Cross Road.

Muggle stores! Harry had thought to himself, admonishingly as he crossed the road and began walking down the street. His plan instantly changed; no longer was he interested in finding a wizarding store looking for a mild-mannered shop assistant. Now he was on the hunt for an unsuspicious Muggle shop-owner who just needed the extra help and would ask no questions.

And he’d found one. A small second-hand bookstore named ‘Quiet A Few Books’ had piqued Harry’s interest as he approached, mostly for the pun. It was quaint, painted in dark green with gold accents. In the front window in gold-coloured lettering were the words ‘Second-hand Books’, and displayed underneath were an amalgamation of different genre novels. On the front door was a sign that indicated they were open, decorated in the colours of the Irish flag. Underneath was a small white sign with the words: Help Wanted.

Peering inside he saw no customers, only one man on a step ladder reaching for books higher than the step ladder allowed.

He’d thought that it was perfect and went inside.

Meeting and convincing the owner that he, an unknown and strange man in odd clothing, would be the perfect new hire had been much easier than he had anticipated. In fact, Harry hadn't had to do any persuading whatsoever. Mr. Healy, the owner of the bookstore, turned to the front as the entrance bell tinkered signifying Harry’s arrival, took one look at him and Harry supposed that he probably had looked mildly anxious, and said, “You come in ‘ere lookin’ for a job, boyo?”

Harry had nodded, tried to exude confidence, but it had appeared that Mr. Healy was having none of it.

Instead, he’d shakily stepped down from the ladder, grabbed his cane from where it had been leant up against the bookshelf, and wobbly made his way towards what appeared to be a stockroom in the back. When Harry didn't follow, the man had beckoned impatiently over his shoulder and yelled out, “Come on ‘en, follow me! Wan’ me ter teach ya the ropes or nah?”

The lone customer in the bookstore was an older woman who he hadn’t spotted at first glance, who looked aghast at the way the man spoke to Harry upon clearly just meeting. Harry had just grinned at his gruff attitude and quickly followed.

Mr. Healy was arguably rude, snappy to customers and Harry, occasionally difficult to understand, and all-around not what he had expected to find in a boss that day, but Healy and Quiet A Few Books had been perfect, no questions were asked, and Harry had gone back to Potter Cottage that evening with a job and the knowledge that he would be paid at the end of the following week.

More so than anything else, Healy’s attitude was actually reminiscent of a slimy, grumpy Professor Harry had once had, one he hadn't treated in the deserved way, in hindsight. Therefore, he had promised to treat Mr. Healy with nothing but the utmost respect, which unfortunately meant doing his job when he was told to.

Harry sighed deeply as the man drew menacingly closer, evidently having remembered that he had paying customers in the store and so lowered his voice. He had nowhere to go, with the wall up against his back, and could see how this was a downside to his ‘perfectly selected position’.

“I hired you to work, Sayre. Not to lounge aboot like some rugrat.”

“Sir, yes, sir!” His boss glared at him, and Harry grimaced and lowered his eyes sheepishly, “Sorry. There was no one at the till so-”

“Do ya take me for some gobshite?” Healy whispered, he moved far too quickly for an older man and waved his arm to reveal a queue of two relaxed looking people waiting in front of the till.

Harry nodded quickly and edged around the man and started toward the till, “Sorry, Healy, I’ll sort it out.”

Healy called out as he went, along with a bang on his cane on the floor, “An’ put that there book back in the Travel section.”

Harry spun to face him and nodded, saluting faintly at him. He felt the man’s eyes burn into his skull as he got to the till and heard him mutter darkly, “Hire the Sayre boy, sure, it’ll be grand… feckin’… prick…."

He approached the customers at the till with a wide, welcoming grin and swept his arms grandly. Both people in the queue gave an answering smile back, “Welcome to Quiet A Few Books! I trust everything was top-notch today for you?”

That was the other thing Harry had spent a good number of long hours figuring out the night he’d travelled to 1978; the alias he would be using during his time here.

After several years of planning, and then those plans eventually going AWOL, he'd come to terms with the fact that he would always need a backup plan should something go wrong.

When crafting his plan this time, however, all he had been thinking about was how much he needed his friends with him. He could plan, sure, he had two years of Auror training and arguably six years experience fighting and planning against dark forces whilst studying at Hogwarts, but with them by his side, this would be a piece of cake.

Hermione would figure out step-by-steps, Ron would strategise and paint it in a realistic situation, and Harry would put it into motion. They were a well-oiled trio and had been for about fourteen years.

But now he was alone. It wasn't the first time he had to figure something out himself, he'd been on undercover investigative missions where he wasn't able to contact anyone, but those missions were vastly different to this. He had been able to go over meticulous details with both Hermione and Ron and his team at the Ministry. This time he hadn’t had that opportunity, and that was the intimidating part.

Thankfully, Harry over the years had constructed a WWHGD.

What Would Hermione Granger Do?

First and foremost, when he found the bookshelf in the study Potter Cottage in Godric’s Hollow, his first initial movement was to scour the bookshelf for something that would help him mould an identity out of nothing. He would need something dull and something that didn't draw too much attention from both Muggles and Wizards alike. However, on the other side of that line he also needed a name that wasn't too Muggle, in the unfortunate (and hopefully unlikely) case he happened upon a Death Eater or a magical who supported Voldemort’s cause.

And that was when he happened upon The Pureblood Directory, something that he had carried around with him on that first day when he was looking for jobs, just in case he found himself unable to go back to Godric’s Hollow and do more research. He hadn't wanted to leave it in the Cottage in case he couldn’t return, as he wasn't sure where he would be able to get another copy without arousing suspicion.

To go back in time is one thing, it was completely another to take on a fake identity and parade around as though it was true.

Harry had no intention of parading, however, the name he would need to take would have to be unrecognisable to Muggles, fairly unknown in the Wizarding World, and it also would have to run through his bloodline, so if he ever had the need to change the Muggle money that he will be paid in into Galleons, Sickles, or Knuts at Gringotts, he wouldn't fail their tests when he requesting to open a vault in that name.

He had never read the pureblood directory before though it was obvious from the black hardcover and the blood-red writing what it was going to contain. To begin the first few opening pages listed twenty-eight families judged to be pure-blood by the author. These families were dubbed the Sacred Twenty-Eight.

Harry recognised many of these families if not all. In particular, Black, Longbottom, Malfoy, and Weasley. At this point, he wished he could select one of these names to pass his own, but Harry knew that should he be questioned by any wizard throughout the wizarding world and he gave one of these surnames there would be suspicions and interrogations that he would not be prepared for.

To avoid these kinds of scenarios, Harry had then moved through each individual name and searched for the last name of ‘Potter’ listed under relation. His blood relation to whichever name he chose would need to be close, but not too close to the direct family line.

Of course, when arriving at specific families such as Black he avoided the pages altogether. Some families it would not pay to be seen as related to.

One of these names was, against his own will, one he'd had learned much about during his time in Hogwarts and over the year that he, Hermione, and Ron spent on the run.

That name was Gaunt.

In his sixth year Dumbledore had spun him the story and history of the Gaunt’s, and how that family line had become extant in the female line, and to an outside viewer who had no knowledge of Tom Riddle‘s parenthood, extinct in the male.

To avoid suspicion, Harry knew that he could not take the last name of Gaunt, and the thought of doing so disgusted him. Still, after all these years, the idea of his minuscule relation to Voldemort still caused him to feel ill.

Despite this, there were many families under the title of relations to the Gaunt family.

This included a family that Harry did not recognise, one of the few so far and therefore it piqued his interest.

This family was named Sayre.

As far as he could tell they weren't considered to be in the Sacred Twenty-Eight, which suited his needs, and due to his inability to recognise the name, it appeared that it wasn't very well known.

However, they were a Pure-blood Wizarding family. This meant that they had, unlike other families in the book who often had several pages, a short page describing their existence. From what Harry saw, he could tell they were closely related to the Gaunt family, through Rionach Gaunt. Rionach married William Sayre and together they had one child: Isolt Sayre.

Rionach’s sister, a pureblood supremacist, did not agree with William Sayre’s agreeability with Muggles, which Harry thought perhaps ran through their blood,  and then burnt their home down with them inside.

Isolt then spent ten years with her aunt, and Harry, despite not having any more knowledge of the girl, felt a kind of kinship. He too had been through something similar and felt as though he could understand when he read that her Aunt disallowed her to go to Hogwarts when the letter arrived on her eleventh birthday.

Harry had even found himself grinning with joy and brimming with pride at reading that she’d stolen her Aunt’s wand and escaped to America, disguising herself and hiding in the mountains. Of course, The Directory painted this as an assault on her Aunt and that Isolt was clearly deranged thanks to her Muggle-loving parentage.

Reading between the lines, Harry had continued his research. A few years later, Isolt had met a Muggle boy named James Steward, and they’d fallen in love with each other. Isolt took his name, which The Directory had a lot to say about, Harry didn’t even understand some of the slurs used. James had helped her construct a stone house and they’d named it Ilvermorny. Eventually, they founded the Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

The Pure-Blood Directory had a record of four children; two orphaned boys they adopted, and two girls. One of the girls was named after Isolt’s mother, Rionach. The Directory stated, in gruesome and scathing terms, all records showed Rionach II never had children or married as rumours said she had the ability to speak parseltongue like her ancestor Salazar Slytherin and did not want his powers passed down any further.

The last thing The Directory had to say on the Sayre family, was that Rionach II went on to become a Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts at Ilvermorny.

Harry’s plan seemed to crash upon him like a wave. Rionach II Steward, in his eyes, was the perfect ancestor figure to base his false identity on. It could not be proven, The Directory itself had stated that she had not had children. If needed, Harry could most definitely argue, he thought, that she had hidden her line away from the spotlight of Ilvermorny School so that the remnants of the Gaunt family could not find her or them. She even changed their names from Steward to Sayre, in the hopes that no one would any longer be looking for Sayres, only Stewards.

Harry had found some parchment and began to scribble down basic points: it would be fairly easy to lie and say that he had lived in isolation all his life in America, had not just recently travelled over. He could say his father was a British Muggle and his mother had been a Pure-blood, whose ancestor was Rionach II.

His father, Ronald, died through complications from an injury he received during the War when Harry had been young. His mother, Hermione, had raised him in a small house in the woods in Massachusetts, near the wards of Ilvermorny. It was a family home, passed down through generations.

He had admired his father greatly, and often while his mother had been sleeping or busy picking herbs from the garden, he would adventure to the nearby town where many British men had been stationed for the War and stayed following its end, and he would hide and listen to them speak, and it would be as though his father was still alive. That could be the explanation for why his accent was distinctly British. Harry supposed that he could pour a slight American twang onto it.

He noted down that he had been born in July of 1949, and that his mother tutored him until she died recently of dragon pox. In their relative seclusion, there was no one who could have helped them or kept her alive for longer.

Following her death, Harry decided to come to Britain where his father had been from, only to find it war-torn and helpless.

Harry then spent another hour on top of that trying to think of any scenario that would be able to poke holes through his plan. He believed that his lineage was close enough to the one he had created for himself so that he could fool Gringotts should he need to sign for a vault. If someone should question his story, Harry was fairly certain he could think on the spot and improvise and that his story left enough room for him to do so.

The only issue then, after finding his last name, he came to the realisation that he would need a first.

He contemplated for a while keeping Harry or a variation however came to the conclusion that should he come into contact with his parents, even his name being introduced to them or spoken in their vicinity could alter the timeline.

At this point, Harry was exhausted. He began flipping randomly through the pureblood directory once again until he landed on a page that seemed vaguely interesting and on a family that had lots of history recorded, considering the fact that he would have to go quite far back in time to see a name that wasn't in use often today.

Harry landed on the Lestrange family. He prepared himself to flip by once again, however, his eyes landed on one name.

Rigel V. Lestrange (23^rd February 1911 – 20^th March 1961)

Rigel Lestrange was a name that Harry had never heard of before, and he considered this signifying this man's importance in history as minuscule. Rigel Lestrange had been born three centuries after Harry’s false identity had been and died 17 years before his arrival.

It was perfect.

Rigel Sayre.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

“Sayre!”

Harry flinched hard, as though he had been struck on the face. Mr. Healy was stood, leaning heavily on his cane, in front of the till looking unaffected by his reaction.

Blinking hard in surprise, Harry peered confusedly at his boss.

Healy scoffed, “It’s lashin’ outside, and it’s been busy as feck in ‘ere and ya canne bring yourself to work for five fecking minutes?”

“Sorry, Healy. I was just-”

“Jus’ not doin’ yer job.” Healy nudged his chin aggressively toward the stockroom and Harry finally looked around the shop to see it empty apart from one sole woman in the corner sat on the old-broken-down chair, engrossed in a book on exotic birds.

Huh, Harry thought, he must have daydreamed through serving all the customers. Well, at least he could multitask relatively well.

“Get your bake back there an’ sort them books. I’ll be in tha’ office.” Healy said, and Harry watched as he hobbled toward to small office in the corner of the little shop. He was muttering again as he went, and Harry suppressed a smile as he made his way to the stockroom.

It had been two days since Harry had formed his plan and got the job at Quiet A Few Books. It was both disheartening and motivating when he thought about the fact in those two days, he had made no headway with the Time-Turner whatsoever.

He knew in the grand scheme of things that two days were barely anything; he would sit in the Auror Mission Room for weeks on end with his team and think through different scenarios and planning missions down to every last detail. But it was lonely, and tiresome, to have nothing but being lost in time to think and worry about.

Harry got to his knees next to three huge boxes filled to the brim with books in the stockroom.

A few days ago, the daughter of an elderly woman, who according to Mr. Healey used to come in a lot, entered the shop with two friends who told Healey that unfortunately, her mother had died. Her mother had had all these books that she now didn't know what to do with, so was wondering if she could donate them to the store.

Before Healy could say no, Harry had quickly accepted and led her and her friends through to the stockroom. There were about one hundred books altogether that all had to be categorised, priced, entered into the system, and eventually shelved.

Ten minutes later, Harry was elbow deep in one of the boxes when the bell on the front door rang out. Not wanting to aggravate Mr. Healy anymore today, feeling nice, Harry picked up six books that were ready to be shelved and tried to trust his knowledge of the doorway placement, the bookshelves and the whereabouts of the till in the store as he walked to the front with the books blocking his vision.

“Good afternoon, let me just set these down I'll be with you in a minute,” Harry said politely as he took more careful steps.

He heard a few footsteps get closer toward him and to make sure he didn't walk into the customer, he stopped still.

Then, something horrible and unthinkable happened.

A voice rang out, right in front of him.

A very familiar voice.

Suddenly, the two top books from his vision-skewering pile were picked up and off and Harry could see again.

“Here, let me help you with those.”

And Harry Potter, now Rigel Sayre, stared right into the face of a 1978 Remus Lupin.

Chapter 4: Misplaced in Time: Stage Right, A Cinnamon Roll Enters

Summary:

hope you enjoy my remus lupin. he's such a cinnamon roll.

23rd of December, 1978
Quiet A Few Books, Charing Cross Road, London

"Oh, Merl- gosh! Are you okay?"

Eyes watering and feet throbbing with the weight of six boxes of books being suddenly and painfully dropped, Harry nodded quickly. His head felt oddly disjointed from his body as it bobbed up and down. He kept his eyes on his feet for fear the man would recognise him. Which, yes, he realised how stupid this was. 1978 Remus Lupin didn’t know him. He hadn’t met Rigel Sayre. He hadn’t even met Harry Potter.

Oh, Merlin.

"Yep. Thanks. I'm good."

Remus didn't sound convinced as he asked, "Are you sure you're-?"

"Yeah, all good. Great, even." Harry winced. Gods, he was sure he could lie better than this.

"I think that's probably debatable."

Harry huffed a surprised laugh, and it hurt his chest. He craned his neck to look at the man who was peering at him with great amounts of concern.

This young-version of Remus appeared much more fragile than Harry could have believed, for this was years before his prime-time in battle. He was all lanky limbs and a threadbare jumper that stretched over narrow shoulders. His sandy hair was longer than in Harry's memories, swept back in a way that only half-tamed the waves. A faint scar curved along his jaw- subtle, but there- and his eyes, a warm, watchful amber, darted to and from Harry and the fallen books with quiet curiosity. Curiously enough, for an 18 year-old almost fresh from Hogwarts, he held himself with a kind of gentleness that was at odds with the achey-oldness behind his eyes, though not yet the haunted kind. This was a quieter weight- someone who already knew what it meant to carry pain but hadn’t yet learned how heavy it could become.

Harry felt himself falling deep into a hole of memories; a man and his wife appearing on the battlefield, leaving their infant son behind to fight for their lives, a deathly green spell slicing through the air to meet Fenrir Greyback and an older Lupin victorious above him, lifeless green eyes staring up at him from the ground of the Great Hall, hand reaching for the grasp of his dead wife-

Harry shook himself and blinked up at the man.

He realised he'd probably been silent for too long. Well, In for a sickle, in for galleon. "I think that's probably just your perspective. I'm perfectly-"

"Well, from my perspective, you're bent-double clutching your feet." Harry flushed and snatched his hands up to his chest quickly, making Remus laugh lightly and hold out his hands placatingly. "No, no. If it helps your pain then, by all means." He bent his knee and began to pile the scattered books on his thigh.

Harry frowned. “You don't have to do that, I'll get them in a minute."

"It's my pleasure,” Remus smiled up at him and Harry was once again taken aback for a moment, but this time at the lack of facial scarring. “It was my fault."

"It definitely wasn't."

"Well, I scared you."

"No, you didn't."

"You looked rather scared when you saw me."

"That's just what I look like." Harry heard himself say, as he pushed his glasses up his nose nervously and Remus' eyes tracked the movement. Harry stuffed his hands deep in his pockets, playing with a loose thread there. "Permanently terrified."

He crouched down beside the man and quickly took the books from Remus' pile one by one until Remus snorted and stole some back. When Harry went to argue, Remus stood up, "I've learnt my lesson with letting you carry more than you should." He carried them easily over to the till and placed them down. Harry stared up at him from the ground, knee bent and gaping.

"Learnt your lesson? We just met! And I'm hardly a spindly schoolboy."

"Oh, no? Then what are you, a tiny teenager? Ant-sized adult?"

Standing, Harry looked at him with raised eyebrows before giving him a once-over. Remus laughed, rolling his eyes. "Insulting me with alliteration? I'll have you know, we are the same height and," he paused, thought about it, and then grinned, "if anything I’m a massive male."

Taken by surprise, Remus snorted, eyes wide. "Ah, I see. My mistake."

"Of course, I'm pleased you understand." Harry blinked and came back to himself.

He couldn’t have camaraderie like this with Remus Lupin! This could seriously upset the timeline.

Harry quickly approached the till, almost tripping at the speed he moved, and spun to face Remus who was staring at him, amused. Harry pulled his hands out of his pockets and clapped them together, twining his fingers. "Welcome to Quiet A Few Books, how can I help you today?"

The amusement on Remus' face intensified. "I'm here for a book."

Harry felt himself grin against his will and gestured to the shop grandly. Behind him, the ladder fell to the ground and dust escaped up from beneath the gaps in the floorboards. Harry pretended not to notice, and Remus looked enormously pleased with the entire establishment. "Well, I'm afraid you came to the correct place."

"Afraid?" Remus smiled, hands in pockets, a brown leather satchel swinging gently at his side with every small move.

He found himself answering and nodded solemnly, fighting against the feeling that he should quit whilst he was ahead and hand this young, full-of-life Remus off to Healy. "Yes, because now there is no way you can leave without taking home a fantasy novel, of which will change your life forever."

"And if I don't want a fantasy novel?

"Partial to a bit of Marcella Hazan, instead? A slice of her, if you will?" It seemed Molly Weasley's love of cookery books, Muggle and magical, and her penchant for sharing them, would never leave his brain.

"Oh, of course." Remus' eyes glinted in a way Harry had only seen in the reminiscent moments with Sirius before his death, and that night at Shell Cottage when he had asked Harry to be the godfather of Teddy. This Remus would never be able to dream of such a scenario. Pressure gripped Harry's chest as the other man continued, "Essentials of Classic Italian Cooking is one of my favourites."

Harry grimaced at his thoughts, but hid it successfully enough with a far-too toothy grin, "An excellent one. I prefer More Classic Italian Cooking, but each to their own." He placed his palms on the counter and leant over the counter eagerly, "What can I help you with?"

"A travel book, please. More specifically, Belgium."

Harry's mind flashed to the newspaper stand that had caught his attention on his earlier walk through Diagon to get to Knockturn Alley, and therefore onto the main street where the bookstore was located. Werewolves in Belgium, it had read.

Interesting. "An interesting choice; Belgium."

"Is it?" Remus' voice was suddenly forced, as was his smile.

"Indeed." Harry's eyes narrowed before he smoothed a smile onto his face. "Their waffles are to die for, but their wine is shite." Remus was startled into a laugh. "You'd be better off with Italy. Or perhaps if you want to stretch it, France."

"I detect a distaste for France?"

Harry narrowed his eyes playfully and he crossed his arms. "You're very intuitive."

"Well, I am from the FBI."

"That explains it." His eyes darted guiltily toward the back room. "Excuse me, I need to go and hide my cocaine... canes. My canes." He thought of Healy's slick black cane collection and stifled a grin.

Remus raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. "Your canes?"

"Yes... my canes. I collect them. How did you know I don't like France?"

"It was the disgust in your voice, but now I'm much more interested in your canes. What kinds do you have?"

"All kinds."

"Birch?"

"Yep."

"I'd love to see one."

"I'm sorry, but no."

"Oh? How come?"

"You say you're from the CIA-"

"FBI."

"-but how do I know that you're not from a rival cane... selling... store?"

Looking endlessly pleased with the conversation, Remus raised his hands in mock surprise. "Is the cane business a profitable one?"

"Not in the least."

"Then why would you be concerned about my possible undue tactics?"

"Who knows?" Harry glared at the windows and fought off a grin when he saw Remus' eyes crinkle. "Can't trust anyone these days."

"In the cane business, or in general?"

"Both," Harry said it, more serious than he’d intended and they shared a look. Before Remus could gauge anything from it, Harry stepped out from behind the till and made his way towards the ceiling-high shelves. "This way, if you please."

They passed the overhead sign that read 'Travel the World' and moved into 'Fantasy Realms'. Remus was fighting a smile. "Travel books are that way, I believe."

"Good thing we're not looking for travel books."

"Are you hard of hearing?"

Harry cupped his ear and leaned closer as his eyes scanned the shelves. "What was that?"

"Very funny."

He grinned, spying a familiar book, and reached out, grabbing two off the shelf. He hid them behind his back and faced Remus. "Pick a hand, any hand."

"Are you serious?"

His grin didn't fade, in fact, it only widened. "Always."

Remus' eyes twinkled slightly at that, and Harry briefly worried that he'd made a small mistake by referencing the age-old joke lead by his Godfather, but then the other man smiled grudgingly. "Fine. But after this, I need a travel book about Belgium, or-"

"Or what?"

"Or I'll... go to another bookstore." His eyes glinted. "And find another shop that sells birch wood canes."

"That's blackmail."

"Yes, very good."

Harry hummed before shaking his arms behind his back. "Go on then, pick a hand. Before your time runs out."

Remus put on an exaggerated thinking face. "And what happens if my time runs out?"

"Keep stalling and I'll show you."

"Maybe I want to see what will happen."

"You don't, trust me."

"Okay, then." He considered, then gestured. "Left hand, please."

"Wrong choice," Harry announced happily and put the book on the left back on the shelf.

Remus huffed, almost with disbelief, as Harry pushed a book that he had seen years ago in a certain Defence Professor's bookshelf into his hands.

Remus looked at the book in his hand. "Dune."

"By Frank Herbert," Harry said happily.

"Yes, but my question is why."

"Why Frank Herbert?"

"No, why is this book in my hand?"

"It's a good book."

"Okay... and?"

"It is my professional opinion that you need to read it."

"Your professional opinion as a cane-maker?"

"Correct."

"Right." Remus flipped the cover onto its back and Harry walked back towards the till, Remus absently following him. "It's... science fiction?"

"A very excellent kind of science fiction," Harry said, plucking a book from the travel section shelves as they passed. Remus didn't notice. "But honestly, it reads like fantasy. Prophecies, sandworms, political drama, messiahs. It’s basically a magical desert opera."

"I see that." Remus put the book on the counter and reached into his back pocket. Harry set the travel book on top of Dune and Remus grinned and nodded to it. "Belgium."

Harry nodded in agreement and tapped away at the till. "Belgium."

He turned to Remus,"Three quid, if you please."

Remus looked surprised.

"Only three?" He nodded at the two books. "For both?"

"Indeed."

"... right." Still looking doubtful, he pulled a creased green fiver from his wallet and handed it over. Harry slipped it into the old tin cash box beneath the counter, then handed back two one-pound notes along with a faded ten-pence coin it had taken him at least three hours to get used to the lack of pound coins in 1978. Hermione would've scoffed at his lack of general knowledge.

"No coins over a pound yet," he added wryly, feeling pleased he'd finally managed to get his head around the concept, as he watched Remus glance at the change.

Harry jotted something on a small receipt pad, tore off the page, and placed it atop the two books, nudging them over.

Remus picked up the receipt and scanned it. He raised his brows. "You've charged me for three pamphlets on the Soviet Union."

"Yep," Harry said brightly, bending down behind the counter and hoisting up one of the earlier stacks. He dropped them with a soft thud. When he looked up again, Remus was frowning.

"Why?"

"Because Dune is on the house. That one’s personal-can’t very well recommend it and make you buy it. Or I could, I suppose, but that sounds like effort." He gestured to the other. "And that is a travel book on Belgium."

Remus stood silent for a moment, apparently waiting for more explanation. When none came, he said slowly, "Yes. It is."

He lifted the book off the novel and held up the back, revealing a printed price: £4.95. "It’s also five pounds."

"It is also on Belgium."

"I don't understand."

"I don't expect you to."

"Is this the same thing as France?"

Harry plastered on a confused look. "France?"

Remus sighed. "I'm not going to get anywhere, am I?"

"Not anywhere nice if you follow that travel guide."

Again, Remus sighed. He picked up the two books and slid them into the satchel. He looked up at Harry sincerely. "Thank you."

Harry waved him off and watched as he walked to the door, "I wish you good fun in Belgium. Careful though, it is rife with the French."

"Odd," Remus said, smiling as he looked back over his shoulder, "I would've thought that's France."

Then, with a ring of the bell and a short nod, he was gone.

"Know him, do ya, lad?"

Harry jumped and spun on his heel to see Healy who was staring knowingly at him. He shook his head and looked back over his shoulder at the door.

"No, actually. Never met him before."

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

As the shop door clicked shut behind Remus, Harry stood frozen.

His heart was thudding too fast. He hadn't meant to smile that much. Or joke. Or offer a bloody book recommendation. What the hell was he thinking?

He turned slowly away from the till, eyes wide, like he could still see the outline of Remus' back through the frosted glass. The shop suddenly felt colder. Quiet, ironically. Empty in a way that pressed into the gaps between his ribs.

He walked stiffly to the back room. The curtain brushed over his shoulder like a reprimand as he passed through. Inside, the low light made everything feel heavier. Dust drifted lazily in the air. He sat down on the edge of an old stool, let out a shaky breath, and stared blankly at the cane Healy had been polishing earlier. Godric, the man really might've had a cane business back here. 

That was Remus. That was Remus.

And Harry had treated him like… what? Like a friend? Like his Remus? Like the one who’d tried to make him tea during a war, who’d given him books to borrow, who’d called him “James” once by mistake and gone pale after?

But this wasn’t that man.

This Remus hadn’t been ground down by grief. He hadn’t buried friends or held his baby for the last time or chosen to die rather than survive another war. This Remus was still young, still light. He smiled like it didn't cost him anything.

And Harry had just- what? Bantered with him? Teased him? Made a Sirius joke with him?

His stomach twisted.

He dragged a hand over his face, groaning into it. What the hell was wrong with him?

He wasn’t supposed to get close. He wasn’t supposed to let his guard down. He wasn’t supposed to see them- any of them, not like this. Not like people. Not like friends.

But there he’d been, laughing about Belgium, recommending Dune, getting caught up in the warmth of something that hadn’t existed in years. He’d looked at Remus and remembered how he used to pour sugar into tea without thinking at the Head Table in the Great Hall. How his robes always smelled faintly of parchment and something earthy. He'd looked at him and seen the photograph Andromeda kept in her purse of his Remus sitting with Teddy cradled on his chest in the Tonks' front room and telling stories in a low, tired voice that you couldn't hear through the camera, until they both fell asleep on the sofa... taken in the days before his death.

Harry blinked hard. That Remus had been quieter. Sadder, older in ways that had nothing to do with time. The man from the war had carried grief in his bones and guilt like a second skin.

But this one- this boy- he was easier to talk to. There was no weight to tiptoe around, no looming shadow of everything that had gone wrong. Just curiosity. Dry humour. A lightness Harry had never associated with Remus before.

And maybe that was why it had all come spilling out. Maybe that was why it had felt so damn easy to talk to him. Too easy.

It felt dangerous, and Harry didn’t like it.

He stared at an empty tea mug on the shelf like it might offer some clarity. "Get it together," he muttered to himself again, but softer this time, more pleading than commanding.

The ghost of Remus’ laughter still lingered in the air.

And worse- Harry had liked hearing it. The heaviness in his chest was practically begging him to chase after the man, just to hear it again.

He buried his face in his hands. He needed to fix this. He needed to pull back. To remember why he was here in the bookstore in the first place. This wasn’t meant to be personal, he was here to keep things steady, to survive whilst he figured out how to get home. The whole benefit of choosing a bloody Muggle bookstore was to avoid emotional entanglements with ghosts who hadn’t yet become ghosts.

But his chest still felt too warm, and his hands still remembered the brush of book covers passed between them, and he couldn’t stop hearing that voice- lighter, younger, untouched by war- saying thank you like it mattered.

Harry swallowed thickly.

He was in so much trouble.

The Dune book, granted, was an interesting read. It was also exactly the kind of book that he knew future Remus would ravish to bits, having seen it on his future Hogwarts office bookshelf. 

He knew Hermione would be berating him for it, for engaging in more than mild, uninteresting conversation, but what was done was done. He couldn't summon the book back without looking even odder and, Merlin forbid, suspicious.

Besides, he thought, what could one book do?

It turned out, a lot.

Because Remus came back.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

It had been a week since Mr. Healy handed Harry his first paycheque. The day before, Harry, utterly famished, had dashed straight to the store to stock up on something edible. The highlight of his culinary efforts so far? Beans on burnt toast. Not exactly a Christmas feast, but it was something.

Now, back at work, Harry was on shift as usual, chatting with a sweet old lady who was looking for a book on how to keep budgies. She was kind but a little hard of hearing, and Harry was carefully explaining-using gestures and the simplest terms-how to find the right aisle when the bell above the door jingled, announcing the arrival of another customer.

Just as the lady thanked him and shuffled off, Harry caught a familiar voice.

“Hello.”

He turned quickly, his heart skipping a beat, and there stood Remus Lupin, looking much the same as he had the meeting before-- except for the deep, angry cut streaking down his cheek. Harry’s grin faltered for a moment, despite his mind yelling at him to stay distant. But old habits die hard. He crossed over to the till, and Remus stopped right in front of him.

Harry couldn’t help but stare at the scar. It was fresh, dark red, and looked painful. Remus caught the flicker of concern in his eyes and waved it away casually.

“Oh, don’t worry about that.”

Harry knew what that really meant: Don’t ask. And he understood all too well, having heard those words from Remus during his third year at Hogwarts, when Remus was desperate to keep his werewolf condition secret. So Harry respected the unspoken boundary.

Instead, he leaned forward, resting his forearms on the counter, and took a careful sip from the coffee mug beside him. “Happened in Belgium?” he asked, trying to keep his tone light.

Remus looked slightly uncomfortable but gave a slow nod. “As a matter of fact, yes.”

“A Frenchman?” Harry teased with a crooked smile.

“No,” Remus replied with a brief smile of his own. “Welsh.”

Harry’s eyes widened. Greyback.“Really? Did he stop and give you his entire life story beforehand?”

Remus sighed. “He likes to chat.”

“Do you know him?”

“We’ve met once or twice.”

Harry gave him a sly look. “How unfortunate for him.”

Remus cocked his head, clearly puzzled.

Harry smirked and gestured toward the scar. “Bet he looks worse than you.”

Remus laughed, a little self-deprecating, and ran a hand through his tousled hair. “You’d be surprised.”

“No, I’m not sure I would be.”

Remus raised an eyebrow. “And what exactly does that mean?”

"And that means what, exactly?" He gestured to himself and Harry gave him a once-over. It was odd, seeing him in a relaxed long-sleeve and casual slacks, instead of the patchy blazer and smart trousers that had always accompanied him. "That I look rather tough?"

Harry nodded along, still smirking gently. "For a shorter man, sure you do."

Remus stared at him. "You can't be more than a few millimetres taller than me, if that."

He shrugged, curling his hand around the mug. "Those millimetres are crucial."

Sighing, Remus shuffled closer to the till. "You remind me of my friend."

Harry grinned, wondering which friend he meant and if he might be thinking of James Potter. "Is he also roguishly handsome?"

"No, but he'd say the exact same thing."

"Probably means he's roguishly handsome."

Remus shot him a look, and Harry nodded, holding up his hands in surrender and stretching out his back. "What can I do for you today? Another riveting book on Belgium?" He eyed the gash on his cheek. "Or perhaps, fighting techniques?"

Rolling his eyes, Remus unlatched his satchel and dug around until he pulled out Dune. He placed it delicately on the counter. The pages were worn and well-thumbed. Harry frowned.

"What did you think?"

"I am... reluctant to admit it, but I did enjoy it. It was-"

"A nice holiday read?"

Remus laughed without humour. "It wasn't a holiday."

"No?" Harry raised a curious brow. "Work, then."

"I suppose you could call it that."

Harry gestured to his cheek. "Hope they gave you a few vacation days for that."

"No, really, it's nothing. I've had worse."

Feeling his eyes widen, Harry tried to mask it, but Remus caught on. "That was the wrong thing to say, wasn’t it."

"No, no. I'm not judging. A job is a job. Hell, I've only got this one to pay the bills."

Remus’ eyes scanned the shop again, stopping briefly on the sleeping budgie lady in the corner.

"Really? It seems peaceful."

"I suppose, but I'm not one for peace. More of an... action guy, I guess."

"That explains the excellent taste in fantasy books."

"Excellent? Wow, I think I just felt my head get two sizes bigger."

"I saw it. Shouldn’t have said anything. I take it back."

"No take-backs," Harry said, wagging his finger.

Remus smiled, nudging Dune forward. "I was wondering if you'd recommend another," he said, casual enough—but there was tension in his shoulders. A kind of quiet bracing.

Harry, seizing the chance, teased, "We aren't a library."

"Expertly spotted. No, I’ll pay this time."

"Alright. But no more travel guides. I draw the line."

"You’re not very good for business, are you?"

"I’m charming. That’s the asset."

Remus snorted. Harry stepped around the counter, and together they wandered back into ‘Fantasy Worlds.’

"You’re certainly one of the clerks I've met," Remus allowed.

Harry gasped. "Hurtful." He turned in a slow circle. "Alright, preferences?"

"Hardbacks. Safer."

"Yeah, you’ve got to watch out for Welshmen, I get it."

Remus huffed a laugh. "Was more worried about tearing them in the bag."

"Sure, sure."

They both fell quiet for a few minutes, fingers tracing spines, heads tilted. Then Harry let out a triumphant, "Aha!"

The woman on the couch startled awake. Harry cringed but forged ahead.

He held the book aloft. "Nine Princes in Amber. Roger Zelazny. First in a series. Kind of reality-bending. Court intrigue. Plenty of chaos, you'll love it. I'd recommend reading them in order."

Hermione had fallen in love with the series during their sixth year. Something Ginny had called a distraction from Ron and Lavender Brown’s newfound… relationship. It meant, however, that he had an odd amount of knowledge about them, especially since he’d never read them himself.

Remus took it from him, turned it over, read the blurb. He didn’t say anything for a long moment.

"And this is the first one?"

"Yep."

"Alright," he said slowly. "Interested."

Harry nodded, taking the book back, and led him back to the front desk.

Remus stuck his hands in his pockets as they went, "So, how many customers do you personally help out like this?"

"Just the ones that I think I can squeeze the extra quid out of."

"Oh, and I'm one of those, am I?"

Harry waved the book at him, just out of his reach. "Would you be buying this if you weren't?"

Remus sighed, defeated, and took one hand out of his pocket, unlatched his satchel and dug around for his wallet. "No. I wouldn't be. Bet you bring in a lot of money, then. If you're this... charming all the time."

"I'll have you know I am this charming all the time. It's constant, I can't turn it off."

"That's terrible, and the doctors can't do anything for you?"

"They've tried. Effectively, it's terminal."

"Only in your case."

Harry grinned. "Both you and the owner hope so dearly, I'm sure."

"Referring to yourself in the third person, now?"

"Huh? No."

"...are you not the owner, then?"

Harry laughed. "Oh, no. Frank Healy is the owner. I just do all the work and the cleaning and the cashing out and stack the shelves." Harry leant forward, as though sharing a secret, but raised his voice so that it carried into the backroom, "Healy just sits on his arse all day and lets my back pay for it."

There was grumbling that floated out from the office and Healy stuck his head out a moment later. His stark white hair was sticking up in every-which-way and Harry fought down his grin.

"Don’ make me warn ya again, Sayre. Yer on the third one this week!"

Harry made a praying gesture to him and bowed his head. "Of course, sir. Yes, anything you say. I am in reverence to you."

"Shut it, ya good for nothing, piece of..." his voice trailed off as he hobbled his way back into the room, and Harry turned back to Remus, chuckling.

Remus had a frown on his face. Harry cashed him up and passed him Nine Princes In Amber over the counter. He raised a brow and Remus snapped out of it, taking the book off his hands. "Sorry, thanks."

"Something wrong?"

"No, just... sorry," he paused, frowning again, "your last name is Sayre?"

Harry’s blood turned to ice.

He hadn't banked on revealing his name. Well, he hadn't banked on any of this; meeting this time's Remus Lupin in this random Muggle bookstore, Remus returning to said random Muggle bookstore. Damned Healy. 

Damned himself.

Harry fumbled, faked nonchalance. "Yeah. Rigel Sayre. That’s me."

Remus’s expression didn’t change exactly- but something shifted. Behind the eyes. A pause too long. A line that twitched at the corner of his mouth.

"Huh," Remus said. Just that.

On a limb, Harry held his hand out over the counter, with a small smile, "Good to meet you...?"

Harry could feel it. The ripple in the air between them. Not suspicion, not yet. Just a question. A potential. 

"Oh-!" Remus said starting, and he pressed his hand forward, "Remus Lupin. Nice to meet you, too."

It felt like the moment before lightning struck. Harry was an imbecile. Once the moment of meeting Remus had passed he should've quit this job and moved on someplace else. Sayre was a wizarding name. Old, obscure, but even in twenty years Remus Lupin was still one of the most knowledgeable and bookish people he'd ever met. Of course he'd recognise Sayre.

Remus didn't say anything further. Didn’t ask. Didn’t push.

But Harry saw it- the way he tilted his head slightly, how his gaze grew just that much sharper.

He smiled politely, but it didn’t quite meet his eyes. He was working something out.

Harry’s throat was dry. "Well. Hope you like it."

Remus gave a small nod, a distant smile. "I'm sure I will."

The bell rang as he left.

And Harry’s panic arrived exactly one breath later.

Chapter 5: Misplaced in Time: Novella of Memoriam

Notes:

hello my friends its been a while. i can only offer upmost apologies.

more apologies on the way in the form of: i have gone back and edited the previous chapters. the basic steps to where we are now have remained the same, but some parts are different.

someone commented last time on the book recommendations... and im very sorry to say ive changed them!!!!

i hope you enjoy this chapter, the ball is once again rolling.

writers block: begone thy beast!

31st of December, 1978
Potter Cottage, Godric's Hollow

It was New Year’s Eve.

Harry was sitting inside Potter Cottage, and, somewhat alarmingly, not enjoying it. A sentence he never thought he’d find himself thinking.

The air inside hung heavy and still, clinging to the stone walls like stubborn memories that refused to leave, only broken now and then by the creak of the floorboards as Harry paced the entranceway. He’d once imagined this cottage filled with noise; his parents’ laughter, the clatter of pots and pans, the wild buzz of a future waiting to happen.

But that future had been scribbled out in his time, and now would be that way forever in his mind. Their laughter stolen. The silence was the kind of quiet that holds its breath, waiting to exhale.

Harry stopped in the sitting room. At his feet sat a half-zipped rucksack, cleverly transfigured from the bottom panel of the curtains because why not recycle? His hands moved on autopilot, packing the few things he’d managed to gather- spare clothes he’d whipped up from bedsheets, a cigarette tin crammed with Muggle money.

He touched the serviette next. Crumpled, stained, and scribbled over with half a dozen Arithmancy symbols in Hermione’s neat, crowded hand. It was the only thing, other than his wand, his holster, and his cloak, that he brought with him everywhere, and now it was here in a different time with him. He’d once called it rubbish. She'd hit him with a spoon and told him it was "the closest thing to magic’s raw math you’ll ever understand."

Harry smiled, fragile and cracked, then tucked the serviette between a spell-o-taped notebook he’d filched from the study upstairs and the Pure-Blood Directory (which, honestly, was as useless as it was dusty).

The cottage groaned as a sudden gust rattled the windows. Harry closed his eyes and let the cold sweep over him like a wave.

New Year’s Eve. Alone. It was laughable, really.

For his entire life- childhood, adulthood, all of it- he’d wanted nothing more than to celebrate the holidays with family. With Sirius. With Remus and Tonks. But here he was, in a different time, one small apparition away from wherever they might be, within reach but still impossibly distant.

What he really wanted was to go home. Back to 2006. Back to Hermione pretending not to notice Ron inching closer on the couch until their shoulders brushed, then lingered. Back to Luna and Neville tangled up in some slow, lovely rhythm only they understood, murmuring softly to each other. Dean standing by the hearth with his drink, eyes magnetically drawn to Seamus, who had no idea and probably never would.

Ron would catch his eye as always, with that quiet, brotherly smile. No words, just understanding.

Then George would leap up, waving sparklers charmed to explode in mid-air or declaring a toast that turned into a story that turned into everyone laughing until Percy attempted some small joke too soon, eager to try and fill the gaps of silence that George unknowingly left for Fred to fill, as he had done his whole much too short life, and the laughter turned to something else for a moment before they pulled it back. That was how they lived post-war, post-death: pulled joy from grief like it was thread from a stubborn seam.

And Teddy, oh Gods, Teddy.

The boy, his boy, would burst in with red mischievous cheeks, dragging a magically cheating chessboard behind him. "I beat it!" he’d shout, triumphant.

He’d jump into Harry’s lap and not even look to ask permission, and begin curling his hand into Harry's long locks. The only reason he kept them just above shoulder-length. 

Harry’s throat tightened as he clenched his jaw. The memory of Teddy was the worst because it was the best. That boy’s smile could tear him apart in seconds, and he knew it. Harry was wrapped around his little, ever-changing finger. And Remus-

Remus.

It had been only a day since their last encounter in the shop, and Harry hadn’t been able to let it go. Harry’s pulse had quickened the second it left Remus’ mouth.

The way Remus had said the name, “Sayre”, with a kind of half-recognition. 

There had been a flicker behind those sharp eyes. Harry could tell he was wondering. Wondering who this Rigel Sayre was, wondering why a Muggle boy working in a dusty old shop had a name etched in the annals of magical history.

He was so stupid for choosing a magical name. He could've been a random Muggle bloke in a shop, somebody nobody looks twice at. But he had been too concerned with somebody nefarious, like the Death Eaters suddenly would stumble upon him in Muggle London. Smart, Harry. 

He couldn't stop thinking: what if Remus kept wondering, he’d dig. He was clever. Curious. Kind, yes, but not careless, never careless. He’d look through family trees, scrolls, maybe even visit the Hall of Records at the Ministry. It would all unravel. Harry would be found out and they'd lock him up in some deep, dark section of the Department of Mysteries. He'd met some Unspeakable's in his time as Head Auror- they always trust you more when you're the Head of something- and whenever he may have mildly inquired about their comings and goings down there, they always had only smiled wryly and wandered off to buy him another drink. 

Get him sloshed and he won't pry anymore, Harry bet they'd thought. Well, they'd been right. 

His chest tightened.

Every interaction was a thread being tugged, and Remus Lupin had just gripped one with both hands.

The world had already changed.

He wasn’t meant to be here.

Harry needed air. More than that; he needed distance.

Before he'd left Quiet A Few Books the evening prior, Harry'd slipped a note under Healy's office door, thanking him for his time, his teachings, and his kindess. The latter he'd written with a small smirk on his face, imagining the man's reaction. 

Harry would've loved to continue working there, the calmness had, for a few days, given him time to stare into the depths of the time-turner, to think of ways out, ways home. But now, i wasn't safe anymore.

It might not be safe anywhere.

He walked to the back door and opened it quietly, letting the cold slap him awake. The sky above was dark and stretching, stars smeared across it like chalk. The garden was quiet. Peaceful. This version of Potter Cottage stood behind him like a memory he hadn’t earned.

He stepped into the night. The rucksack over one shoulder. The cloak under his arm.

And when he reached the far edge of the garden, just before the stone wall met the tree line, he turned on the spot. 

He reappeared instantly, not far, just down to the tree line. Not far.

Just enough to breathe.

The wind was wilder down here, oddly enough. He mused that perhaps the wards held up around the Cottage were Anti-Wind... though even as he thought it he smiled self-deprecatingly. Anti-Wind Wards? Was this who 1978 was forcing him to become? A- Godric bless her but- Hermione? 

Harry sighed and started along the tree-line.

It was soft and cold and bitter at the edges along the edges of the large oaks, but not snowing. It felt like it should be. The kind of cold that whispered of change, of something just around the corner. Harry pulled his coat tighter around him, adjusted the strap of the rucksack over his shoulder, and started to walk faster. If there was something around the corner, he would just have to beat it there. 

Each step crunched gently over frost-covered grass. The silence here was a different kind of quiet; not the suffocating stillness of the cottage, but the open hush of the outside world, like the land itself was waiting to exhale into the new year.

He let his thoughts wander. He couldn’t stop them anyway.

He used to love New Years.

There was one in particular, one that flickered now behind his eyes like the last glimmer of a wand's spark. It had been two or maybe three years after the war and he and Ginny had still been together then; not the first trial run that turned out to be a shockingly frantic, grief-saturated kind of together that they more-or-less fell into, but something quieter, something softer. They’d spent the evening at Shell Cottage, of all places, invited by Bill and Fleur, who’d turned the whole windswept place into a haven, nothing lke it was when he sought refuge during the War, but calmer. Like the air itself was finally at ease.

There had been fairy lights charmed into the rafters, a feast charmed warm on the table. Percy and Audrey had brought something ridiculous; if he remembered it correctly it was honey-roasted pig and a German card game that none of them even attempted. George had brought fireworks, and Ron and Hermione had spent most of the evening tangled on the sofa, pretending they weren’t snogging when they obviously were.

Ginny had pulled Harry onto the beach just before midnight; she'd worn a red jumper that clashed with her hair and a grin that refused to fade. They'd run barefoot in the freezing sand until she tackled him down, laughing breathlessly, her hair spilling around them like fire and static.

He remembered the way she kissed him, hard and sudden, and how she said, “We made it, Harry. We made it.”

He hadn’t replied, and looking back now he wondered if that was his mind's way of saying... "Have we?"

He’d just kissed her back, thinking how lucky he was to have survived the war with something to hold, something that felt like it couldn't slip away.

But they’d grown apart, eventually. Not out of anger. Not out of betrayal. Just life, shifting like sand beneath their feet.

He still loved her, though. Not the way he had on that beach, not in the way he'd stalked her footsteps on the Marauders Map whilst on the run, not in the way that craved or burned.

But in the way you love a moment that saved you once. He could still see her, tonight, in his mind’s eye as he walked; seated on the rug before the fire at the Burrow, a Butterbeer loose in her fingers, her expression unreadable as she watched the flames. She would always burn brighter than he could ever catch, and by Merlin he was lucky to have even caught a fingertip of her before she flew away. 

And Sirius. 

Gods.

Sirius.

The pain hit sharp, sudden. It always did, a knife in his gut.

He should’ve had a hundred New Year’s with Sirius. Late-night drinking, much too loud music, Sirius pretending not to dance while absolutely dancing, horrifically. Teasing Remus into making resolutions he’d never keep, calling Harry “kid” one too many times until Harry rolled his eyes and grinned anyway.

He should’ve had a dozen countdowns with Sirius clapping him on the back and saying something absolutely inappropriate in front of Molly. Should’ve had years of watching Sirius become who he was meant to be.

But he hadn’t. Sirius had died far too early, behind that veil, and Harry had been forced to grieve through it like a wound that never quite closed.

And now, somewhere in this world, this strange, too-alive world, Sirius was out there.

Alive.

He could be sitting by a fire. Drinking. Laughing. Maybe even with Harry’s parents. Maybe with Remus.

Harry’s stomach turned.

The thought slammed into him again like a curse. 

What if Remus had said something? What if he’d gone to James and Lily, or Sirius, and mentioned the strange boy with the strange name working in the dusty shop just outside of Diagon? What if he’d told them about Rigel Sayre?

What if they’d started wondering?

He should’ve picked another name. Anything else. He thought he'd been so careful, so painfully careful, and still-

He felt in his core he was unraveling the world by existing in it. Because he was.

His pace quickened, boots tapping over the road now, the frost crunching beneath his soles. The Muggle village just outside of Godric's Hollow was getting closer, but his mind was far away, running ahead of him like a frightened stag.

They’d start asking questions. Remus would look at records, would start connecting dots, and he’d see how nothing about Harry made sense. He’d wonder why the boy in the shop took note of Belgium in such a way, or why he flinched like a soldier when the books dropped to the ground on their first meeting, or why his eyes looked older than his face. He’d ask about the Sayres. He’d remember history. He’d dig.

They'd all dig.

And James and Lily were alive. They'd dig with them, he knew. If they were anything like he'd been told, he knew they'd both be on the front line of questioning. 

They were right there. Close enough to reach if he just—

No. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

Even accidentally, coincidentally, he'd done enough already.

His fingers tightened around the strap of his bag. He was gripping it too hard, nails biting into the fabric.

He couldn't let this happen.

He had to keep moving.

He walked on, the village lights glowing faint ahead of him, like the beckoning of something warm and human. Laughter drifted on the wind, music thudding from somewhere beyond the hedgerows. It all felt like another universe.

Like something happening on the other side of a veil.

He wondered if Sirius might've felt like this as he passed through.

He didn’t belong in this world. He needed to get back to his. 

But he kept walking anyway.

The time-turner was cold, hanging around his neck, hovering next to his heart.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The village met him in golden ribbons and noise.

He hadn’t realised how far he’d walked until he turned a corner and found himself in the middle of a narrow, cobbled lane, flanked by rows of half-timbered buildings strung with lights.

People were gathered in small huddles, dancing drunkenly, holding hands, shouting joyously at nothing in particular. A few were on the rooftops for some reason, howling with laughter. A cluster of teenagers launched what looked like homemade fireworks into the air, shrieking when the bursts exploded too low and too loud.

He blinked at the crackle of colour overhead, let the sound wash over him.

A cheer went up across the lane, champagne corks flying, strangers hugging strangers.

Midnight, then.

"Happy New Year," someone shouted, followed by a round of cheers.

Harry stood still in the cold, the strap of his bag digging into his shoulder, the hood of his coat drawn low. He didn’t say it back. The words stuck in his throat, dry and useless.

Happy New Year, Harry.

It felt like mockery, and he almost found himself smiling despite himself.

His fingers were numb and his legs ached. He hadn’t slept properly in days, not since Remus had said his name. He didn’t know where he was going, whether he’d return back to Godric’s Hollow, whether he’d ever feel safe enough to stop running.

But he walked.

Past the couples kissing against stone walls, past the pub signs swinging in the breeze, past a brass band drunkenly trying to finish a rendition of Auld Lang Syne.

And then he saw it.

A pub.

It looked achingly familiar in that way time likes to play with; tall windows, warped wooden beams, a warm yellow glow leaking out from behind the frosted glass. For a heart-stopping moment, it reminded him exactly of the one just down from the Ministry: Ringo Dingo. It was where he and Ron used to drink after long shifts, the one where they sat in the same two chairs every Friday, their backs to the corners so all sides were protected. And they'd moan about reports and paperwork and pretending they didn’t care that everyone else had real lives.

Once again, he found himself being pulled into the memory of the bartender Ron and Neville always teased him about. H thought of her  habit of calling him “darling” that made Ron snort into his pint every time. She always fluttered her lashes at Harry, like maybe she knew something he didn’t. He never did find out her name. 

Would he ever? 

Here he was, on the run through time, on the verge of everything falling apart, and he was thinking about her.

It was absurd.

He nearly laughed.

He didn’t know why he stopped outside the door of the pub. Maybe it was the familiarity. Maybe it was the exhaustion. Or maybe it was just that old instinct, to find a corner, to be alone, to think.

He’d already decided he wouldn’t go in.

His hand hovered near the door, but he was ready to turn back, feet already angling away when someone behind him grunted-

“You going in, mate, or what?”

A tall man with a red face and three too many layers of coats elbowed past him with a half-laugh and disappeared inside.

Harry hesitated a second longer, heart pounding, but the warmth spilled out into the cold and something gave way inside him.

“Yeah,” he murmured, to no one. “Alright, I suppose. New Years, after all."

He stepped in.

It smelled like wet coats and stale beer, like wood polish and something fried.

A jukebox in the corner crackled through a Fleetwood Mac song. The place was full but not crowded; families in booths, couples leaning too close, solitary drinkers at the bar. The floorboards creaked underfoot, and the low ceiling was heavy with old beams darkened by decades of cigarette smoke.

Nothing at all like the Ringo Dingo. 

Harry sighed in relief, and placed his memories at the door. 

He ordered a pint with a quiet nod. The bartender, a woman with deep wrinkles and too-bright lipstick, brunette, poured him something amber and frothy from a tap marked Double Diamond. He vaguely remembered his uncle Vernon drinking it in front of the telly while yelling at the weatherman.

The pint glass was heavy, cold against his fingers. He made for the back corner, always the corner, and slipped into the seat against the wall. It was cracked leather, but warm. The table was scarred with initials and old burns. A staircase twisted up beside him, old wood worn smooth in the middle from generations of feet.

People were still shouting Happy New Year across the pub.

Harry offered a faint smile when someone caught his eye. A polite nod. Nothing more.

He took a sip.

The beer was oddly sweet, malty with a faint metallic tang, the kind of drink meant to be sipped slowly while trying not to fall asleep. It wasn’t good, but it was comforting. Like something passed down to you by people who didn’t know better but meant well.

He sat in silence, nursing the pint, watching the people around him with that old Auror instinct he’d never fully shaken. A group of older men were playing darts in the corner, arguing about scores. A young couple were curled up near the fireplace, whispering into each other’s coats. The jukebox changed songs, something slower, and a few people danced in place, swaying like seaweed.

And then-

A man.

Alone.

Near the opposite wall, hunched over a pint, wearing a battered coat too large for him and an odd-looking hat pulled low. Nothing particularly alarming. But something...

Something was wrong.

Harry tried not to stare. After all, he was the man in the corner, drinking alone.

He had no right to judge.

But the man wasn’t really drinking. His eyes kept shifting, watching. His hand was clenched too tight on the glass. His shoulders too stiff.

One hand in his pocket. Gripping something.

Harry’s neck prickled.

He looked away, tried to settle.

And then there was a scream.

Short. Distant. Female.

The pub didn’t react at first. Maybe they hadn’t heard it. Maybe they were used to that kind of thing on New Year’s.

But Harry went still.

The kind of still that came before a fight.

He was well-practiced.

That wasn’t right.

He was just about to rise when the man across the room shifted. Looked at Harry.

Only for a second.

Then stood.

Then left.

Harry stared at the now-empty seat. Something glittered on the table where the man had been. He squinted.

A coin.

Harry’s blood ran cold.

Pound coins weren't invented yet. This was 1978. He knew that now, and felt a brush of Hermione's scoffing laughter settle behind his ear. 

He stared longer at it, leaning forward in his seat.

It glinted gold.

Gold coins didn't exist in the Muggle world.

Bronze, yes. Silver, could be. It'd been a long time since he'd handled his own Muggle currency, only in Quiet A Few Books had he seen some up-close for the first time in years. But what he knew he could never mistake now, were the coins Hagrid had showed him on his first trip to Diagon Alley.

It was a galleon.

By the time he looked back up, the man was slipping through the door.

Then came the first unmistakable crack of spellfire outside.

And everything changed.

Chapter 6: Misplaced in Time: A Tumble and a Stumble

Notes:

im on a roll

any feedback, positive or negative, is welcomed. its been a long time, after all.

1st of January, 1979
The Royal Oak, Wiltshire

The door creaked open, and the night rushed in: cold, bitter, a nightmare wrapped in silence.

Outside, the village was no longer alive with laughter or fireworks.

The air was thick with smoke, coppery and sharp, like blood spilled fresh. Bodies littered the cobblestones, twisted, lifeless, and the sharp scent of fear hung heavy. No celebrations. No joy. Just a dark, choking void.

Black cloaks flared in the shadows, white masks gleaming like broken porcelain, every mask an elaborate piece of grotesque craftsmanship- smooth bone, white with delicate, curling filigree etched into them, some with hollow eyes stretched wide, others with twisted smiles frozen forever in silent screams. Each mask was a cruel work of art, a silent scream etched in cold, chilling detail. Nothing at all alike with the Death Eater masks of Harry's time, and even though he'd seen these people before, seen cruelty and horror worse than this, the masks succeeded in their mission to strike fear into the depths of his soul. 

Briefly, as he stepped over the boundary line of the pub, he wondered if these were the costumes of mere Death Eaters... or something more heinous.

Several dark figures, dressed in deep onyx velvet cloaks, moved through the carnage in uniformed synchronisation. They weaved in and out of shop doors and house porches, green and dark blue shards of light splattering against the windows and Harry more felt than heard the numerous innocent bodies falling to the ground inside. No matter where they were stood, who they chose as their victim, their wands never stopped weaving in and out, carving death with casual cruelty.

Harry stepped further into the street. 

His eyes locked in and narrowed on one cloaked demon as it raised its wand in the direction of two small, cowering children. Two of the same group who had been fiddling with the fireworks on his entrance to the pub. Harry stuck two of his first fingers into his mouth, both either-side of his tongue, and whistled loudly.

The Death Eater's head snapped toward the sound, wand moving like an extension of their arm.

The first curse screamed toward him; a jagged bolt of emerald fire that crackled like live wires. 

Harry dropped to the side, grit and dust spraying as the blast scorched the stone where he'd just stood. His wand flicked, sending a coil of blazing sapphire sparks that zipped forward like angry serpents, striking the Death Eater earnestly; one to the head, one to the stomach. His opponent crumpled into three piles- head, midriff and legs all separate- of previous enemy and Harry felt fierce vindication through him.

The two children stared up at him, terrified beyond their years. Harry inwardly rolled his eyes at their desperate stillness; clearly even a constant Muggle and Magical war hadn't done much for the survival instincts of these people.

He thrust his wand at them and they flinched, but nothing exited the stick, just as he'd intended. Instead, he bellowed over the sound of spellfire and crackling flames, "GET OUT OF HERE. FIND COVER IN THE HOUSES!" 

Before Harry could move toward them to force them to safety, a second attacker lunged with a cursed dagger from his right, clearly using his need to aid the innocents to their advantage. The dagger gleamed under the flickering light of the burning buildings surrounding them, and with a show of incredible strength, Harry caught the blade barehanded before it made contact with his jugular. His teeth clenched as heat scorched his palm; without breaking grip, he slammed the attacker's wrist down on a jagged piece of rebar, twisting until the dagger clattered uselessly to the ground. A hard elbow to the ribs followed- a deep grunt, and the Death Eater doubled over, gasping.

Before the they could fully recover, Harry gripped the front of their robes and spun, dragging them bodily with him. He drove them back into a wall of half-collapsed brick, forcing the wind from their lungs with a dull crack. The Death Eater’s mask, one of the more grotesque of the many- all exaggerated bone ridges and lacquered black with veins of molten gold- tilted upward just as Harry raised his wand to the hollow beneath their jaw.

His voice was low. Calm.

Dangerous.

“Don’t move.”

The Death Eater sneered, spit lacing their breath, defiance tightening the muscles in their neck- but Harry didn’t hesitate.

“Tenere corpus.”

A rush of gold and ironlight burst from his wand, no flare or glamour, just controlled precision; magic honed for battlefield restraint. The spell snapped out like steel bands, slamming the Death Eater’s arms to their sides and binding their legs together with a sharp, audible click of magical locks forming midair. Their body seized in place, frozen from neck to toe, suspended upright against the crumbling wall like a puppet impaled on invisible nails.

Their head remained free, twitching and snarling beneath the ornate mask. But Harry had already turned away.

He flexed his right hand, bloodied now and blistered from catching the blade. With practiced indifference, he pushed through the burn.

His heartbeat was steady.

His mind clear.

More were coming, he could hear them. Booted footsteps scraping through the broken street. Shouting in the distance. Some were apparating in small bursts. Clumsy, Harry mused carefully, nervous.

And he was already moving again.

A spell shot from behind him; low, crackling, aimed for the backs of his knees. He dropped instinctively, rolled, and came up beneath a scorched awning. Two more curses tore overhead, blistering the stone behind him.

He didn’t wait.

He yanked a broken broom handle from the wreckage beside him, held it like a baton, and dashed forward. The nearest Death Eater barely had time to lift their wand. Harry threw the handle like a javelin. It struck cleanly, blunt force to the throat. The masked figure crumpled, gagging, and before they could recover, Harry apparated.

Crack.

He reappeared behind a stack of overturned mailboxes and pulled his wand in tight, breath held. A trio of Death Eaters moved down the street ahead of him in a wide formation, covering angles: professional.

He watched them for a beat, calculating.

One step. Two. A pause in their movement.

Now.

His wand snapped upward.

“Ferit lux.”

A burst of raw white light exploded from his position, so bright it seared after-images into the air. They staggered, blinded, one of them firing blindly into the dark, and Harry surged forward.

He hit the first one like a hammer, shoulder-first, knocking the man into a storefront window that shattered inward. Before the others could react, he turned and struck the second with a concussive hex; a dull, colourless wave that blasted them off their feet and through a fire-slicked garden wall.

The third regained his vision just in time to see Harry raising his left hand.

“Infractum vinculum.”

It wasn’t a standard spell, it wasn’t even something Harry had seen in a textbook.

It was his own.

He wove it from instinct and experience, layering compression and containment into a spiralling arc of red-and-black energy that whipped outward like a net. It coiled midair, lashed once, and then constricted around the Death Eater’s chest and limbs. The figure shrieked- an awful, raw sound- as the binding crackled like heated chainmail and dropped him, paralysed, to the floor.

Harry stumbled slightly, dizzy from the effort. The edges of his vision were starting to close in again. Magic buzzed beneath his skin; reactive, sparking, volatile.

But he didn’t stop.

He couldn't stop.

The wind had picked up again, whirling ash and embers in spirals through the square. The firelight made the air dance, casting ghost-shadows over the ruined walls.

A sudden, unexpected blast caught him just above the hip. A searing bolt, bright orange and shaped more like a corkscrew than a beam, sliced through the air and hit him with enough force to spin him sideways. He hit the ground hard, rolled, and gritted his teeth, hissing through the pain blooming along his ribs.

Bruised. Burned. 

But not broken.

Footsteps closed in fast. Two Death Eaters, maybe three, closing from different angles.

He didn't get up.

Instead, he slapped his bloodied palm against the cobblestone and hissed, "Rescindo arcum."

Magic poured into the street like poured mercury.

A concave shield flared into being; wide and low to the ground, iridescent like an oil slick, stretching out in a perfect arc around him. But it didn’t rise like a dome; it curled like the shell of a horseshoe crab, hugging the ground, absorbing incoming blasts and redirecting them up, away, scattering them into the ruined eaves above like lightning thrown off a conductor. The air above shimmered with the heat of it. Sparks skittered along the edge.

Two spells hit it in rapid succession: a stunner and something worse, something dark, oily, that cracked like bone when it struck.

The shield held.

But Harry could feel the drain now. This one wasn’t meant for long-term defence. It was desperate, instinctive, clever; but it bled him fast.

He pulled in a sharp breath, then pushed up with one knee beneath him. His wand hand was steady, but his other arm trembled from the damage to his side. He tasted blood in his mouth.

They were coming around the flanks.

He spun toward the left opening in his shield arc and fired two quick shots- one stunning bolt, bright blue and sharp-edged, and one yellow burst that crumpled the ground beneath the nearest attacker’s feet. They dropped like a sack of stones, their wand flying.

The second Death Eater ducked in through the other side, too close, wand raised-

Harry cancelled the shield.

Crack.

The arc shattered, folding in on itself like melting glass. In that same motion, he pivoted and threw his wand.

The spell he cast mid-throw snapped out as a spiralling tether of copper light, an old Auror combat trick, grabbing the other Death Eater’s wand and yanking it sideways into the debris. The spell veered off, fizzled. Harry rushed them.

A fast jab to the sternum. They wheezed. He caught their cloak and used their own momentum to haul them forward, slammed his forehead into the ridge of their mask- crack- then spun and threw them bodily into a collapsed rain barrel.

Still breathing hard, he retrieved his wand with a quick Accio, turned, and-

A jet of icy white light hit him square in the shoulder. The impact flung him sideways. He landed hard on his back, skidding through broken glass, his wand clattering just out of reach.

Pain lanced down his arm, his shoulder numb and cold. He scrambled for the wand but a boot came down, hard, pinning his wrist.

The Death Eater above him was taller, broader, and fast. Their wand aimed at his throat, trembling from adrenaline. “You’re done, whoever you are.”

Harry’s breath steamed in the night air. His free hand, his left, brushed the ruined cloak at his side. His eyes flicked once toward the shredded hem, that threadbare fabric he’d carried for years. All but gone.

He gritted his teeth.

Then he smiled.

The Death Eater snarled, ready to cast-

Harry spat upward, straight into their mask’s eye-slit. As they jerked back instinctively, he twisted his pinned arm, grabbed their ankle with his free hand, and shoved up with his hips, rolling them over. He kicked free, grabbed his wand in a skid, and flung it up just as they stood.

“Fulgaris!”

Lightning. Real lightning. Not conjured: redirected.

From above, the burning remnants of a roof rafter crackled in the wind, and his spell snapped toward it like a magnet. The charred beam exploded into blue flame and launched the bolt downward. It struck the Death Eater in the chest mid-lunge, lifting them clean off the ground, and hurled them into the side of a smoking tree with a boom.

The force of it nearly knocked Harry back again.

He dropped to one knee, panting, heart pounding. His shirt was soaked through with blood and sweat, torn in half a dozen places. Magic buzzed in the air like heat lightning, twitching at the edges of his vision. His ears were ringing.

A breeze passed through the square.

Then he sensed it. Footsteps pounding towards his position. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply through his nostrils, ignoring the scents of sulfur and decay, and counted...

One, two, three, four, five.

Five opponents approaching his position.

Harry breathed deeply again.

A shift in the air, a pulse of pure magical potential building beneath his fingertips.

He took a deep breath, grounding himself. The world seemed to slow, every sound fading except the rapid beat of his own heart.

Raising his wand, he unleashed a spell born from instinct, mastery, and desperation: a spell no one else had ever seen.

He called it Ignis Nexus.

Hermione had banned him from its use in England. She said there were more humane ways; Incarcerous, for example. Harry was not the only one who scoffed at her during that particular speech, though he respected her wishes either way.

He suspected if she wasn't born yet, she wouldn't mind so much.

A sphere of radiant, swirling fire bloomed at his wand’s tip, but it was no ordinary flame. It shimmered with shifting colours, from molten gold to icy blue, twisting and folding in impossible fractal patterns. The sphere pulsed with raw energy, humming like a living thing hungry for release.

Harry hurled it toward the nearest Death Eater as all five appeared from behind the almost mountainous rubble. Upon impact, the Ignis Nexus exploded, not in a burst of destruction, but in a complex cascade of magical chains. Tendrils of fire laced with crackling electricity wove through the air, snaring and binding all five attackers at once.

The flames didn’t burn flesh but locked down movement. It was an intricate weave of binding magic, reinforced by a pressure so intense it crushed bone and twisted muscles without breaking skin. The Death Eaters were caught in a living cage of flickering light and searing force.

The nearest man screamed, struggling, eyes wild with panic, while the others were rendered utterly helpless, suspended like puppets caught in invisible strings.

Harry staggered back, breathless, the power of the Ignis Nexus draining him like a tidal wave crashing over stone. His legs trembled, his chest heaved, but he stood victorious.

For a heartbeat, the street was silent except for the crackling of the magical prison.

Harry lowered his wand slowly, the fire dimming to soft embers, and exhaled, feeling the weight of what he’d just unleashed.

The stillness suddenly felt unusual. 

Harry stood in the centre of the destruction, swaying slightly. The snow was scorched black where fire had met frost. The air was thick with smoke and copper and the metallic twang of spent magic. 

His breathing shallowed rapidly, like his ribs were too tight to contain the breath he needed. 

And then- 

Crack.

The sound wasn’t loud. It was clean. Controlled. Purposeful.

Another crack. Then another.

And then he felt it.

Like a sudden drop in pressure. Like the world paused to make room for something bigger than it could hold.

Albus Dumbledore arrived.

He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to.

His presence rolled through the ruins like a storm front; quiet, absolute. The air seemed to still around him. Snowflakes stopped falling. The wind hushed, almost reverent. He stood taller than in Harry's vacant memory. Not bent, not tired... not yet. This was a younger Dumbledore. Sharper. Hungrier. Brilliant in the way a blade is brilliant under moonlight.

His robes were midnight blue, woven with constellations that shimmered faintly with every step, moving in celestial patterns, slow and deliberate. A high-collared cloak hung from his shoulders like royal armour. The edges singed with frost and starlight.

His hair, though still silver, had the luster of polished metal, pulled back with purpose. His beard was trimmed neatly, not the long river of white Harry remembered, but shorter, disciplined, framing his face like a crown of age earned too early. His wand, a sleek sliver of pale wood- not Elder- was clutched loosely in his right hand, though even like this, it crackled faintly at the tip, vibrating with restrained power.

Dumbledore looked not at the bound Death Eaters, but at the boy who had bound them.

At Harry.

Harry didn’t even notice him at first. He was too far gone.

His body felt hollowed out. Not like something broken, but something used. Like every drop of magic had been rung from his bones and muscles, his veins drained and spent. His legs wouldn’t hold him anymore. He dropped to his knees. He hadn't exerted this type of magic all at once in... years.

His cloak, the one he'd worn since being thrown from his time, lay half off his shoulders, shredded, burned. Torn open like a relic. The fabric was scorched through the centre, ripped along the hem, and stained deep rust-red in places. It had shielded him more times than he could count. It had felt like protection.

Like identity.

Like home.

And now it was in tatters.

How fitting. If he had the energy to laugh, he would've. 

He reached for the cloak instinctively, fingers trembling, brushing the frayed edge. It came away in threads.

His heart clenched. He didn’t know why it made him want to cry.

The time-turner at his chest throbbed against him. Hidden still, thank Merlin. Beneath all his layers, and beneath the exhaustion. No one could see it. No one could notice. But he could feel it like a second heartbeat.

He leaned back on his knees, breath catching, vision dimming. Blood tickled a line down his temple, hot against the cold. T

The world swam.

He heard footsteps. Boots crunching over broken cobblestones.

No one else approached him. The other figures, shadows moving in the smoke, were already subduing the Death Eaters. They'd been fighting hard against Harry's cage of light, until he had dropped to his knees, and at once the cage had dissipated into nothingness. The shadowy people were binding arms, securing wands, whispering diagnostic charms. Some of them Harry might've known in another time. He couldn't see. Couldn't focus.

But the figure approaching now moved like something inevitable.

Harry forced himself to raise his head.

And there he was, up close. For the first time in almost a decade. 

Dumbledore.

Standing before him. Tall and bright. Blazing with power barely restrained.

They looked at each other.

And Harry... Harry didn’t know what he felt. It was too much. Too many years folded into a single gaze. The last time he’d seen this man, he’d stood over a pensieve, heart broken open by truths he hadn’t been ready to know. Now he looked up and saw that same man before he’d become the myth. And it was… unbearable.

He didn’t even try to speak.

He just smiled. Quiet. Blearily. Sadly.

Like it hurt to smile.

Dumbledore tilted his head, his expression unreadable. And then, after a long moment, in a voice that echoed with everything and nothing, he said:

“Who are you?”

Harry opened his mouth.

No answer came.

His head dipped forward, eyelids fluttering, body swaying like a marionette cut from its strings. His last flicker of consciousness clung to the heat of magic that buzzed, barely contained, all around him, though he himself could no longer feel it.

Then another voice. A man’s voice, full of concern and confusion.

“Professor- wait, hang on- I think he’s- he’s one of the good ones- look at him. He's one of us.”

But Dumbledore lifted a hand sharply, stopping him.

“Wait- James. Wait.”

“I’m fine,” the voice said, a little closer now. A little more familiar. A little more desperate. “He’s hurt. He’s- he needs help. Let me help him.”

Harry’s body tipped sideways, caught in someone’s arms he didn’t recognise but somehow knew. There was a smell there; something warm. A childhood memory he didn’t have.

And just before it all went dark, he heard Dumbledore’s voice one last time.

Low. Wondering. Almost soft.

“Miss Evans, please inform Madam Pomfrey we're arriving with a… special guest."

Then:

Nothing.

Just silence.

And the weight of time pressing in on all sides.

Chapter 7: Misplaced in Time: Hello There, Dad

Notes:

im keeping it rolling, folks.

any feedback, negative or positive is so welcomed. obviously its been a while, any help is great.

4th of January, 1979
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Hospital Wing

It started with weight.

Not the kind that sat on his chest, though that too, but the kind that nestled deep inside the marrow, that threaded itself into every nerve, every cell, as though his own blood had thickened with iron filings and grief. A pressure behind the eyes. A heaviness beneath the skin. His muscles ached with the kind of pain that didn't throb but moaned, quietly, like a building cracking in the cold.

Harry felt as though he'd been wrung out and stitched back together sideways.

He was so tired he couldn’t open his eyes. Not yet, nowhere near fully.

His magic, whatever pieces of it hadn’t been spent, pulsed weakly beneath his ribs. There was a throbbing in his temples, a dull, insistent bloom, like his body no longer quite knew how to contain what he was. As if the magic itself was pressing outward through his skin, resentful of being restrained.

Even unconscious, the air around him felt charged. Static. Dense with the echo of something unleashed.

The atmosphere hadn’t forgotten what he’d done, and yet he didn’t remember standing. Barely remembered falling.

He remembered fire. He remembered blood; on his fingers, on stone. He remembered the time-turner like a second heartbeat and the magic that had poured out of him like a dam split clean in half. He remembered victory that didn’t feel like triumph, but that was usually how it went. When he exerted himself too far, when the mission suddenly mattered more than his life. 

And after that: he remembered nothing.

But he knew where he was.

Even with his eyes closed, even with pain blooming behind every thought, he knew.

The smell told him first; polished wood and potion vapours, bitter herbs and faint lavender. The sterile tang of magical antiseptic, the softer undercurrent of laundered linens. Beneath it all, a quiet hum that spoke of layers of enchantment ticking away like ghost clocks.

Hogwarts. The Hospital Wing.

Harry lay still.

Even breathing felt precarious. His chest rose and fell like something fragile, something that might break with the wrong breath. His throat was raw. His mouth dry. His wand was gone; he couldn’t feel it.

His cloak--

Something twisted in his gut.

The cloak was gone.

He saw it, in the blur of memory; scorched and broken, half-melted in the ruins of a village street. Hermione's gift cloak, his disguise, his armour, gone now. Turned to ash. Just one more piece of his past, stolen by fire.

He swallowed, hard. Thought about not thinking about it.

Failed.

Beneath the layers of bandages and infirmary robes, the time-turner still pulsed faintly against his chest, cool and solid, nestled like guilt. Still hidden. Still safe-- for now. He was surprised they hadn't found it when transfiguring his battle-torn clothes into Hospital wear.

His fingers twitched toward it.

But his arms wouldn’t move.

And maybe that was alright.

Maybe he should just… listen. He concentrated, eyes still closed, as he finally realised there were words being uttered next to him.

A voice floated to him. Soft. Thoughtful. Young.

“His magical pathways were overloaded,” said the voice, precise and clear. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Every channel lit up like he’d swallowed lightning.”

Another voice responded, older, firmer, wrapped in authority and steel. He recognised it instantly; Madam Poppy Pomfrey. “That would explain the surges. The diagnostics flared red twice last night.”

A pause. A clink of glass. The younger voice returned-- this time with hesitation threaded through it, guilt tucked beneath the careful cadence.

“We had to apparate blind,” she said. “The field I used-- it was experimental. The stabiliser wasn’t designed for a full collapse under hostile conditions. But I-- I had to.”

Madam Pomfrey sighed.

“Well,” she said, “theoretical or not, Miss Evans, it kept him breathing. That’s more than I can say for most people in your position. But next time you try something that reckless, do tell me first.”

Miss Evans.

Harry’s chest clenched so hard it stalled his breath.

Evans.

He knew that name like a scar.

His eyes cracked open to a slit. To the women in the room, there was no change in his position, but to Harry, immediate pain.

It took effort. Merlin, it took effort. The light stung. His body ached in places he didn’t know he had. But he turned his head-- slow, measured- toward the voices.

And there she was.

Seated beside the bed, red hair tied back with a stray strand curling loose at her temple. Her fingers were stained faintly with potion residue. She wore a soft green jumper under half-unbuttoned robes, and her wand was tucked behind one ear with the ease of someone who lived with it. Her posture was alert, her expression measured. Kind.

Lily Evans.

His mother.

Not a memory. Not a photograph. Not a ghost.

Alive.

The air caught in his throat. His vision shimmered with something not entirely to do with magic. He swallowed it down, closed his eyes again before she saw a rogue tear trickle down his cheek, before the weight of it could pull him apart at the seams.

Let her speak. Let her just be. Just for a moment longer. Harry thought he rather deserved it, after what he'd been through.

“You stabilised his arcane centre with a vector-siphon?” said Madam Pomfrey, unmistakably younger but no less formidable.

“I had to,” said Lily. “It was that or risk complete collapse. Professor Flitwick helped with the framework last term. It wasn’t supposed to be used yet.”

There was a pause.

Then Pomfrey muttered, begrudgingly impressed: “Well, it bloody well worked. He should be dead. And instead, he’s recovering.”

“Still unconscious,” Lily said. “But… steady, I suppose.”

Something quiet passed between them.

Then Madam Pomfrey rustled to her feet and crossed the ward, muttering about a student who had hexed his own eyebrows off. Her footsteps faded.

And Lily stayed.

Harry could hear her breathing.

It was soft, almost imperceptible, but it was real. Grounded. The most familiar sound he’d never known.

The chair creaked as she leaned forward.

Then, very quietly: “Merlin, what are you?”

Harry wanted to laugh.

He couldn’t. Of course. But wow, if he could’ve. That voice, curious and biting and full of awe, it cut straight through the fog. She sounded like Hermione. No; Hermione sounded like her.

“You dropped five Death Eaters like it was foreplay,” she muttered, and Harry definitely would’ve laughed at that if he hadn’t been mostly dead.

“You cast spells like you weren’t casting them at all, like you were them.”

Her voice gentled, puzzled. “I’ve never felt anything like it, the pure power radiating from you. Not from anyone. And Dumbledore looked… stunned. Not impressed. Stunned. Like you kicked over his chessboard mid-match.”

A pause. A sigh.

“And then there was the issue with James…”

Harry’s breath hitched.

“He reacted like he knew you,” Lily whispered. “Like watching you fall ripped something out of him.”

Silence.

Then, with careful honesty: “I don’t think he knows why.”

Harry bit the inside of his cheek, just to feel something. His chest ached.

His father. There’d been arms catching him. A voice, desperate. “He’s one of us.” And now, Lily was here, sitting beside him like it meant something.

“I had to get you out,” she said. “I didn’t even think. I used the stabilisation field. First field test. Might’ve scrambled your arcane pathways beyond repair.” A wry smile in her voice. “But it worked. So, you know. We’ll call that a win.”

Her voice dipped.

“I would’ve killed someone if it hadn’t.”

Harry wanted to tell her he knew. That he trusted her. That she’d always been brave. The bravest witch the wizarding world had ever seen.

She sighed again, softer.

“We don’t even know your name. You haven’t said a word. You just... fell. And James didn't leave your side for more than an hour, by the way, the first twenty-four hours. I think he’d have held your hand if Pomfrey didn’t keep batting him away.”

A shift. Fabric rustled. Lily leaned in closer.

Harry’s breath stuttered.

“I should be studying,” Lily murmured. “Flitwick wants me to present my charm work next week. Early mastery accreditation. Big deal, apparently.”

A smile, a real one this time, in her voice.

“But instead, I’m here. Sitting beside some half-dead lunatic who incapacitated five Death Eaters before passing out in his own dramatic spotlight.”

Harry felt the warmth of her voice wrap around him like something holy.

And then she was gone.

Not all at once. Not in a rush or with drama. But somehow, by the time his mind surfaced again, truly surfaced, not in that floating, half-waking way where memory and dream tangle like shoelaces, the room was empty.

Dark.

Quiet in the kind of way that felt intentional. No scuff of boots. No chair creaking. No quill scratching. Just stillness, thick and total.

Harry blinked slowly.

The ceiling above him was high and vaulted, the great wooden beams arching overhead like ribs. Moonlight crept through the tall stained-glass windows, fractured into faint jewel-toned trails across the stone floor. Everything smelled faintly of antiseptic and lemon polish, of sleep and silence.

The Hospital Wing. But not as he remembered it.

This was its younger face. Less cluttered, somehow. Fewer shelves. No protective netting hung around beds. The curtains were a lighter shade of cream than the deep green he’d known as a boy. There were fewer beds, too. Just five or six, neatly lined, their iron frames gleaming like old swords.

Harry lay still for a long moment, cataloguing each breath, each muscle. His wand was still missing. His magic felt like embers buried in ash. But his hands twitched when he told them to. His eyes stayed open. That was something.

The pain in his ribs was still there, distant and dull, but tolerable. He flexed one ankle under the covers. Then the other. Nothing broken. Not anymore. Someone had done good work.

Lily; Lily had done good work. 

His throat caught.

Gods, she’d sat right there.

He turned his head slowly, and the empty chair beside the bed ached in its vacancy. A faint indent remained in the cushion where she’d leaned forward, elbows braced on her knees. Her scent lingered, delicately-- rosemary and ink and something floral, like a breeze from a garden he'd never walked through.

He let his eyes drift shut again.

Not to sleep, just to feel.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The Hospital Wing had always been liminal space for Harry. The threshold between catastrophe and recovery. A place where time paused, where bruises faded and truths were whispered between sips of pumpkin juice and spells humming in the walls.

And when it was quiet like this, he remembered.

Ron, sitting beside his bed, gangly legs stretched out, talking too loudly about something that had happened in Charms. He’d had his hands behind his head and a smirk on his face like he hadn’t nearly died earlier that week from something or other. There had been treacle tart involved. And chess, somehow. Always chess.

Once, in third year, Ron had taken the bed next to him, moaning dramatically after a Quidditch fall that had barely left a bruise. Madam Pomfrey had clucked and healed him in two seconds, but Ron had insisted he couldn’t walk for days. Harry had stolen one of his Chocolate Frogs in retaliation and Ron hadn’t spoken to him for half a morning.

And then-- second year. He remembered sitting by Hermione’s bedside, her face still and pale, a mirror of marble. He and Ron had taken turns, sometimes talking, sometimes sitting in silence, sometimes pretending she was simply napping and would wake up any second, roll her eyes, and tell them both off for failing their exams.

She hadn’t. Not for a long time.

There’d been a little stack of books beside her bed, mostly left by Ginny, and Harry had tried reading from them once or twice, fumbling the long words, stumbling through paragraphs while Ron fidgeted and made comments about how boring it was. But they'd stayed. Because it was Hermione.

Then there was Ginny; older, vibrant, hair wind-wild and cheeks flushed from the recent match, slumped against crisp white sheets, victorious and bruised all over. She’d scored the winning goal against Ravenclaw in her seventh year final, knocking Demelza Robbins off her broom in the same play. Her wrist had been sprained, her nose bloodied, and she’d laughed through every bandage.

Harry had sat beside her for that, too.

Tried not to look too long at the way the sunlight caught her lashes. 

And once-- just once-- it had been Neville beside him, not in the bed, but kneeling on the floor, both of them grinning sheepishly as a crying first-year girl sniffled beneath a cooling charm on her ankle. She’d fallen from her broom during her first flying lesson. Madam Hooch had escorted her all the way from the pitch with the fury of a stormcloud, muttering about children with no balance. However, the moment she’d gone to retrieve Pomfrey, Harry and Neville, who had been passing through on Harry's tour of the newly improved way they used Mandrake venom in the school's medical supply, had taken over.

They told stories; about Neville's first broom ride outside of flying lessons, which ended with him clinging to a spire of the North Tower for twenty minutes. About Draco Malfoy, too-- snide, blonde, infuriating-- dangling the remembrall from his fingers like a prize. About how Harry had chased him, furious and untrained, and how that had somehow landed him his first Seeker position.

The girl had stopped crying by the end.

Neville had given her a Fizzing Whizzbee and Harry had pretended not to see it.

That was what the Hospital Wing was to Harry.

Not just pain.

Recovery. Story. Memory. Family.

But this wasn’t that wing. And these weren’t those times.

Now, he lay in a bed from before he was born, in a body he no longer quite recognised, with the weight of time and legacy stitched into every mended cut.

His hand ghosted over his chest, brushing the hidden curve of the time-turner through layers of gauze and cotton.

Still there.

Still pulsating.

He sighed.

Then turned his face toward the chair again.

Her name alone had once been myth.

His mother, the war hero. The brilliant charm theorist, evidently on her way to a Mastery. The woman who defied Voldemort three times and still had time to brew potions in the school dungeons when Slughorn was in a mood. She was all things: powerful, clever, fierce, untouchable.

But now he knew.

She was also warm. Sharp-tongued. Funny. Human.

And maybe, just maybe, already half in love.

With James Potter.

That thought made his heart twist in the same way it always had when he was fifteen and watching Ginny walk through the Common Room toward someone else. A kind of soft, aching grief for something never his.

He hadn’t wanted Lily that way. Not in the way of wanting.

But he’d wanted to be hers.

And now she sat by his bed and called him a lunatic and worried for his life, and he couldn’t help wondering-- Had she ever spoken about him like that? In the future they never got? In the months before Godric’s Hollow?

Did she ever talk about her son like he was hers?

He desperately hoped so.

Then again, even more than Lily, it was James that suddenly haunted him.

The way he’d apparently moved when Harry collapsed; reckless and desperate. Like instinct had overtaken thought. Like his body had acted before he could name the reason.

And maybe he hadn’t understood it.

Maybe he’d just seen a boy in pain and rushed to help.

Or maybe…

Maybe he saw himself.

Harry didn’t look exactly like James, he was sure-- his eyes were wrong, for one. But there had to be something in the bones, in the jaw, in the curve of the shoulders and the difference in the way he stood. Something in the hands, maybe, or the way his magic flickered in the air; they'd grown up differently. Different meals at dinner; one fit for a growing boy, the other for a small mouse. They spent their Hogwarts years on the opposite ends of the spectrum; one running about after a readheaded young woman, pulling pranks and making friends. The other, fighting for his life. 

Harry mused. Could magic recognise its own creation?

Could James feel something in the fabric of Harry’s presence that pulled toward him like a thread through blood?

Harry didn’t know.

But the way he’d held his hand, tight and possessive, had felt less like kindness and more like connection.

And Lily’s words echoed still: “Like watching you fall ripped something out of him.”

There was too much he didn’t understand.

Too many threads tangled and fraying, and he was the knot at the centre of them all.

But for now, he was here.

He was breathing and that was always a benefit.

And the moon still spilled silver through the tall windows of a castle that had never stopped being home.

The stillness stretched.

Outside the windows, the moon dipped further, shadows pooling along the walls like ink spilled from a careless hand. The quiet was sacred now, hallowed by memory-- and yet even before Harry heard the faintest creak of leather soles on stone, he felt it:

Someone else had entered the ward.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t look.

But he knew.

James was here.

His presence was unmistakable.

Not because of any particular noise, in fact, James was clearly trying to be quiet, but because he simply wasn’t a man built for subtlety. He took up space in the way wind fills a storm. Even in the shadowed hush of a sleeping hospital wing, James moved like he belonged somewhere loud. Somewhere full of laughter and chaos and light. Which made his effort to lurk along the back wall almost… endearing.

Harry let his eyes slide just slightly in their sockets. Just enough to catch the outline of the figure in the dark.

And there he was.

James bloody Potter.

He was dressed in deep navy robes, half-buttoned, sleeves pushed up to the elbows as if he’d abandoned formality halfway through trying. His hair was worse than Harry could have imagined, windswept and stubbornly untameable, curling behind his ears and standing up defiantly in the middle like it had a vendetta. Did his ever look as bad as that? Godric...

He was broader than Harry expected, not stocky, but strong in the shoulders, his frame built for fast broom turns and duelling stances. There was a quill tucked behind one ear and a book under one arm. He looked like he wasn't meaning to stay long.

He looked… tired. There were hollows beneath his eyes, and a sort of stiffness in the way he stood, like he hadn’t been sleeping properly. Or at all.

He was trying not to wake Harry.

Which, of course, made it the perfect moment to speak.

"Y’know," Harry said, voice hoarse from disuse but dry as ever, "if you’re going to hover like a banshee, you might want to work on your stealth. I can feel you brooding from here."

James froze like he’d been Petrified.

Then, after a beat: "Shite--!"

The book under his arm slipped to the ground with a dull thud. He scrambled to pick it up, muttering something very rude under his breath. Harry watched from the corner of his eye, amused.

“You’re awake,” James said, recovering quickly. But Harry could hear the ripple of genuine relief buried in the words.

“Technically,” Harry replied, shifting slightly on the mattress, his joints crackling like creaking floorboards. “Unless this is an incredibly vivid coma dream.”

James stepped into the moonlight now, abandoning all pretence of subtlety. His features were clearer up close: the sharp line of his jaw, the ever-so-slight hook of his nose, the same as Harry's, the way his brow furrowed not in anger, but thought.

“You’ve been out for four days,” he said, tone lighter than his eyes. “Didn’t think you’d wake up just in time to take the piss.”

“Timing is everything,” Harry murmured, then tilted his head slightly. “You were lurking.”

James flinched, the tips of his ears flushing red.

“Was not.”

Harry raised an eyebrow.

Harry watched the man straighten like he’d been caught nicking biscuits from the kitchen.

“I wasn’t lurking,” James said, too quickly. “I was-- I’m standing guard.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?” Harry croaked, trying for levity. But then he considered, of course Dumbledore had someone guarding him. Making sure he was just a harmless bystander.

James crossed the room in a few strides, his expression half sheepish, half defensive. “Well, someone had to. You were unconscious and glowing like a damn Patronus. Pomfrey said the wards were fluctuating around you. Thought you might explode or sprout wings or something.”

Harry huffed a laugh, weak but genuine. “Disappointed?”

“A little,” James admitted. “Would’ve been useful. Could’ve ridden you into battle.”

That startled a full grin from Harry-- fleeting, cracked at the edges, but real.

James’s expression softened in response, but something still flickered behind his eyes. Curiosity. Worry. A question held too long in the mouth.

He moved closer now, tension still in his posture, but something else creeping in too, something like curiosity lit with a thread of unease. He was staring again. Not at Harry’s face. Not at his clothes. At his chest.

Or-- more precisely-- just above it.

His eyes widened, wide as cauldrons. "What is that?"

Harry blinked. “Sorry--?”

But James didn’t wait.

He moved to the side of the bed in three quick steps, all hesitation gone. Harry, try as he might, couldn't find the effort deep in his aching bones to move, to flinch back, to grasp at the time-turner, which was the only thing James could've been pointing out. James' fingers hovered in the air, twitching as if he wanted to touch something he couldn’t see and Harry frowned. The other man wasn’t reckless now. He was… entranced.

“There’s-- there’s something,” James muttered, mostly to himself. “I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like… like a string. A thread. I can feel it. It’s pulling.”

Harry’s stomach twisted.

He shifted upward, wincing at the flare of pain in his side. “You can feel it?”

James nodded vigorously, pupils blown wide. “It’s like a heat in my chest. But not mine. It’s yours. Or--” He stopped. “Or maybe it’s both of ours?”

Harry's lips parted.

Oh.

Magic.

His magic-- frayed and scattered and half-sick with time-- was still tethered to something, it would have to be.

And that something was James.

Of course. Of course.

He was his father.

Somewhere, somehow, their cores had recognised each other. Resonated. It had probably happened just as Harry had landed in that old Muggles backgarden.

A father’s magic reaching for his son’s. A bond that transcended names, timelines, even identity.

Harry stared at him. Speechless.

James misunderstood the silence.

“You don’t know either,” he said, with a sudden rush of excitement, like a man solving a puzzle. “I thought maybe you were… I don’t know. Deliberate. Strategic. But you’re just as confused as I am, aren’t you?”

“Sort of,” Harry said-- because technically, yes, he was.

He wasn’t sure how to explain to his father that their magic was doing what their hearts had already tried: recognising one another through the impossible.

James studied him again, slower now. Calmer. “You had me bloody terrified,” he admitted. “You were pale as parchment and leaking magic like a sieve. Flitwick said it was the worst kind of arcane burnout. Dumbledore said he’s seen war veterans not walk away from less.”

Harry exhaled, slow and shallow. “Surprised you didn’t just send me packing. I’m a stranger. Unconscious one, at that.”

James looked at him for a long moment.

Then: “You don’t feel like a stranger.”

Harry froze.

The words hit like wind through an open door.

“You don’t look familiar,” James said, scratching the back of his neck. “But it’s… it’s in the gut. I know you’re one of the good ones.”

Harry’s throat tightened.

James ran a hand through his hair, mussing it further-- as if that were possible. “Look… I'm sure you don’t want to talk about it. Whatever it is. And that’s fine. But you’ve been out for days. Days. And when you woke up, you were still crackling with power.”

He hesitated, then added, quieter, “We didn’t even know your name.”

Harry looked away.

James stepped around to the side of the bed, arms folded, head tilted just slightly. He didn’t sit.

Didn’t press.

But he didn’t leave either.

Eventually, Harry sighed, fighting against his moral mindset and Hermione's voice ringing in his ears. “Rigel.”

James blinked. “What?”

Harry looked back. “My name. It’s Rigel Sayre.”

James rolled the syllables around his mouth like he was tasting them. “Sayre. That’s… old magic. Pure-blood, I think?”

Harry gave a loose shrug. “Sort of. Maternal line. My mother was magical. My father… wasn’t.”

James nodded, slow. “British?”

Harry hesitated.

Then: “Yeah. Father was British. I grew up in Massachusetts.”

James lifted his eyebrows. “That explains the accent.”

Harry gave him a sideways glance, long and confused. “I don’t have an accent.”

James smirked. “You sound like someone trying not to have one. It’s adorable, really.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but was inwardly pleased. He wondered if James just hadn't met anyone from Surrey who'd grown up with Miss Posh-As-You-Like-Cotswolds-Born-And-Bred Hermione Granger before. 

James leaned against the bedpost now, comfortable but still watching. “So. Why come here? To Britain?”

Harry picked at a loose thread on the blanket. “My mother died recently. Dragon pox." 

There was a pause.

Harry glanced up and caught a flicker-- a tight twitch in James’s jaw, a sudden darkness behind the eyes.

Harry’s brow creased. “Uh, are you alright?”

James blinked, then cleared his throat and looked away, scrubbing a hand through his already tragic hair. “Yeah. No... I mean, yes, I’m fine. I just--” He exhaled slowly, voice low. “I lost my parents to dragon pox too. Not long ago.”

Harry went still.

The air in the room shifted; soft, sad, reverent.

“Oh,” he said quietly. “I… I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

James waved a hand, like he didn’t know what to do with the grief. “How could you, we just met. But, thanks. It’s-- yeah. I still don’t think it feels real. One minute you’re writing home, and the next…” He trailed off, then gave a hollow sort of laugh. “It’s stupid. You’d think when they get older and you see other people your age losing their parents, you’d be braced for the worst. But it still knocked the wind out of me.”

Harry swallowed hard. Something in his chest, not his heart, but deeper, throbbed.

“You were close with them?” he asked.

James nodded. “Yeah. Very. Mum was the kind of person who sent three care packages a week, even when I told her I didn’t need more chocolate frogs or Quidditch socks. And Dad--" his voice turned a little softer, wistful, "he used to keep clippings of every single match I played in. I think he had a scrapbook going.”

Harry laughed quietly, more breath than sound, but it caught on something sharp inside him.

He didn’t know this.

He hadn’t known any of this.

He’d never seen his grandparents. Never heard their voices. Never even thought to imagine them as anything more than faceless figures on a missing branch of his family tree.

And now here was James, young and aching, speaking of them like they’d just walked out of the room.

“Your mum,” Harry said, careful, quiet. “What was she like?”

James blinked at him, surprised. “Mum? Oh-- brilliant. Terrifying, but brilliant. She could quiet a room with one eyebrow and take down a broomstick thief with the other.”

Harry’s chest clenched.

James smiled faintly at the memory. “She was also the kind of person who’d sit up all night brewing pepper-up for sick neighbours. Never turned anyone away. If you stepped inside her kitchen, you’d leave with something wrapped in parchment and a recipe you didn’t ask for.”

Harry swallowed, hard. He nodded like he was fine, but his throat was closing in.

“And your dad?”

“Fleamont Potter,” James said, the name both proud and amused. “The most patient man alive. Mum was the storm; he was the harbour. Always knew what to say. Taught me how to fix a wand core when it splinters-- said you should always know how to mend what you rely on.”

Harry felt tears pricking at the corners of his eyes before he even realised they were coming. He blinked them back.

He would never meet them.

Not really. Not alive.

Not in a world where they’d bake for him or wrap up scarves in winter or show him how to fix the tools of magic by hand. They were gone long before he was born-- and James had lost them too soon.

But here they were, painted in memory, alive in this moment. And Harry clung to it, quietly, like a gift he hadn’t expected to receive.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

James tilted his head. “For what?”

“For telling me about them.”

James smiled-- a small, honest thing. “Yeah,” he said. "Thank you for asking.”

Harry looked down again at his hands and let himself feel the ache of it. Of what could never be. Of what almost was.

James didn’t let the silence swallow them.

Instead, after a breath or two, he shifted a little closer to the edge of his chair, elbows on his knees. His voice was quiet. “So, your turn. Your mum… what was she like?”

The world tilted just slightly. Harry felt it in his ribs first, the sharp pressure of a truth he couldn’t tell pressing against a lie he hadn’t fully rehearsed. He hesitated, hands fisting in the blanket, heart thudding so loud it might’ve been a footfall.

“I--” He licked his lips, felt his throat dry out. “My mum…”

He stalled.

James watched him with quiet patience, waiting.

And then something clicked. Not with panic this time, but with grace. Like the answer had always been there, tucked in the centre of him, waiting for this moment.

Harry let out a shaky breath.

“My mum’s name was Hermione.”

Harry looked at him. For a moment, he almost said it plainly: Hermione Granger. The woman who had kept him alive with books and logic and stubborn, blistering love. But that wasn’t who she was now, not in this lie. Not in this time.

He drew in a slow breath. “She was… brilliant.”

James smiled faintly, leaning into the word. “I'm not surprised."

Harry gave a short, choked laugh. “She was the kind of brilliant that made people nervous. She read everything. Argued with everyone. You’d have hated having a debate with her.”

“Oh yeah?” James grinned. “Think I could’ve held my own.”

“You think you could’ve,” Harry said, lips twitching. “But then she’d eviscerate you in three sentences and a footnote.”

James gave a mock wince. “Alright, maybe I would've hated it.”

They both laughed-- softly, for real-- and the weight of the past seemed to settle between them like something shared, not separate.

“She was... determined,” Harry added after a moment. “Always saw the world like it could be better. Like it should be. She was cautious, too. We lived out of the way, in the woods, mostly. She didn’t trust people easily.”

James nodded slowly. “Can’t blame her. People don’t always know what to do with bright women who speak their minds.”

Harry looked at him, really looked at him, and something in his chest eased. He hadn’t expected that from James. Not the softness. Not the seeing.

“She taught me everything I know,” Harry said. “And still made me feel like I figured it out myself.”

James gave a small smile. “That’s a rare kind of person.”

“Yeah.”

Harry stared down at his hands. Callused knuckles. Faint scars. They felt like borrowed hands, some days. Like they didn’t belong to a boy who’d ever known comfort.

“I haven’t really let myself think about her lately,” he admitted. “I’ve been too busy trying to survive.”

James’s voice was gentle. “And now?”

“Now…” Harry shrugged. “It’s quieter here. Harder to ignore.”

James was silent for a beat. Then he said, “It’s strange.”

“What is?”

“That I feel like you get it. Everyone was kind after my parents died; kind, but careful. No one wanted to poke the bruise. But you don’t talk around it. You talk into it.”

Harry swallowed. “It hurts less when someone else has the same kind of pain.”

James nodded. “Exactly.”

He leaned back, letting the silence linger, not awkward, but full.

After a while, he said, “And your dad?"

Harry hesitated. His mind flashed, unbidden, to Arthur Weasley's kind eyes, warm and tired and full of quiet understanding. To Remus suited up in his tattered robes, with haunted eyes and kindness buried under grief. To his Dumbledore's voice that said “you are not a bad person”, when Harry had almost believed he was. To a wild laugh in the night, and a Godfather who gave him hope when all felt lost. And Ron in his trademark red jumper, standing beside him through everything, always ready to fight, or run, depending on what Harry needed most.

“I remember pieces about him,” Harry said at last. “Not much. A hand on my shoulder. The smell of smoke and peppermint. A voice I can’t quite place anymore.”

James looked at him like he knew that kind of memory. Like he’d lived with it too.

“But I had others,” Harry added. “People who stepped in and showed me how to fix things. They made me laugh when I wanted to disappear, told me the truth when I didn’t want to hear it.”

James’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Sounds like you had a village.”

“Something like that,” Harry said. “Though half of them were just barely keeping it together themselves.”

He gave a crooked smile. “One of them… he always had his sleeves rolled up, hands covered in grease, always fixing something. And another, he gave speeches without meaning to, riddles almost. He had a habit of making you feel like the world was bigger than your fear.”

“Sounds like characters out of a novel,” James said.

“They were better than that,” Harry said quietly. “Because they stayed. Even when they could’ve left.”

Then, even quieter, Harry said, “I miss them.”

James didn’t answer right away. Then, with the same softness he’d held the whole night, he said, “I think… they’d be proud. You talk like someone who was loved. You carry it.”

Harry looked at him.

“I think they’d want you to keep going,” James added. “Even when it hurts.”

Harry swallowed against the weight in his chest. “Yeah,” he said. “I think so too.”

There was a pause. Not a heavy one this time, more the kind that came after something true had been said.

Then Harry sniffed once, rubbed the side of his nose, and said, “Right, well. That’s probably the most emotionally open I’ve been in years. You’re welcome.”

James huffed a quiet laugh. “Good to know I’ve got a gift for cracking tragic loners wide open.”

Harry smirked. “Only on Thursdays.”

“It’s Tuesday.”

“Well, I’m emotionally delayed. Comes with the trauma.”

James grinned at that, not wide, but real.

And maybe it was that grin, or the looseness in the air now, or maybe just the fact that Harry couldn’t stop himself, but something rose up in him like a dare.

He didn’t ask what he should’ve asked.

Instead, he asked, rather bravely, rather randomly, “Do you think she’d have liked me? Your mum?”

James considered him for a moment. He didn't seem confused or taken aback by the question. Just thoughtful.

Then nodded. “Yeah. I think she would’ve taken one look at you and asked if you were eating enough. Then she’d adopt you without asking.”

Harry laughed. Properly, this time. The sound was cracked and a little wet, but it was real.

The warmth of it lingered between them for a moment, a shared breath, a flicker of light in the dark, and then, slowly, it faded. The quiet settled back in.

Harry’s eyes dropped to the edge of the blanket. His fingers resumed their restless picking, more thoughtful now than anxious.

James sighed deeply and then dropped slowly into the visitors chair next to the bed. "So, before we got all melancholy, you were saying... about the reason you came to Britain. After your mum...."

“Oh, yeah. Well, after that…” Harry said, quieter, “I just thought I’d come find my father’s roots.”

And Harry, not knowing what else to do, kept talking.

“I didn’t expect a war. Didn’t know the world had gone sideways.”

James’s jaw tightened. His voice was quiet. “It has. And we’re all just trying to hold the line.”

There was a pause-- long enough for the weight of it to settle.

Then Harry said, carefully, “Must be hard. Not knowing who to trust.”

James’s eyes flicked toward him. Sharp. A touch too sharp.

But then: “It is.”

Another breath passed.

“That’s why we trust each other,” James said, softer now. “Dumbledore. The Order. The ones who stay. Who fight. We don’t have the luxury of doubt anymore.”

Harry felt the words coil through him like smoke. He understood. That's exactly how it had been when Voldemort had risen again in his time. 

Instead of showing too much recognition, Harry nodded, slowly. “Sounds like something you’d put on a poster. Very ominous.”

James snorted. “There’s not enough paper in Britain to fit how ominous it actually is.”

Harry glanced at him sidelong. “So, the Order. That’s what you called it?”

James stilled.

The change was subtle, but Harry clocked it-- the minute freeze of his spine, the half-second delay in response, like someone caught slipping on ice.

“Shit,” James muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “I probably shouldn’t have-- look, just-- forget I said that.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, privately enormously pleased with James' slip up. “That’s not how conversation works, mate.”

James groaned. “Yeah, well, I’m not exactly trained for this.”

“Could’ve fooled me. Very cloak-and-dagger.”

James squinted at him. “You mocking me, Sayre?”

“I’m lying in a hospital bed with, apparently, a war outside. I’m allowed a little sarcasm.”

That earned a short laugh from James, but it faded fast. “Honestly, Dumbledore wanted to talk to you himself. Said we should wait before, you know… recruiting.”

Harry blinked, a thrum ran through him. Panic... no. Anticipation. “Recruiting?”

James gave a tight smile. “What, you didn’t think the dramatic firestorm spell didn’t make an impression?”

“Thought I was more of a health hazard, really.”

James laughed again, but this time it was tinged with something darker. “You’re something, alright.”

Harry ignored this and tilted his head, watching him. “So. This Order.”

James shifted, as if weighing how deep into this he already was. “It’s… complicated.”

“That always means it’s about to be dangerous.”

“You’re not wrong,” James said. “It’s not some student club, it’s resistance. Against the people the Ministry pretends don’t exist. We hit back. We protect civilians. We get people out before it’s too late.”

Harry let that sink in. Still let it hit like history unwritten.

James added, quieter now, “Some people think we’re just myth. Something kids whisper about at school. But the ones who matter? They know.”

Harry nodded, absorbing, thinking fast.

“And I don’t know who you really are, Rigel Sayre,” James continued, voice low. “But my magic says you’re one of us.”

Harry looked down at his hands. One finger curled slightly over the edge of his blanket. Beneath the bandages on his chest, the time-turner pulsed. A faint thrum, like it was waiting to remind him of the cost of being here.

He ignored it.

“What did you mean,” Harry asked, voice steadier now, “about trusting each other? You seemed... unsure."

James cursed under his breath. “Bloody hell. I did, didn’t I.”

Harry gave him a look. “You’re terrible at secrets.”

James groaned again. “Look, I’m not supposed to-- Dumbledore wanted to be the one to talk to you. Said your magic was… complicated. Said you might be dangerous.”

“Charming.”

“Well,” James amended, “dangerous to the wrong people. The rest of us? You’re just… strange. But in a good way.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “You’re not making this better.”

“I’m not trying to,” James admitted, dragging a hand through his already tragic hair. “I don’t know what it is about you. You’re easy to talk to. Too easy. It’s like-- I feel like I’ve known you for years.”

Harry blinked. His throat tightened, and he dared: “Maybe you have.”

James huffed a laugh and rolled his eyes. “I reckon I'd remember you, pal. You know what I mean.”

Harry offered a faint, evasive smile. “Sure.”

James looked like he wanted to press, to make sure Harry understood, but he didn’t.

“So this Order thing,” Harry said instead, redirecting smoothly, “how do you even know who to trust?”

“You don’t,” James said, without flinching. “That’s the point. You trust Dumbledore, and Dumbledore trusts them. That’s the line.”

Harry nodded slowly. “Sounds fragile.” It did now, and it did in Harry's fifth year when the Order had reunited.

James shrugged. “So is the world.”

There was a long moment where neither spoke. Then James said, half to himself, “Still can’t believe what you pulled off in that village.”

Harry gave a noncommittal hum. “Adrenaline’s a hell of a thing.”

“Oh, no doubt,” James said, voice suddenly bright with laughter. “Especially when used in combination with spitting in someone’s eye.”

Harry stiffened. “I’m sorry-- what?”

James grinned. “Oh, come on. You don’t remember Tyiron Yaxley?”

“I try not to memorise the names of people I incinerate.”

James leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes gleaming. “You didn’t incinerate him. You humiliated him. Dumbledore said he’s been unable to maintain eye contact since. And I quote, ‘the sting lingers magically and emotionally.’”

Harry stared. “Dumbledore said that?” The familiarity with which the Headmaster's name fell out of his mouth went unnoticed by James.

“Well, more or less.” James smirked. “With more lengthy adjectives.”

“And how, exactly, does he know?”

James’s grin widened. “Let’s just say… Dumbledore took a little peek.”

Harry stared harder. James really was terrible with secrets.

“Legilimency,” James clarified. “He’s… proficient.”

Harry managed a frown. He felt a thrum run through him at his next lie. “That’s a thing?”

“Oh yeah. I mean, I can’t do it. I can barely keep my thoughts to myself in normal conversation. But Dumbledore? Whole other league.”

Harry feigned mild horror. “So you’re telling me the world’s most powerful wizard is out there casually snooping through people’s brains?”

“Casually?” James repeated. “No. Strategically? Absolutely.”

Harry blinked. “Sounds reassuring.”

“Welcome to the war,” James said with a dry smile.

Harry narrowed his eyes. “So… this is all just part of the Order’s standard training package? Mental invasions and spit-related warfare?”

James spread his hands. “We’re versatile.”

“You mean chaotic.”

James tilted his head. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I’m saying it like someone who’s definitely never signing up for anything you’re recruiting for.”

“Sure you aren’t,” James said easily. “Except you already did.”

Harry frowned. “When?”

James smiled. “When you stood your ground, when you didn’t run. When you protected those kids before you protected yourself.”

Harry’s throat closed. "I could never have left them." 

James nodded like he knew this about Harry from their conversation alone. 

“You already chose your side, Sayre,” James said, quietly now. “Whether you know it or not.”

A new, quieter voice suddenly interrupted, calm and smooth as riverstone.

“And that,” said the voice from the doorway, “is the wisest thing I’ve heard all evening.”

James jumped to his feet so fast he nearly toppled the chair. “Professor!”

Harry turned his head toward the man, already knowing. Already feeling the shift in the air-- not quite heavier, but different. Not electric like before, when Dumbledore had first arrived in that burning village like a storm dressed in starlight, but... quieter now. Controlled.

Contained.

Albus Dumbledore stepped into the moonlight like it wasn’t surprising that the moon bent itself toward him. He was tall, still imposing and appeared more like a general than a Headmaster; robes layered in mismatched fabrics, all richly embroidered and subtly fraying. His outer cloak was the colour of dried lavender, scattered with little cauldrons that burped bubbles every few steps.

Still, there were signs of strain. His eyes were sharp but shadowed. Not tired exactly, Dumbledore never seemed tired, even in the nineties, but taut, as though everything about him had been wound too tightly and he’d forgotten how to release the tension. There were lines in his face Harry didn’t remember, grooves carved not by time, but by burden.

And yet the eyes... those same blue eyes, still held a depth Harry couldn't name. They shimmered with withheld storms and secrets, kindness wrapped in calculation.

Harry felt the difference in him immediately. He wasn’t the man who’d sent him to die, not yet.

But he would be.

Dumbledore glanced at James with a raised brow. “I do believe I asked you not to overwhelm our guest.”

James coughed. “Technically, sir, I was guarding him. He just asked questions. I… answered.”

Dumbledore’s gaze slid sideways with a glint of dry humour. “And how many secrets did you spill in the name of hospitality?”

James winced. “Not all of them?”

Dumbledore didn’t press. Instead, his attention turned to Harry.

Their eyes met.

James cleared his throat and gave Harry a sideways look. “Er. I’ll just-- give you a moment.”

“Stay,” Dumbledore said gently, not unkind. “You’ve already said quite a lot, haven’t you?”

James winced and sank back into the chair, appropriately chastened.

Harry watched them both, heart thudding. This Dumbledore wasn’t his Dumbledore-- but he was. The bones of him were the same. The warmth, the sharpness. The strange, infuriating way he already seemed to know everything without asking.

But he wasn’t the man Harry had watched fall from a tower. He hadn’t stood trial for the lives lost to the Hallows. He hadn’t raised Harry like a weapon.

This man still had hope, Harry mused.

Still had time to make different choices.

Maybe he would. 

Maybe, he could. 

Dumbledore’s eyes turned to him, kind but calculating. And Harry, for all his lying, all his restraint, found himself wanting-- dangerously-- to be known.

The Headmaster stepped closer, not threatening, just… present. Inescapable, like gravity.

James shifted in place, fidgeting slightly. Harry simply watched.

Dumbledore stepped forward, hands folded behind his back, his robes trailing quietly over stone.

“I must apologise,” he said, voice mild but edged with something wry. “It seems Mr. Potter here has a rather… independent sense of timing.”

James cleared his throat, looked away.

“I had hoped to speak with you myself once your core had fully stabilised,” Dumbledore went on. “Give you time to find your footing before setting it aflame once more.”

Harry cleared his throat-- still raw-- and said, “Appreciate the sentiment. Bit late for footing, though. I think I tripped halfway in.”

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled, faintly, not the exaggerated mischief of the future, but something older, quieter. Like a man amused despite the war.

“Perhaps,” he said. “But it is how one rises after the stumble that matters.”

He stepped closer now, the light catching along the threads of constellation embroidery at his sleeve. Then, voice low and even:

“You’ve made yourself known, Mr. Sayre." Harry didn't stop to question how the man knew his name. "Now the world will start to wonder who you are… and some won’t wait for the answer.”

Dumbledore’s gaze sharpened.

“My question is: how much further are you willing to go?”

Chapter 8: Misplaced in Time: Storytellers and Powerful Names

5th of January, 1996
History of Magic Classroom, Hogwarts Castle, Scotland

Silence.

A long, stunned, gaping silence.

Professor Lupin surveyed the class like a benevolent god surveying a battlefield. He leaned one hip against the edge of his desk, wand spinning lazily between two fingers, eyes dancing with amusement.

The classroom was still frozen-- half a dozen mouths open in disbelief, at least three students blinking like they’d forgotten how. One Hufflepuff boy had gone very pink and was clutching the edge of his chair like it might float him away.

Lupin gave them a beat longer.

Then clapped his hands together. “Right. Questions, comments, emotional outbursts, existential crises. Let’s hear them.”

A few chairs creaked. One student gasped. No one moved.

“Don’t all explode at once,” he said, grinning. “Or do. I’m game either way.”

At the front, Hermione Granger was the first to find her voice. Her hand shot up so fast it was a wonder her shoulder didn’t dislocate.

Lupin pointed at her with his wand. “Ms. Granger. Always a pleasure to be verbally disembowelled. Go on.”

Her curls bounced as she leaned forward, eyes fierce, voice sharp with disbelief. “You’re telling us,” she said, slow and incredulous, “that he--” she pointed sideways without looking at Harry, “-- was sent back in time? Thirty years? With a time-turner?”

Professor Lupin smiled. “I said I was telling you a story, Hermione. Not issuing a Ministry confession.”

She made a strangled sound and threw her hands in the air.

Sat on the row behind her, Ron Weasley leaned back in his chair with wide eyes and a vague look of betrayal. “Mate,” he said, staring at Harry sat next to him, “did you know this? Because I didn’t know this. I would’ve remembered this.”

Harry did not answer.

Mostly because Harry looked like someone had taken his brain out, turned it upside down, and politely handed it back without the instructions.

He was sitting very still, knuckles white where they gripped the edge of the table. His mouth was slightly open. His eyes were fixed somewhere in the middle distance, like he wasn’t entirely in the room anymore.

He looked… stunned.

Terrified.

A little seasick.

He watched him from the desk, sobered for a moment.

Only a moment.

Hermione’s voice cut through the stunned quiet yet again.

“He went back in time.”

It wasn’t a question. Not really. It sounded almost reverent-- like the idea was too large to look at all at once.

She sat with her spine taut and hands folded carefully in her lap, as though anchoring herself with perfect posture alone. Her eyes shimmered faintly, not with tears, but with the kind of knowledge that ached. Grief held in place by logic, and her softness edged in steel.

Beside her, Ron leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, eyes locked onto Harry with the same look he'd had since Lupin had revealed Rigel Sayre's true name, defiant and disbelieving, but still ready to throw himself between Harry and the worst of it. He didn’t say anything yet, but he didn’t need to.

Neville was pale. He looked like he’d been hit by a confundus. 

Just behind him, Dorcas Lupin, his daughter, was staring at her father with open-mouthed astonishment, as though she wasn’t sure whether to be horrified or impressed.

She swiftly elbowed Arcelia without looking.

Arcelia, spine straight, expression smooth, merely arched a brow in response.

There was a shifting energy in the room now, one he knew how to read.

The tension had snapped, at least partly. Curiosity had crept in.

And Harry-- Harry was just still.

Sitting bolt upright, expression blank but strained at the edges, as if movement might make everything fall apart. As if he, too, was hearing the story for the first time, or reliving it.

Hermione looked between them. Then, very softly, she turned to her Professor.

“But why… why choose Hermione?” she asked. “Why would he pick me as the alias for his mother? Why that name?”

Her voice didn’t waver. But it held the weight of knowing she was asking something important and intimate.

Lupin's smile faltered-- just slightly.

He walked to the edge of his desk, leaning back against it with arms crossed, one boot resting against the other. For a moment, he didn’t answer.

Then: “Because some friendships don’t change, no matter the year.”

He let the words settle. Let them breathe.

“Because in both this timeline, and the 2006 timeline-- he had her.”

He turned toward the class, a little less of the performer now, a little more of the man who’d watched this all occur.

“I want you all to do something,” Lupin said, voice quieter. “Close your eyes.”

There was a collective rustle.

Arcelia didn’t move. Dorcas hesitated, then obeyed. Neville did so immediately, brow creasing. Even Hermione’s lashes fluttered closed after a moment.

But he noticed-- of course he noticed-- that Harry did not.

Nor did Ron.

Lupin's gaze drifted to him. Ron Weasley was still watching over Harry like the story might break him. Not because he didn’t believe it-- no, he saw that trust beneath the furrowed brow-- but because he didn’t trust the story not to hurt his friend.

There was something in Ron’s stare, something almost defiant. Not toward Harry.

Toward Professor Lupin, the storyteller.

He nodded inwardly. Fair enough.

“Imagine,” he said softly, “you’ve been pulled backward through time. No choice. No warning. Dropped in the middle of a war you’ve only ever read about. You’ve lost everything. Everyone. And the one rule, the only rule, is that you mustn’t tell anyone who you are.”

A stillness fell over the room.

“You mustn’t speak your name. Not your real one. Not where you’re from. Not who you love. And yet, there are people; faces that remind you of home. People who… who don’t know you, not really, but who still look at you like they might.”

He let that hang.

“Now imagine you need a name. Any name. You look for something safe. Something that makes you feel like yourself again. Something that roots you.”

He glanced at Hermione.

“Harry chose the one person who had always known how to steady him. To challenge him. To believe in him. Even when he didn’t believe in himself.”

Hermione’s breath hitched, eyes still closed.

Lupin smiled faintly. “He chose Hermione Granger. Even in 1979. Even when she didn’t exist yet.”

Hermione slowly opened her eyes, along with the rest of the class, and blinked quickly. Her cheeks were pink, but her eyes didn’t leave his. Lupin noticed her shuffle slightly to the right, and noticed as she leant back, forcing her arm awkwardly behind her, suddenly gripping Harry's hand like if she let go, he'd be transported away from her.

Then-- quietly, from the back-- a voice:

“Why?”

Heads turned.

It was a boy near the edge of the Slytherin side, dark curly hair curling against his cheekbones, green tie loosely knotted. He had a sharp, thoughtful face and the air of someone used to watching before speaking.

He’d been silent the whole time. Even now, he didn’t raise his hand. Just looked at Sirius and said:

“Why help those people? The ones in the village. Why risk being seen?”

Lupin didn’t say his name.

Theodore Nott was not the boy his father had raised in the old world. Not here. Not now. He was just a boy asking questions. And Rigel Sayre had asked the Professor not to say the name of the original perpetrator who sent him back aloud.

“Because he couldn’t not help,” He said, simply. “Because it’s who he is.”

“That’s not a strategy,” said Nott.

“No,” Lupin agreed. “It’s a choice.”

The boy leaned back, considering that. He didn’t respond, but he didn’t look away, either.

Lupin turned back to the rest of the class.

“You’ve heard a lot,” he said. “I know. But this is only the beginning. You’re living in a world built by a thousand impossible choices. By one man trying not to break the future while still saving the present.”

He looked to Arcelia then-- his voice gentled.

“And some legacies take root even when you don’t know they’ve started.”

She didn’t look away, but she didn’t speak either. Her arms were still folded. Still braced. But her expression flickered, just once.

Then Hermione’s hand rose again.

“What happened next?” she asked. “After Dumbledore asked him how far he was willing to go?”

The History Professor raised a brow, lips twitching.

“Ah,” he said. “Now that’s where it really starts.”

And the room leaned forward as one.

Ready. Waiting.

Harry still hadn’t spoken.

But he was listening.

And Sirius Orion Lupin would tell it all.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

4th of January, 1979
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Hospital Wing

The silence after Dumbledore’s words stretched like taut wire.

Harry didn’t answer.

He didn’t even breathe, not properly.

Because the truth was-- he didn’t know.

How far was he willing to go?

The question burned like salt in an open wound.

He sat back against the infirmary pillows, the blanket clutched tighter in his fists than he meant. His pulse fluttered like trapped wings. His body had stopped aching in the conventional sense, but there was still something hollowed out inside him, something that hadn’t stopped echoing since the fire, since the blood, since Dumbledore looked at him like a mystery waiting to be weaponised.

He could feel both their eyes on him.

Dumbledore’s: sharp, steady, full of some impossible patience.

James’: more immediate, more human. Hopeful and naïve in the way only someone on the brink of horror could be.

They were waiting.

He wasn’t ready.

His thoughts tumbled like stones in a river.

If he joined the Order… if he accepted this offer, this unspoken invitation, then that was it. He was choosing a side. Not just morally, he’d already done that, but permanently. Actively. Tactically. He’d be stepping into the very marrow of history, letting it reshape itself around him.

But he’d already changed it, hadn’t he?

He’d forced Lily's hand, increasing the speed in which she received her Mastery, he was fairly sure in his own timeline she'd never managed to officially achieve it. He’d laid his soul bare with James, and vice versa. He’d fought before the future dead and burned his name into their skies.

The past had already bent around him like a struck tuning fork.

Would it ever stop ringing?

What happens if I leave now? he wondered.

If he ran, if he vanished, if he took the time-turner and found some scrap of his own time again, what would they do?

What would James think, waking up the next day to find him gone without explanation?

What would Lily say? What would Dumbledore do?

They’d question, no doubt about it. They’d investigate. They’d turn over every stone trying to understand what he was. And maybe, maybe, they’d figure it out.

They’d know the truth.

And that-- that would change everything even more.

But if he stayed…

If he stayed, he could try to contain it. Shape it. He could aim his interference like a blade instead of a bomb.

He could try.

But Merlin, wasn’t that arrogant?

Wasn’t that exactly the kind of thinking that led to chaos?

Harry’s eyes flicked toward the edge of the blanket. Beneath it, the time-turner pressed cold and still against his skin.

It hadn't pulsed since James had sat at his bedside. It was as if it too was waiting.

He exhaled. Shallow, and careful.

James cleared his throat awkwardly from the chair. “No pressure, mate, obviously. Just, y’know… if you were thinking of joining… there’s tea. And biscuits. And explosions. Pretty solid deal.”

Harry huffed a weak laugh despite himself.

And Dumbledore…

Dumbledore didn’t say anything.

He just watched.

Not unkindly, but with a weight Harry recognised far too well: the gaze of a man measuring consequences, not people.

Harry swallowed.

The truth was, he’d already made the choice, long ago. The moment he chose Potter Cottage as his safe house. The moment he engaged with Remus more than the permitted 'how do you do'. The moment he walked into the pub. The moment he chose to save those children in the street. The moment he listened to Lily calling him brave. The moment he gave himself a name that wasn’t his.

He was already in.

The rest was just pretending.

Still--

He closed his eyes.

If I go back now, it won’t be the same.

He knew it.

Knew it in his blood.

The world he left had already started to unravel the moment he fell into this one. And the version he’d return to, if he ever managed to, wouldn’t be the one he’d fought so hard to survive. The threads were different now. Pulled. Twisted. Some already cut.

He thought of the way James had looked at him.

Not with suspicion.

With something else. Something like…

Recognition.

The idea of returning to a world where that never happened, where that connection was a ghost instead of a memory, that hurt in ways he hadn’t prepared for.

He opened his eyes again.

James gave him a tentative smile. Encouraging. Bracing.

Dumbledore was silent still. Patient.

Harry turned his head slightly. Looked past both of them, to the far wall. There was a portrait there, a young witch in a flowing cloak holding a thistle between her fingers. She winked at him.

He smiled faintly.

And then said, quietly, but with clarity:

“Give me a day.”

James blinked. “A day?”

“I just need to… walk.” He swallowed. “Think.”

Dumbledore inclined his head slightly. “Take the time you need, Mr. Sayre. We are not in the habit of forcing hands.”

Harry looked at him.

“Only offering choices,” Dumbledore added, voice mild.

Harry met his gaze.

And didn’t look away.

Not yet.

Because he already knew the answer. He just wasn’t ready to admit it out loud.

Not until he’d seen what this version of Hogwarts really looked like.

Not until he’d walked its war-shadowed halls.

Not until he knew what exactly he was choosing to protect.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

5th of January, 1979
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, West Corridor 

He hadn’t slept.

Or maybe he had, for a few hours, before the dreams began again-- flashes of ash and fire, of spells hurled like screams, of James reaching for him across some impossible chasm. He wasn’t sure.

But the next morning, the sun rose just the same, and Madam Pomfrey had declared, after much clucking and wand-waving, that if he could stand on his own two feet without falling over, he was free to go.

She fussed over him like she was preparing him for battle. Offered him a cane.

“A cane?” Harry echoed, appalled. He thanked Merlin that he hadn't run into Remus yet, and he would be damned if potentially the first time he may see the man outside of Quiet A Few Books was with cane in hand. Not after that special joke he'd made about running a cocaine/cane company out of the back of the bookstore.

“A precaution,” Pomfrey said firmly. “You’re still recovering from arcane burnout. Don’t act like it’s an insult. Professor Dumbledore himself carried one for a full month after the Cimmerian backlash of ’62.”

Harry gave her a look of such profound betrayal that she huffed and snatched the cane back.

“Well then,” she said. “Off with you.”

James had appeared at the door not a minute later, hair a complete mess and grinning like he was already halfway through the tour in his mind. “Thought I’d walk you round a bit. Hogwarts is… well. It’s Hogwarts.”

But before Harry could respond, another voice, amused and drifting, interrupted.

“I believe,” said Dumbledore, who had seemingly shimmered directly into existence on the threshold like a particularly elegant haunting, “that the first walk through this castle ought to be done alone.”

James blinked. “Sir?”

Dumbledore smiled, distant and a little too knowing. “There is no better way to learn Hogwarts than to wander her without a map. She keeps her secrets close, but she likes to reveal them to the curious.” He turned to Harry, and added, “I once found a cupboard that turned into a rather unpleasant labyrinth if you opened it with your left hand. Two weeks I was gone. Missed three exams. Best fortnight of my schooling.”

Harry blinked.

Dumbledore continued cheerfully, “It was a maze of uncertainty and poor choices, all very contagious good fun.”

Harry huffed, half in disbelief. But it worked and the air loosened around them.

And so, an hour later, Harry found himself walking the halls of Hogwarts for the first time for the second time.

He walked slowly, thoughtfully. His footsteps echoing against stone older than memory.

The corridors were quieter than he remembered.

Not empty-- but still.

Everywhere he looked, Hogwarts breathed war.

The difference was subtle if you didn’t know what you were looking for, but Harry did. He’d lived through it once and he knew how fear hung in the rafters like soot. How whispering students could sound like sirens, how laughter became something sharp-edged, carried in quick bursts before vanishing.

The portraits whispered more than they talked. The ghosts moved with purpose. The suits of armour hadn’t creaked once-- because they were standing at attention.

The students he passed walked in pairs. No one moved alone. Some kept their heads low, others glanced around corners before turning them. A few huddled near doorways, whispering in sharp, tense bursts before breaking apart again.

Yes, it was Hogwarts before the protection charms had hardened into barricades. Before Umbridge’s sickly pink horror show, before the Room of Requirement became a sanctuary for the desperate. But already, the new war had crept in.

He noticed new wards, reinforced ones, that were anchored along the ceiling joints and over windows. They weren't visible to the naked eye, but he could feel them-- the faint pressure in the air, the hum of defensive magic built into the mortar. Layers of enchantment laid thick like chainmail.

There were duelling dummies tucked into the side of the Great Hall, half-covered in tarps. A stack of practice shields leaned beside the door. Overhead, the banners fluttered listlessly in an enchanted breeze that didn’t match the season.

Everything was still Hogwarts.

But not quite.

The tension was familiar, eerily so.

This was what it had felt like, too, in his own time, when Voldemort returned. The same quiet dread, the same careful movements. The castle had learned by then, however, and remembered. It knew how to protect its students in 1997. It was still learning in 1979.

He passed through the long corridor outside the library. Light spilled through the high windows, fractured and golden, turning dust motes into glitter. The castle felt older here, or maybe just quieter, like it recalled what had been before the war had started, and hadn’t decided yet whether to mourn it or not.

Just past the doors of the library, he passed a pair of Ravenclaw girls. They looked up as he walked by, eyes catching on his face, just briefly. Their conversation stilled for a second. One of them, a short girl with a thick braid, offered him a nervous half-smile. The other just stared.

He kept walking.

He couldn’t blame them, he remembered how fast Hogwarts gossip travelled.

Back in his time, someone once sneezed in the Slytherin common room and by breakfast it had evolved into a story about magical pollen warfare. A stranger wandering the halls alone? Please. That was practically begging for six new conspiracy theories and a love triangle.

He caught a few more sideways glances, sharp and curious seventh years, uncertain sixth and fifth years, the terrified younger years. The students all murmured to each other as he passed. He didn’t know if they knew who he was. Probably not.

Only the Order knew. Only they could know.

The Ministry would be calling the village incident an authorised operation. No mention of a man in a dark cloak wielding blue lightning. No whispers of a storm. Just another casualty in a growing war.

But here… he was a stranger, and strangers in Hogwarts were never ignored.

He didn’t blame them.

Harry kept walking, trying to breathe. Trying to think.

He didn’t know how long he wandered.

He found himself on the third floor at one point, near the old broom cupboard where Ron and Hermione had once hidden from a particularly nosy Peeves. He passed the Charms corridor, the window that looked out over the lake, the spiral stair that led toward Divination. The air smelled the same. Old parchment. Stone. Wand polish and autumn wind, even in winter.

He paused by a window, watching the snow swirl over the distant hills. Beyond them lay the world, the real one. The dangerous one. The one still clawing at the door.

And the decision burned in him like frostbite.

He leaned a shoulder against the stone frame, fingers curling slightly at his side.

If he said yes-- truly said yes-- there was no walking it back.

He’d be part of it. The Order. The original Order. The war. The first war. He would join the effort to hold the line before it shattered.

And every action he took might nudge the world further from what it was meant to be.

But what did meant to be even mean anymore?

He had already changed things. Changed people. Changed timelines.

James had smiled at him like a brother.

Lily had risked arcane collapse (whatever that meant) to keep him breathing.

Dumbledore had given him a choice.

A real one.

If he vanished now, if he disappeared from this place, the hole would be too strange, too conspicuous. They would look for him. Maybe they would find him. Maybe the truth would spill anyway. Maybe he’d done more damage by being here than by choosing to stay.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

WWHGD?

What would Hermione Granger do?

She’d scold him, probably. Rattle off the dangers. Quote at least two books and threaten to burn a third.

But she’d stay.

Because Hermione Granger did not run from things that mattered.

She’d find a way to fix what could be fixed. Protect who could be protected. Make the choice, even when it broke her, because it was right.

She would stay.

She would organise.

She would catalogue every risk, every probability, and she would still stand at the front of the line, wand raised, trembling with purpose.

He opened his eyes again.

She would stay, she would always stay.

So, so would he.

Because it was already done. The moment he stepped into that Muggle man's back garden, the moment he saw those eery white masks. It was already done.

Harry Potter would fight.

Even if the war didn’t know him yet.

Even if the world forgot.

He would still choose to stand.

Harry exhaled, sharp and low.

He thought of Lily’s laugh.

Of James’ grin and terrible hair, and terrible lying.

Of Dumbledore’s gaze, weighing him not as a boy, but as a possibility. As a weapon. As an ally.

He thought of the children in that village. The ones he saved. The ones he couldn’t.

He thought of a world that might already be better, just because he was in it.

And for the first time since he arrived, he stopped thinking about going home.

Maybe it didn’t exist anymore. Not the way he remembered it.

Maybe it never had.

But this place-- this time-- this war-- he could do something here.

He would do something here.

He turned from the window.

He knew exactly where he was walking.

Harry breathed in, slow and deliberate, as if the castle’s air itself could anchor him. Then he stepped forward-- first one foot, then the other-- and didn’t stop.

His boots made soft sounds against the worn stone, scuffed and warmed by centuries of student feet. The air had that faint, clove-and-chalk scent particular to Hogwarts: parchment and magic and a memory of sunlight trapped in stone.

He didn’t pass any more students. Just the halls, quiet and long, the shadows shifting slowly like the castle was watching.

Hogwarts felt… taut. Like something pulled too tight for too long. The portraits along the walls had a more vivid look than usual. Not vibrant, exactly, but... awake. As if they’d stopped dozing in the half-century hum of routine and now leaned forward on their canvas elbows to peer after him.

A witch in a ruffled collar blew him a kiss and asked if he was the new Astronomy professor.

“Sadly not,” Harry said without stopping. “I don’t like the stars much these days. They’re smug.”

A medieval knight doffed his helmet and bowed as Harry passed.

Another portrait, a dashing man with a monocle and an indecent smirk, sighed dramatically. “You’ve got the look of scandal, young man. Tell me, are you spoken for?”

“Scandal’s spoken for me,” Harry murmured, and kept walking.

He didn’t slow down. Didn’t want to. Not out of fear, he knew now that he wouldn’t change his mind, but out of something sharper: momentum. The kind that pulled you toward something inevitable, like gravity made of magic.

And still, he walked.

He passed staircases that didn't creak the way he was used to. Walls that should have held doors, but didn’t-- not yet. Armour that seemed to shift just slightly when he looked away. The whole castle wore its youth like a tight coat, not broken in, not yet familiar. It wasn’t his Hogwarts, not quite. But it was trying.

Beneath it all, it was still her.

The same stones. The same bones. The same heart.

He turned a corner-- and stopped.

The corridor ahead curved wide, a stretch he didn’t remember. Which was odd, because he’d held the Marauder’s Map for years, had studied it immensely whilst on the run. He knew this castle better than he knew himself.

But this hall wasn’t on any map he remembered.

It was empty. Silent.

Lit with watery light filtering in through high-arched windows on the right, tall enough to swallow a man whole. And outside-- oh, outside the view sang.

The lake stretched below, its surface silver-dark and trembling with wind. Trees fringed its far edge like a crown, the Forbidden Forest rustling softly in the winter air. He saw shapes in the water-- merfolk, sinuous and strange, drifting just beneath the surface. Not threatening. Just... present. Watching.

To the left, at the edge of his vision, the Quidditch pitch stood in the distance, its towers stark against the pale sky. The hoops swayed gently. Empty now. Waiting.

It was beautiful.

He stood there for a breath too long, staring.

Then he shook his head once, softly, like shaking off a dream, and kept walking.

The corridor narrowed again, gently sloping upward now, the walls older here, the stones darker. Familiar crests appeared on the arches above: House sigils, yes, but different. Sharper lines, older etchings. Less lion, more beast.

Magic clung to the corners.

And then, there it was.

The statue he knew so well.

The great stone griffin that which guarded the Headmasters office loomed out of the shadows, twisted in a spiral of wings and talons, claws poised to leap and devour. Just as he remembered it. At least some things remained the same. 

The base was etched with faint runes, glowing a little in the dim and Harry stopped before it.

Looked up.

Waited.

It didn’t move.

Of course it didn’t. He didn’t know the password.

Harry sighed, rubbed a hand down his face, and said, “Right. Of course you’re being difficult.”

The griffin didn’t respond.

“Look, I’m here to see Dumbledore. Tall bloke. Smells like treacle tart and has, I'm sure, world-ending secrets?”

Nothing.

“Okay,” Harry muttered. “Plan B, then.”

He stepped closer, dropped his voice to a conspiratorial murmur. “Look. I’m very tired. I’ve almost died three times in as many weeks. I’m not saying I deserve entrance, but if you don’t open up, I will name you... Reginald and start confiding my emotional damage in you. Loudly. That's not something you want, trust me.”

The griffin remained still.

Harry gave it an unimpressed look.

Then, almost without thinking, he placed a single hand on the stone base. His palm flat. Steady. Honest.

There was a click.

Then a groan of ancient gears.

The statue shifted with a grinding hum and spiralled out of the way, revealing the narrow stone staircase beyond.

Harry blinked. “Well. Thank you very much."

He stepped onto the staircase, and it began to rise.

The stone wound upward in gentle circles, the walls whispering past him like breath. There was no torchlight, but the air glowed faintly with warmth.

He didn’t hold the railing, he didn’t need to.

And then, he was there.

The Headmaster’s Office.

The great carved door opened for him before he could knock.

The floor was polished stone, ancient and veined with age, half-covered by a great, threadbare rug in deep crimson and sapphire, woven through with curling, golden designs that shimmered faintly when the light caught them just right. Tables lined the room’s perimeter, some cluttered with strange brass instruments whirring softly, others stacked with parchment, crystal vials, and gleaming, rune-carved orbs that pulsed in slow rhythm, like heartbeat and breath. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the walls, so crowded they buckled slightly under their own weight; old tomes spilling sideways, some bound in leather, others in metal or materials Harry couldn’t name.

Some of them whispered to him. Some hissed. He ignored them.

Above, the ceiling stretched high into a dome of dark wood inlaid with constellations, tiny golden stars that flickered faintly in the half-light, as if enchanted with some echo of a night sky too ancient to forget. There was a door to the right, half-ajar, behind which Harry thought he glimpsed stacks of memory vials. Another to the left, firmly shut. He’d never noticed them before.

He remembered the room shattered in his fifth year, after returning from the Ministry. His own shouting. Glass on the floor. Guilt, then fury, then guilt again.

Harry’s eyes drifted upward, and there, at the top of a few shallow stone steps, stood Dumbledore’s desk. It was an enormous thing, curved like a crescent moon, carved from some rich, dark wood that gleamed like a still lake. Every inch of it was organised chaos: scrolls tied in fading ribbon, ink bottles of many colours, a crystal bowl of lemon sherbets half-eaten and dusty. Candles floated overhead in slow orbit, casting golden light over ancient papers sealed with wax and a cracked teacup balanced precariously on a leaning stack of books. A bronze armillary sphere spun slowly in a stand beside it, ticking like a heartbeat.

But the chair behind the desk-- tall, elegant, lion-clawed at the legs-- was empty.

Interesting.

The griffin had let him in, and yet the office’s master wasn’t here.

That should’ve stopped him. But his feet shifted forward, toward a table of crystal phials that glimmered in the low light. His fingers twitched.

He caught himself.

No. That was a book he didn’t want to open.

Then, suddenly, came the sound.

A trill. Pure, high, aching in its beauty. Like light spun into music.

He turned and saw him.

Fawkes, the phoenix.

The bird of fire and legend stood perched atop a brass stand, feathers falling in molten ribbons of gold and red, his head cocked with elegant disdain. His eyes, dark as garnet, ancient as starlight, blinked slowly at Harry, as if appraising him not just as a man, but as a story. His wings shifted, slow and deliberate, each movement trailing tiny embers that glimmered and vanished before touching anything real. Even in stillness, he seemed like a song suspended in air, vibrating with emotion too large for words. His chest rose once. Then again.

And then he flew.

It wasn’t sudden, though it felt like a miracle. His wings unfurled, impossibly wide, catching the candlelight and scattering it like shards of stained glass. A rush of warmth followed in his wake, the kind that didn’t just kiss the skin but reached beneath it; curling around bone, memory, hope.

Fawkes rose, hovered--

Then descended in a perfect arc, landing soft as breath on Harry’s shoulder.

Harry went still.

The weight wasn’t heavy, not really, but it meant something. Fawkes’ talons curled gently, without harm. His warmth spread down Harry’s neck, into his chest, his spine. It settled over him like a benediction.

Harry exhaled carefully, and said-- quietly, with a glance toward the corners of the room-- “If there are listening spells in here, I’d like to say up front I’m not planning to blow anything up. Today.”

Fawkes trilled once, the sound amused. Light-hearted. But Harry didn’t miss the way it warmed his skin, like a quiet yes. Like agreement.

He glanced sideways, just enough to see the curve of that regal beak, the shimmer of feathers so radiant they made him ache.

“You agree with me, then,” he murmured. “You think I’m right to stay.”

Another trill. This one low, almost melodic.

Harry nodded, slowly. “Thought so.”

He raised a hand, tentative, respectful, and gently brushed the soft edge of Fawkes’ wing.

“I hope you’re as wise as you look,” he whispered. “Because I have no bloody idea what I’m doing.”

Fawkes made a sound that could only be described as compassionate.

Harry laughed under his breath. “Yeah. Me neither.”

There was a sound behind him.

Not quite a gasp, not alarmed. But surprised, yes. A sharp exhale, half-swallowed--refined and measured, like someone very practiced at not being startled had just… been startled.

Harry turned, fast. Not on edge, but ready.

Dumbledore stood at the threshold.

His robes were just as eccentric as Harry was used to, still layered and embroidered in thread-of-gold, but today they were the colour of stormlight, all lavender-grey and low thunder, shot through with constellations so faint they seemed to move when you weren’t watching. A high collar brushed his jaw. His boots were dragonhide, polished to mirror-brightness. In his arms, he held a precarious stack of books. Behind him, another half-dozen tomes floated in lazy orbit, some closed, some flapping their covers like impatient wings.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t even blink.

But Harry saw it: the minute flicker behind the blue. The split-second calculation. The glint of a question too large for words.

How did you get in here?

Harry straightened slightly.

“I knocked,” he said, with a lopsided grin. “Statue was feeling generous.”

Dumbledore’s gaze flicked to Fawkes-- still perched serenely on Harry’s shoulder.

The phoenix trilled. Bright and proud.

The effect was immediate.

Dumbledore relaxed, just fractionally. His shoulders dropped half an inch. One corner of his mouth curved up.

“Ah,” he said, stepping into the room. “Well. That explains everything.”

Harry blinked. “It does?”

Dumbledore gestured absently, and the floating books arranged themselves in a neat pile atop a nearby desk. “Not in the slightest.”

Fawkes gave a low, melodic note, as if to say: of course it does.

The Headmaster made his way toward his desk with his usual unhurried grace, robes whispering over the floor like old parchment. Harry watched him closely.

Not because he feared him. Not exactly.

But because there was something else there.

Something measured. Not guarded-- but definitely… selective.

Dumbledore wasn’t showing all his cards.

Not yet.

Harry stepped aside to let him pass, folding his arms.

“Didn’t realise your office was so hospitable,” he said, nodding toward the still-open door. “Did the gargoyle like my face, or was it more of a vibe check?”

Dumbledore chuckled. “The castle makes its own decisions, Mr. Sayre. Always has. She lets in who she wishes.”

Harry tilted his head. “So Hogwarts decided I deserved entry to the most coveted room in the castle.”

“Fawkes’ opinion likely helped,” Dumbledore murmured, moving the stack of tomes in his hands to a less crowded section of his desk.

The phoenix gave a trill that sounded suspiciously smug.

Dumbledore reached out, and Fawkes leapt lightly from Harry’s shoulder, circled once above the desk in a shimmering arc of gold and red, and landed on the Headmaster’s waiting forearm.

He leaned in, stroking his feathers with infinite gentleness.

Harry watched the moment pass between them-- bird and wizard, bonded by something ancient. Something unspoken.

Dumbledore looked up. “He is quite fond of you.”

Harry shrugged one shoulder. “Animals tend to like me. Probably the trauma.”

Dumbledore huffed a short laugh. “Or the nobility.”

Then he turned, slow and deliberate, and stepped around the desk to settle into his high-backed chair. The carved arms of it curved like talons. The leather squeaked faintly beneath his robes. He folded his hands before him, and just like that, he looked entirely at home, as though this chair had been made not for a Headmaster, but for a monarch who preferred chess to crowns.

He gestured to the chair across from him, angled slightly toward the hearth. “Please, Mr. Sayre. Join me.”

Harry hesitated only briefly.

Then, quiet as the stone beneath his boots, he stepped up the shallow risers and sat.

The chair gave a small creak beneath his weight. It was surprisingly comfortable. A bit high-backed, a bit too large, like it had been designed to fit a wizard twice his size, but it made him feel... seated in something important.

Dumbledore reached for the kettle already hovering mid-air. With a flick of his wand, two mismatched teacups floated from the shelf and settled themselves on the desk. “Tea?”

Harry nodded. “Sure.”

“And how do you take it, Mr. Sayre?”

Harry considered. “With honey. And a pinch of lemon.”

Dumbledore smiled faintly, not quite approving but certainly amused. “A romantic choice. Perhaps a sentimental one.”

The tea poured itself.

A moment passed.

And then, gently: “Mr. Sayre… how did you come by that name?”

Harry took the cup. Carefully. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” said Dumbledore, “that the wards told me. The portraits whispered it. The stones remembered your steps. Hogwarts is not merely a castle. She is a living memory. A fortress with ears and eyes and secrets tucked between her bricks. There is very little that escapes her notice.”

Harry blinked.

“That’s… vague.”

Dumbledore’s eyes-- so often twinkling, so often soft-- were not twinkling now.

They were focused. Bright. Curious in the way a flame is curious: hungry, flickering, searching for what will burn.

He tilted his head slightly, almost absentmindedly stroking Fawkes’s wing.

“Sayre is an old name,"He said, gently. "An old magic. Lost, mostly. A line that vanished from record sometime in the early 1700s. Curious, isn't it? For one to emerge now.”

Harry met his gaze evenly. He didn’t blink. 

But Harry could feel it-- like pressure behind the gaze. Curiosity turned inward, pressing at the seams of silence.

A pause.

And then Harry said-- carefully, evenly, “My mother used to say that powerful wizards need powerful names.”

Dumbledore didn’t move, but the air seemed to still around them.

“She was a Sayre,” Harry continued. “By blood. A descendant of Rionach.”

Dumbledore’s eyebrow twitched. Just once.

“Rionach the Second,” Harry clarified. “Not the original Gaunt who burned with ambition and fire. The daughter she named after her mother. The one who taught Defence at Ilvermorny, and who never married. Not according to the records, at least.”

He kept his voice steady, his eyes easy. “But Rionach didn’t want her children hunted. She’d seen what the remnants of her bloodline were capable of. She changed her name. Hid her lineage. She told stories in old woods instead of writing them down.”

Dumbledore tilted his head slightly, but said nothing.

Harry went on, a faint smile ghosting his lips. “My mother was born generations later. Hermione Sayre. Raised in a corner of Massachusetts so forgotten that the shadows grew wild. She lived quiet. Careful. But she believed in magic older than the schools and louder than blood.”

There was something honest in that-- soaked in fiction, yes, but warm with borrowed truth.

“She met my father in one of the villages. Ronald. A Muggle. He died when I was young.”

Still no change in Dumbledore’s face, but the silence between them had grown dense, thick with what wasn't being said.

“She raised me alone,” Harry said. “Taught me how to vanish in plain sight. How to defend what I love with both wand and word. She told me stories of stars and scars and choices that shape bloodlines. And she told me: the name Sayre belonged to me. Not because it was convenient. But because it meant something. Because names carry weight. And it’s choosing the right one that matters.”

He met Dumbledore’s gaze.

“My name is Rigel Sayre,” he said, like the truth it almost was. “And I have it because I had to be someone strong enough to matter.”

Dumbledore’s expression shifted, but only slightly-- something unreadable flickered and was gone.

“You tell your story well,” he said, voice soft. “With conviction.”

Harry let out a quiet breath. “It’s the only one I’ve got.”

For a moment, the office was full of things unspoken. Whispers from the bookshelves. Quiet clicks from unseen instruments. A single golden mote of dust floating through a shaft of enchanted light.

And Dumbledore, watching.

Not suspicious. Not exactly.

But weighing.

Considering.

He sipped his tea once more, watching Harry over the rim of the cup.

“You’re a practiced storyteller, Mr. Sayre.”

“Only when it matters.”

“And you think this matters?”

Harry met his gaze without flinching.

“I think everything does.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Dumbledore set his teacup down with a gentle clink and said, not unkindly:

“So do I.”

A pause.

Then Harry sighed softly, and said clearly: “I want in.”

Dumbledore didn’t blink. Didn’t smile. But the corner of his mouth moved, an almost imperceptible lift, like a man watching dominoes fall exactly as he predicted.

“I suspected you might.”

“I can’t walk away,” Harry said. “I’ve already interfered. I've already seen what they can do. To innocents, to Muggles, to children."

“Are you certain?”

“No,” Harry admitted. “But it’s the only choice that makes sense.”

Dumbledore inclined his head. “Sense. A fragile thing, in wartime. Prized by some, abandoned by others.”

There was something in his eyes-- something watchful. Not distrust, not quite. But alertness. As though Harry was a language he had only just begun to read, and wasn’t yet convinced it wasn’t a cipher.

Dumbledore set down his teacup. “Tell me, Mr. Sayre. How much do you know about the war? You only recently arrived in Britain, yes?”

There it was again. That invisible hand tugging at his story.

Harry offered a vague smile. “Yes. My mother recently died. Dragon pox.”

A moment passed.

Dumbledore’s expression gentled. “How awful.”

“It was quick,” Harry lied, easily.

Dumbledore’s eyes shimmered with something almost like sympathy. “It's no wonder yourself and James had as much to discuss as you did."

Harry tilted his head. “Yes, no wonder.”

“I can see a bond forming between the two of you,” Dumbledore said. “And that is a good thing. In times like these, we need those we can trust.”

Harry sipped his tea. “He said something similar.”

Dumbledore didn’t reply. Instead, he reached for a biscuit, broke it in half, and placed the larger piece on Fawkes’ perch. The phoenix chirped softly, feathers ruffling.

“Trust,” Dumbledore said after a moment, “is a blade in wartime. It cuts both ways.”

Harry stared into the surface of his tea. “You don’t trust me.”

“Not yet,” Dumbledore said, so plainly that Harry almost smiled.

“I appreciate the honesty.”

“And I appreciate your restraint,” Dumbledore returned.

They let the silence stretch.

Then: “You were saying, about the war,” Harry prompted.

“Yes.” Dumbledore leaned back. “This war began with an idea. A lie, dressed in the language of legacy. Voldemort, the Dark Wizard at the helm of all this misery-- once known as Tom Riddle-- believes in blood. In purity. In the supremacy of magic as a right, not a gift.”

Harry schooled his face as he always had when hearing that name spoken aloud.

“Tom was… a prodigy,” Dumbledore said softly. “Bright. Strange. Full of hunger. He was in house Slytherin, here at Hogwarts, though that meant far less then than it seems to now. He asked questions I didn’t yet know how to answer. He manipulated truth the way other boys played chess. I watched him, observed him, but I did not see what he would become.”

Harry said nothing.

“He left Britain,” Dumbledore said. “And when he returned, he was no longer a boy. He was a name, a whisper, a plague in human form. He recruited the clever, the lost, the cruel. Those who wanted power and didn’t care how they got it.”

“The men from the village.” Harry murmured.

Dumbledore inclined his head. “Death Eaters, a name they chose themselves. Some out of devotion. Some out of theatre. Some, I fear, just for the thrill.”

“And the Ministry?”

“Pretends,” Dumbledore said.

Harry’s mouth flattened. He knew all about Ministry's that held their heads under the sand. 

“We fight in the dark,” Dumbledore said. “We move quickly. We protect. We retrieve. We sabotage.”

“The Order?"

“Yes.”

“Like knights, I suppose.”

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. “We are very tired knights. Who drink far too much tea and lose more than we win.”

Then, Dumbledore’s expression didn’t change, but the silence altered and Harry straightened slightly, muscles coiled without meaning to.

“The Death Eaters, the ones you fought. The ones you defeated, rather... they’ve been released,” Dumbledore said, voice quiet. “Less than twenty-four hours in custody. No charges filed.”

Harry stared.

“For lack of evidence,” Dumbledore added, almost as an afterthought. “Or, more truthfully… for lack of will.”

A long pause.

Harry’s hands curled into fists.

“They were trying to kill children.”

“Yes.”

“They would have burned that entire street--”

“They nearly did.”

“And you’re telling me they’re just… walking free?” His voice cracked like flint. “With their wands back and their masks tucked in their pockets like bloody party favours?”

Dumbledore’s eyes didn’t waver. “The Ministry’s priority is not justice. It is appearances. Stability. Denial.”

Harry’s laugh was hollow. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

He stood suddenly, the chair scraping slightly behind him. His pacing was tight, controlled, but furious all the same. The weight of the time-turner shifted under his shirt like a heartbeat gone wrong.

It pulsed, once. In time with his heartbeat. 

Harry didn't notice.

“I should’ve done more,” he muttered.

“You did more than most,” Dumbledore said. “You saved lives.”

“And it doesn’t matter, does it?” Harry snapped. “Not really. Because they’re still out there. Laughing, probably. Planning the next one.”

The air in the office changed-- like pressure behind glass.

Fawkes let out a single, soft trill, lifting his head from the perch where he'd resettled. The sound threaded through the room like a balm, gentle, ancient, knowing.

Harry’s shoulders dropped by degrees.

He didn’t sit again. Just stared at the far wall, jaw set.

“There will be more attacks,” he said.

“Yes,” Dumbledore answered.

“There will be more children.”

“Yes.”

Harry’s hand slammed down on the desk before he could stop himself.

The wood trembled.

Magic hummed out in a brief pulse, sharp and wild and angry.

Fawkes trilled sharply, lifting his wings.

The fire in the hearth flared. A book on the shelf shuddered.

Dumbledore’s teacup tilted in place but didn’t fall.

And Dumbledore--

Dumbledore watched.

Not startled. Not afraid.

But deeply, deeply interested.

Harry dropped back down into the visitors chair, exhaling hard through his nose. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Dumbledore said mildly. “Anger is not weakness. It is only dangerous when it blinds.”

Harry nodded, barely.

Something hung between them, unfinished and unspoken.

Dumbledore let it linger for a moment more. Then he set his cup down gently and folded his hands atop the desk.

“There is a meeting tonight,” he said. “Of the Order.”

Harry’s gaze flicked up.

“I would like you to attend.”

No drama. No flourish. Just a simple, world-altering invitation.

“James will meet you in the Entrance Hall in half an hour,” Dumbledore continued. “He will escort you to the Hog’s Head. It’s a tavern in Hogsmeade, slightly less polished than the Three Broomsticks, but considerably more discreet.”

Harry gave a short, breathy huff. “Subtle.”

Dumbledore’s eyes glinted. “We do what we can.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair. “And this is it, then? The start of it?”

Dumbledore tilted his head. “No, Mr. Sayre. This is simply… where your path begins to touch ours.”

That gave Harry pause. He nodded, slow and deliberate, as though setting something inside himself into place.

“I’ll be there,” he said.

“I know,” Dumbledore replied, with quiet certainty.

Harry rose to his feet. The time-turner shifted against his ribs again, silent but steady.

As he turned to leave, hand on the door, Dumbledore spoke one last time.

“Be careful, Rigel.”

Harry froze.

Only for a moment.

Then, very softly, he responded: “I usually am.”

He stepped out into the corridor, cloak brushing the stone behind him. The door clicked shut in his wake.

And somewhere down the stairs and far from the firelight, the castle whispered around him--

A new thread had been sewn into the tapestry of war.

Chapter 9: Misplaced in Time: The Order of the Phoenix

Summary:

this is my favourite yet.
i love creating these characters' personalities.

5th of January, 1979
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Entrance Hall Approach

Harry had taken his time, slowly wandering down from Dumbledore's office, but stopped suddenly when he'd heard it.

Heard them.

He hid behind a pillar to his right and peered around. 

They stood in the wide mouth of the Entrance Hall, haloed by the soft glow of late afternoon light bleeding through the castle doors.

Harry thought that perhaps James would always surprise him with how he was all angles and charm, tall and loose-limbed like he hadn’t yet grown into his own strength. He wore the same robes he'd donned earlier that day, and they were slightly wrinkled, one sleeve rolled up, the other still buttoned; half formality, half mischief. A new addition of a tie hung crooked at his throat, forgotten, and his wand was tucked behind one ear like he’d done it without thinking. His hair, dear Merlin, his hair, was a tragic battlefield, a windswept mess that defied reason and gravity, curls sticking out in directions that suggested he’d run headfirst through a thunderstorm and won.

Harry ran a self-conscious hand through his own. 

James' glasses were slightly askew, one arm bent at the hinge, and his shoes, scuffed dragonhide, looked like they’d walked through three duels and a Quidditch match just this week. But he stood with his weight angled toward her, always toward her. Like his body knew where to lean before his mind did.

Lily Evans was radiance wrapped in scarlet and confidence, he'd known this already-- but it was something else completely to see her in action from outside the Hospital Wing. Her robes were crisp, immaculate, save for a streak of ink across one cuff. Her jumper, the same soft forest green from the other day, hugged her frame in clean lines, and a silver charm bracelet danced around her wrist when she moved. Her wand was tucked behind one ear like James, but hers sat perfectly balanced. Her hair-- long and riotously red-- was pulled back with careless precision, loose strands curling near her jaw, catching the light like copper spun from fire.

She was laughing. One hand pressed lightly to James’ arm, the other gesturing mid-story. Her smile lit her face like sunrise, eyes crinkled at the corners, teeth flashing, breathless and unguarded.

James said something, too quiet to hear, but it made her laugh harder, her head tilting back slightly. She reached out without thinking, pushed lightly at his shoulder in jest.

He didn’t step away.

He leaned in.

Like gravity had decided they belonged in orbit.

They weren’t dating, he'd already concluded. Not yet.

But they would. Anyone watching could see it.

Harry watched, from the shadows of the corridor, heartbeat slow and aching.

James, tilted slightly toward her, arms folded like it helped him keep still, like if he didn't, he might do something catastrophic.

“So,” he said, grinning, “are you ever going to admit it?”

Lily raised a brow. “Admit what?”

“That you're helplessly in love with me, obviously.”

She snorted. “In your dreams.”

“They’re very vivid.”

“Oh, I know. You talk in your sleep. Loudly. Sirius took notes.”

James blinked. “You… you were in the common room that night?”

“Fourth year after that awful Slytherin match? You were draped across the sofa muttering about-- what was it-- ‘flaming brilliance and untameable curls?’”

He groaned. “No. No, you’re lying.”

She grinned. “I am not. Mary had to leave the room. Said it was too embarrassing.”

“That’s slander,” he said, hand over heart.

“It’s public record. I filed a complaint with McGonagall.”

“Oh, come on, Evans,” he said, half-laughing. “You’re making this up.”

Lily leaned in, eyes sparkling. “I am. But you hesitated, so that’s damning.”

James opened his mouth, closed it, then huffed a breath through his nose and smiled at her like she’d just walked off the edge of a star.

“Alright,” he said. “Maybe I am a little helpless.”

Lily blinked. “What?”

He shrugged. “Helplessly in love with you.”

There was a pause.

Lily stared at him.

Then--

“Oh, please,” she said airily, “I’m irreplaceable. It’s expected.”

James barked a laugh. Loud and surprised.

And Harry, still pressed against the curve of the pillar, bit the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning.

Lily looked smug. “Besides, if you were actually in love with me, you wouldn’t constantly challenge me to charm duels.”

“Disagree. I only duel the people I like. If I didn’t fancy you, you’d be dreadfully safe.”

She pretended to consider. “You did once hit me with a jelly-legs jinx in front of the entire prefect alumni.”

“And yet you still sat next to me at meetings.”

“That’s because I enjoy watching you take notes with your quill upside-down.”

“Strategic distraction,” he said solemnly. “I have to keep your ego from expanding beyond the room.”

Lily rolled her eyes. “Right. And the hovering hearts you charmed to orbit me for Valentine’s?”

“An experiment in aerodynamics.”

“They exploded, Potter.”

“Love is volatile,” he said. “You know, academically.”

She looked at him for a long moment then, something quieter softening at the edges of her smile.

“You’re an idiot,” she said.

He grinned. “But charming.”

She hesitated. Then: “Unfortunately.”

They stood there a breath longer, still orbiting, still pretending.

And Harry, unseen in the hall, felt something ache in him.

Because this wasn’t a love story written after the tragedy.

This was the prologue.

And they were still learning the language of it.

Still choosing each other, one laugh at a time.

Harry smiled.

It was small. Unconscious.

It cracked out of him like a breath too deep.

And, of course, the corridor betrayed him for it.

The smile made a sound, a sharp exhale, barely more than a breath, but it echoed, just enough, through the stone.

James froze. His eyes flicked toward the shadows beyond the arch.

Then he grinned.

“Oh, for Merlin’s--?” he called out. “Is this our thing now, Sayre? Lurking and spying on one-another?”

Harry stepped sheepishly into the light. “It’s sort of a hobby,” he said. “You were just-- so into it. I didn’t want to interrupt your… emotional unravelling.”

Lily turned sharply, brows arched, green eyes gleaming.

She took him in all at once.

“Ah,” she said, smiling slowly. “Out of the dreaded Wing, I see."

Harry’s throat tightened. Her voice was brighter than in the Hospital Wing. More playful. But it still did something to him.

Lily stepped forward and extended her hand, warm and open.

“I’m Lily Evans,” she said. “I scraped you off a cobbled street last week.”

Harry stared at her hand.

His heart felt like it might split down the middle.

He took it gently-- carefully-- and said, “I know who you are.”

Lily blinked.

For a beat, her smile faltered. Just slightly. She looked over at James, who tilted his head, watchful.

Then Harry hurried to clarify, releasing her hand like it was precious. “I mean-- I know you healed me. In the field. You stabilised me.”

Lily relaxed. A touch of pink dusted her cheeks. “Oh. Right. That.”

Harry offered a smile. Small but real. “Thank you,” he said. “Truly. I know what kind of magic that must’ve cost you. My core wasn’t just unstable, it was collapsing. You didn’t just heal me. You stitched me back together.”

Lily blinked again, this time slower. Her smile returned-- but softer now. Not the playful one. The real one.

“You’re welcome,” she said. “It was worth it.”

“I hope your magic’s recovered,” Harry added, quieter.

“It’s getting there,” she replied. “Bit of a magical hangover for a few days, but Professor Flitwick says I’ll be insufferably overachieving again by Thursday.”

Harry huffed a laugh.

James looked between them, arms folded, amused but curious. “Should I be worried about how well you two are getting along already?”

“Extremely,” Lily said, not missing a beat. “He’s polite, handsome, and has actual emotional literacy. You’re in danger.”

Harry smirked. “I also know how to take notes with the quill right-side up.”

James threw his hands in the air. “Treachery!”

Lily glanced sideways at him, then back at Harry. “So. Are you coming tonight? To the meeting?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah. Dumbledore invited me, it was very relaxed, actually. Not via dramatic explosion as expected.”

“That’s how we induct most people,” James said solemnly.

Lily elbowed him. “Ignore him. He thinks explosions are a personality trait.”

“They are!” James protested. “I’m very charmingly combustible.”

Harry laughed, the sound slipping out without permission.

It was light.

And painful.

And perfect.

For just a moment, he was with them-- not apart. Not a secret. Not a ticking paradox.

Just… a boy. Laughing. Alive.

And in love with people who didn’t yet know how much they’d come to mean.

To him. To history. To everything.

Lily grinned, stepped neatly between them, and without a word, looped her arms through theirs like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Come on, boys,” she said, tugging them both forward. “Let’s go save the world or commit some minor arson. Whichever comes first.”

James snorted. “Why not both?”

“Because you’re on arson probation, remember?”

“That was one greenhouse--”

“It was Professor Sprout’s favourite greenhouse.”

Harry bit back a laugh as they began walking. Lily moved like a conductor between them, steering the conversation and the pace with one arm wrapped through each of theirs. James leaned in to lob commentary whenever possible; Harry matched Lily’s rhythm without thinking.

“What’s the password tonight?” Lily asked James.

“All in good time, Evans. Just imagine something dramatic. ‘For the Light’ or ‘Hope Rises’ or maybe just ‘Misery and Biscuits.’”

“Very moving.”

“I do what I can.”

“Truly, the soul of the resistance.”

Harry couldn’t help it. “How does anyone get anything done with you two talking like this?”

“We talk like this because everything’s falling apart,” Lily said easily. “The apocalypse is no excuse for poor timing.”

“You’ll learn,” James said, mock-sagely. “The world burns, so we banter.”

Harry huffed a laugh. “Right. That’s your survival strategy.”

“That,” said Lily, “and punch hexes.”

They passed through the great Entrance Hall, their footsteps echoing softly under the vaulted ceiling. The night air greeted them in a burst as they stepped through the main doors-- bracing and cold, but not cruel.

Outside, the path sloped downward in gentle curves, dusted with frost. The moon hadn’t risen yet, but the sunset still lingered, painting the world in lavender and gold.

To their left, just beyond a low embankment, the Quidditch pitch stood proud and quiet, its towers silhouetted against the fading light.

Harry’s eyes caught on it.

Couldn’t help it.

Even now, it made his chest ache.

James noticed. Of course he did.

He leaned forward, grinning. “You a fan?”

Harry startled slightly, then recovered. “I-- yeah. Used to be. Back home, some of the Ilvermorny boys let me play when I’d sneak out from the woods.”

“You played?” James perked up instantly, bright as a wand flare. “What position?”

Lily rolled her eyes. “Here we go.”

“Seeker,” Harry admitted. Then, with the faintest smirk: “And I was good. Ridiculously good, actually.”

James looked like he might explode. “You’re joking!"

“Oh, gods,” Lily groaned. “You’ve activated him.”

Harry laughed. “Sorry?”

“Too late,” she sighed. “Now you’re going to hear about every game he’s ever played, every trick, every goal, every heroic dive--”

“Those dives were iconic,” James said, scandalised.

“Stupid men and their stupid red balls,” Lily muttered.

James choked, scandalised. “Evans!”

“Honestly, it's a miracle you ever passed your exams with that much testosterone between your ears.”

Harry tried not to laugh and failed completely. Their voices dissolved into warm bickering, echoing in front of him as he slowed, just for a moment, stepping slightly aside on the path as the view opened up before them.

And for a breathless second, the world stilled.

The grounds of Hogwarts stretched out like a dream dipped in dusk.

The hills rolled smooth and ancient, soft with frost that glittered like powdered stars under the last edge of sunset. The lake shone like burnished steel, wind-rippled and rimmed with reeds bowed in the cold. Across its surface, light fractured in molten ribbons-- amber, rose, violet-- each wave a brushstroke against the fading canvas of day.

To the west, the Forbidden Forest stood solemn and vast. Tall evergreens swayed like watchers, dark against the bruised gold of the horizon. Farther off, the rooftops of Hogsmeade chimed with distant warmth, yellow-lit windows, smoke curling into sky, the slow blink of life still pressing on despite it all.

And behind him, he saw as he glanced back, rising like a memory made stone, was Hogwarts.

Her towers caught the last of the light like fire trapped in glass. The tallest spire burned gold at the tip. Stained-glass windows glimmered in secret colours. Ivy wound tight along parapets, green and stubborn against winter’s hush. The whole castle breathed magic; not loud, not dramatic, but deep and steady, like a heartbeat beneath stone.

Harry slowed briefly for a long moment.

Just breathing.

Just feeling it.

Not as a soldier.

Not as a fugitive.

Not as the boy who lived.

Just as Harry. Or, just as Rigel.

And for the first time in what felt like a century, the future wasn’t knocking at his back. The past wasn’t dragging him under. He was here. In this impossible sliver of now.

He closed his eyes.

Let the wind thread through his hair.

Let the castle watch him with all her hidden, whispering eyes.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The three of them were still teasing each other as the castle fell behind them, their breath misting silver in the crisp evening air. The laughter came easier now, Harry found himself falling into their rhythm like he’d always been part of it. Like he hadn’t walked in from another century with ash in his veins and a time-turner bruising his chest.

They passed the low wall that marked the edge of the school’s formal grounds, and Harry felt it at once.

The wards washing over them as they left.

A delicate shimmer, like brushing through the skin of a soap bubble. A whisper over the nerves, subtle but vast. Old magic. Protective. Alive.

He shivered.

It didn’t hurt, but it wasn’t nothing either. It was like stepping out of sanctuary. The castle’s heartbeat faded behind him, and the wind pressed closer now, less filtered, less forgiving.

James noticed. “You felt that?”

Harry nodded, quietly. “Yeah.”

“Weird, right? Like the castle’s saying, good luck out there.”

Lily made a face. “More like try not to die, and please don’t track mud back in.”

“Also true.”

They stepped past the last ridge of enchantment, and the air changed completely. Sound shifted and the forest breathed louder. The weight of the sky pressed down a little harder. The three of them stood in a narrow clearing just beyond the outer edge of the Hogwarts boundaries, nothing but starlight and frost ahead of them.

Lily turned to Harry and, with the most casual grace, untangled herself from the two of them. Her gloved hand slid from James’ elbow to Harry’s, fingers warm through the wool.

Then she pulled back just slightly, tilting her head at Harry and extending her other hand.

He blinked. “What?”

She smiled. “Sorry, I’m just assuming you’ve never been to Hogsmeade before.”

He blinked again.

“It’s like a forty-minute walk,” she added, shrugging. “We’re going to apparate. Less scenic, way less cold.”

“Oh,” Harry said. Then, after a beat: “Right.”

He was caught, suddenly, between two awful options: tell her he had been to Hogsmeade-- where he once fought Dementors, made out with Ginny behind Honeydukes, and started an actual underground rebellion-- or suffer through the horrors of sidealong.

There was no choice, really. So he pulled a face and said, “Ah, sidelong Apparition. My favourite method of travel. Nothing like being yanked through space by someone you just met while your stomach tries to crawl out your ears.”

James barked a laugh.

“I do like you, Sayre,” he said, giving Lily a wink. “Don’t let him die, alright?”

And with a sharp crack, he disapparated.

Just like that-- gone.

Lily huffed. “Show-off.”

Harry smiled at her, but it faltered just a little. “He’s good.”

“He is,” she said softly, looking toward where James had vanished. “Better than people think. Even the ones who love him.”

There was something in her voice-- warm, yes, but… wistful, maybe. Careful.

Harry glanced down at her hand, still outstretched.

She tilted her head again, gentler this time. “We’ll go slow.”

“Right.”

He took her arm.

Gently. Respectfully. Like it was something precious. It was.

Her eyes flicked up to his, wide and green and lit with curiosity. She smiled at him, just the corner of her mouth, just enough.

There was a question in that smile. A hundred unspoken things behind it.

Harry opened his mouth--

And then the world cracked sideways, and they vanished.

They landed hard.

The cobblestones of Hogsmeade rushed up like an insult, and Harry barely managed to stay upright before he doubled over with a groan, clutching his stomach.

“Oh, Merlin’s-- bloody-- what--” he gasped.

Behind him, James burst into laughter. “That bad, huh?”

Harry looked up, wincing, and saw James grinning like a lunatic, hands in his pockets, utterly smug. That windswept hair looked like it had been styled by a hurricane.

Harry huffed, still breathless. “You enjoy other people’s pain far too much.”

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself,” James said brightly. “I've recently learned it's only yours I enjoy.”

To Harry’s left, Lily rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle she didn’t dislocate something.

“You two are insufferable,” she muttered, dusting herself off. “Come on, before we’re late.”

“We’re not late,” James protested, trailing after her as she started off down the cobbled street. “Miss Always Five Minutes Early could never be late to anything. Miss Prefect. Miss Head Girl. Miss Excuse Me, Professor, You Forgot the Homework.”

Lily shot him a glare over her shoulder. “Okay, Mr. Head Boy, as though you weren’t an hour early to every meeting.”

“Yeah, well, that was just so I could get a good seat to watch you walk in.”

She faltered.

Just slightly. Just enough.

Colour bloomed in her cheeks, and she turned sharply on her heel. “Right, come on then. Let’s go.”

She marched ahead of them.

James watched her go like she’d hung the moon and left it swinging in the sky just for him.

Harry tilted his head toward him. “So when are you going to ask her out?”

James huffed. “If I had a sickle for every time I asked her out, I’d have enough gold to bribe every Goblin in Gringotts into building me a castle.”

Harry laughed. “She says no, but you two get on better than anyone I’ve ever met.”

James blinked at him, hopeful. “You think so?”

“Oh, definitley,” Harry said. “You make her laugh like it’s second nature.”

James smiled, but it faded a little. His voice dipped low. “I was talking to my mum about her, y'know, before she died.”

Harry sobered instantly.

James kept his voice quiet; half for the intimacy, half because Lily’s silhouette was just ahead. “Mum knew all about her. Could’ve written a book, honestly. Knew the colour of her eyes. The exact shape. The stuffed bear she brought to Hogwarts first year; Ginger, she called it, ironically enough. She carried it all the way through fifth. Tucked it in her trunk. She thought no one knew.”

Harry glanced ahead. He was fairly sure Lily’s head tilted ever so slightly toward them.

“She knew the end was coming, my mum,” James said. “Even if I didn’t. Told me stories about how Dad won her over. Said he was a bloody fool for most of his youth. But that he grew up. He got better.”

James smiled faintly. “She said if I wanted Lily to know, for Lily to give me a second glance… I had to stop trying to win her and just… tell her. Not with howlers or singing cupids. But simply. Every day. And let her choose.”

He paused.

“So I’ve been trying.”

Harry glanced at him, deeply, fiercely fond. “She’s choosing,” he said.

James smiled at the ground. “I hope so.”

They approached the Hog’s Head now, Lily already waiting by the door.

The inn loomed at the edge of Hogsmeade, crooked against the dusky sky like it had been built in a hurry by someone who’d forgotten the concept of symmetry. Weatherworn stone walls slouched beneath a slanted, patchy roof, and smoke coiled lazily from a crooked chimney like it was too tired to rise. The windows were small and grimy, light flickering dimly behind stained glass. A wooden sign hung from rusted iron above the door, its faded paint barely holding the image of a severed boar’s head.

It creaked ominously in the wind.

The whole building looked like it had secrets stuffed between the cracks of its foundation. And Harry, who had seen the inside once, twice, too many times, knew it probably did.

He squared his shoulders.

Lily turned, smiled faintly at both of them, eyes lingering curiously on James, then reached for the door.

Her knuckles rapped in a specific rhythm-- tap, pause, double tap, pause-- one Harry recognised from somewhere, though he couldn’t place it. A breath later, a gruff voice behind the door snapped:

“Password?”

Lily didn’t flinch. She just turned slightly and raised an eyebrow at James.

James, of course, leaned forward and stage-whispered to the door with all the solemnity of a sacred rite, “Forty-two rubber ducks and a lawnmower named Gerald.”

Harry stared at him. “What.”

Lily let out a short huff of laughter, covering her smile with a hand.

James nodded solemnly, “It was either that or ‘tap-dancing llamas of destiny.’ Dumbledore is in a phase and he recommended it. Decided to go with the ducks.”

The door swung open with a low creak.

Inside, the light was golden and low, scented with oak polish, pipe smoke, and something herbal, like rosemary. Harry stepped in behind them, and the atmosphere changed instantly.

James stepped first. A few voices shouted his name.

“Potter! About bloody time!”

“Oi, James, you owe me a drink!”

Lily followed, and the voices grew louder, warmer. “Evans! Lily!”

“Oh thank Merlin, we thought you’d bailed!”

And then-- Harry stepped in.

Silence.

Not total-- but sudden, sharp. Curious eyes turned. Voices lowered.

There were maybe thirty people in the room, spread across circular tables set with flickering candles and half-drained tankards. Unlike the dingy Hogshead of Harry’s time, this version was vibrant and warm, its walls dark wood and deep green, the ceiling beamed and vaulted. Enchanted lanterns floated gently overhead. The floor was scattered with mismatched rugs that softened each step. It felt more like a sanctuary than a pub. A war room in disguise.

He recognised them.

Not all at once, not every single person, but the ones that held themselves in ways that shouted; soldier.

They weren’t a line-up to be examined, nor did they gather with any particular fanfare. Instead, Harry’s gaze moved across the room in fits and starts, collecting impressions like fragments of a larger picture. The Order was not a parade-- it was a patchwork of lives stitched together by war, and Harry, standing just inside the threshold of the Hogshead, found himself watching them all as they tried not to watch him back.

To his left, where the hearth crackled and threw amber light onto the stone floor, sat a tall woman with dark curls pulled into a loose knot at the nape of her neck; Emmeline Vance. He recognised her from the photograph that Mad-Eye Moody had once shown him, and now, in the flesh, she looked like strategy personified. Her profile was sharp, a hawk in repose. She wasn’t drinking, instead her fingers curled around a teacup like it was part of a larger plan. Navy robes brushed the floor when she shifted, the cuffs lined in silver thread. Her eyes skimmed over the room like she was keeping inventory, marking threats and comforts with equal weight. But when her gaze neared Harry, it did not land-- it sidestepped. Skipped him as if he were furniture. As if she already knew he wasn’t someone she could categorise yet.

At the table beside hers, Sturgis Podmore sat hunched over a half-unrolled map, tapping it in quiet rhythm with a battered quill. His blonde hair was messier than Harry remembered, and his nose bent slightly to the left, like it had learned too late not to get in the way. Harry could see dragonhide gloves tucked into his belt-- spellsinged, worn through at the seams-- and his robes bulged oddly at the pockets, too many secrets carried too close. He looked up when Harry entered, sharp eyes flicking over him once, then again, and narrowing slightly.

Not unkind. Just... taking measure. The way one might weigh an unfamiliar wand before using it.

Further down, near a fogged window rattling faintly in its frame, a man he recognised as Elphias Doge was deep in a game of Exploding Snap. Harry recognised his thin crown of wispy white hair and parchment-like skin, but this version of the man seemed decades younger in energy, not just age. He leaned in close to his opponent-- a lanky, cackling man Harry didn’t recall-- grinning through smoke as cards burst into glittering fragments between them. A half-drunk butterbeer floated lazily beside him, utterly ignored, and every so often he would mutter something beneath his breath and chuckle at his own joke before laying another card. He hadn't even noticed Harry’s arrival.

The noise swelled near the centre of the room where a pair of matching redheads held court like twin comets orbiting a private sun.

Fabian and Gideon Prewett.

Harry’s heart gave a tiny skip.

They were unmistakable, even without Molly’s stories.

Broader in the shoulder than Fred and George, perhaps, but the same irreverent ease. One leaned against the bar, spinning a coin across his knuckles as if preparing to bet the night away. The other leaned closer to a circle of younger recruits, talking animatedly with the kind of hands that described battle and ballet with equal flourish. They shared a look that Harry knew well-- the silent language of siblings, a whole life folded into glances and grins.

And then, two woman he had heard numerous fables about caught his attention.

Harry’s eyes caught onto the first like a hook. She lounged in her chair like a queen without a crown, boots kicked up on the edge of a table. Her hair was feathered and golden-brown, cropped short, kissed with wind and carelessness. She laughed at something; loud, real, head thrown back in a gesture of pure joy. She wore a leather jacket slung over her shoulders like it didn’t matter that it was half unbuttoned, and she held a butterbeer in one hand, gesturing madly with the other. She radiated the kind of confidence that didn’t require space to be made for her, she simply took it.

Across from her, leaning in close but not intruding, sat the other; sat Dorcas Meadowes.

If Marlene was the storm, it appeared Dorcas was the eye of it. Still, precise. Her dark curls fell over her shoulder in soft waves, and she rested her cheek in one palm, elbow braced on the table. She wasn’t laughing. Not quite. She was smiling, yes, but it was the kind of smile reserved for cathedrals and stargazing. For wonder. Her eyes followed every movement Marlene made with a kind of reverence Harry hadn’t expected. Like Marlene was the sun and Dorcas was a moon still choosing her orbit daily.

Harry’s lips quirked, unbidden.

He hadn’t known that. In all the Order stories he’d heard, all the war whispers and faded memories, no one had told him about that. About the love like that.

He'd heard stories about Marlene and Dorcas, however. Just not their relationship. He'd known how they'd died together, fighting back-to-back. How Voldemort himself sent himself to hunt them down, some of the last of the original Order remaining. They'd caused such a nuisance personally to his Dark regime that he'd killed them both with his own wand, his own spell.

He promised himself he would try his hardest to get to know them both, befriend them. Save them.

A flicker of movement drew his eye again. There, near the far corner, a short, wild-haired witch leaned back in her chair, balancing expertly on two legs with a quill tucked behind one ear. Mary MacDonald, Harry thought he remembered. She was telling a story with her hands-- something daring, something stupid, by the way her two friends were both wide-eyed and laughing-- and her grin stretched wide enough to show the scar on her lip. She wore Gryffindor red like it was armour and scuffed boots that might’ve once belonged to a duelling champion.

Dedalus Diggle-- tiny, jittery, and even now wearing that violently purple hat-- was nodding along to Mary's story also, occasionally bouncing in place as though his excitement simply had nowhere else to go. He looked exactly like the man Harry had met in his escape from Privet Drive all those years ago, except younger and perhaps even more eccentrically dressed. His robes had sequins. Actual sequins. And he kept readjusting them like they were about to fly away.

And then finally, of those he recognised, there was Edgar Bones. Broad, stoic, with a presence like a stone wall. He sat quietly at a table of four, reviewing a ledger with lines of magical notations curling across the parchment. He was clean-shaven, his jaw like granite, and his wand rested flat against the table beside him. When a nearby woman coughed, he passed her a handkerchief without looking. And then kept reading. Amelia Bones would inherit his legacy years later, but now—now, he looked like the kind of man that both Death Eaters and the Ministry feared more than any vote: one who couldn’t be bought.

Harry’s gaze drifted again. It wasn’t pulled. It was drawn.

To the bar.

To the man standing there with his back to them, hair dark as ink and pulled up into a loose, glossy knot. A wand was stabbed through it, pinning the style in place like a careless dagger. He was tall, lean, shoulders wrapped in dark robes that shimmered faintly when they caught the firelight-- subtle enchantments dancing at the hem and cuffs. His boots were dragonhide, scuffed at the toes, and his stance was relaxed-- but not casual. Like a wolf sunbathing. Harry couldn’t see his face.

He found he didn’t need to.

Sirius.

The name bloomed in his chest like thunder and warmth.

“Oi! Padfoot!” James called, cheerful and bright, a grin in his voice.

The man turned.

In his arms, six bottles of Firewhiskey clinked against each other. He cradled them like favoured children, and his face split into a grin so dazzling it nearly stole the breath from Harry’s chest.

He was beautiful.

Not the gaunt, wild-eyed man Harry had seen in the Shrieking Shack. Not the shattered shadow who’d clung to him in a dusty kitchen at Grimmauld Place. This Sirius was vibrant. Charismatic.

Whole.

His smile was easy. His eyes, grey and gleaming, held mischief and light.

And he hadn’t even said a word yet.

Harry swallowed hard.

Because this was the man he'd loved. The one he'd have followed anywhere.

This was the version no one had ever told him about.

The version Harry hadn’t known to miss.

“Look at what the niffler dragged in,” Sirius said, grinning like a man who’d already won the night. With the amount of Firewhiskey in his arms, maybe he had. “The prodigal son returns.” His voice was low, amused, velvet-wrapped arrogance. Then his eyes flicked toward Lily, and Harry. “And he’s brought a few galleons with him.”

 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Harry hadn’t expected this.

He should have, should have known from Remus’s stories, from the way Dumbledore spoke of them, from the stolen whispers across old photographs; but even then, even with all he knew…

He was surprised.

Not by Sirius. Not by James. But by Lily.

Because in all of Snape’s memories, she had smiled at Sirius like someone tolerating a barking dog; fond, perhaps, but removed. Nothing like this.

Here, she stood beside him with her arms folded, one brow arched, a smirk curling the corner of her mouth, lit from within. She wasn’t just laughing at James and Sirius' interactions-- she was with them, in rhythm, part of the cadence, rolling her eyes as though she’d heard it all before and still found it hilarious.

They were a unit.

And Sirius and James--

Merlin.

They were so clearly two halves of the same stupidly grinning coin. All long limbs and terrible posture, tossing words between them like spells, interrupting each other, embellishing, laughing over each other’s words. It was chaotic. Magnetic.

And loud.

“Oh,” James said, grabbing Harry by the shoulder like they were best mates already. “Padfoot, this is Rigel Sayre-- our mysterious sorcerer. You know, the one who spat at Yaxley."

Sirius’s grin sharpened like it had teeth. He stepped forward and extended one elegant hand, wrist flicked just so. “Pleasure,” he said smoothly, grey eyes dancing. “Love a man with flair. That saliva move was… poetic. I'll be stealing it.”

Harry blinked once. Hesitated, then took the hand.

It was warm. Firm. And surprisingly gentle.

Lily noticed the hesitation. Her eyes flicked between them, thoughtful.

“You’ll want to be careful, Rigel,” she said, tone dry. “He flirts like he duels; hard, fast, and with an alarming disregard for personal space.”

Sirius gasped, scandalised. “Evans, please. My reputation!”

“Your reputation,” Lily said sweetly, “was set on fire in third year and never recovered.”

“One slightly naked duel in the Astronomy Tower,” Sirius said mournfully, releasing Harry’s hand with an exaggerated flourish. “And I’m branded for life.”

James was wheezing beside them. “You tried to summon your trousers back and ended up hexing McGonagall’s cat.”

“I said I was sorry,” Sirius replied with mock sincerity. “And the cat never looked better. That little hat? Adorable.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Do you always charm your way out of near-death experiences?”

Sirius turned to him with a delighted glint in his eyes. “I like this one.”

“Of course you do,” Lily said, arms crossing. “He doesn’t know any better, yet.”

“Oh, come on,” James said brightly. “Be honest, Lily. If I hadn’t gotten there first on the train, you’d have thrown yourself at Pads.”

Lily snorted. “I’d sooner throw myself into the lake.”

“Is that an invitation?” Sirius said, winking.

“Do not test me,” Lily replied sweetly. “I know six ways to drown you and make it look like an accident.”

James pointed at Sirius. “She’s not kidding. She did it to Mulciber’s toad, remember?”

“It survived,” Lily said primly.

“Barely!” Sirius howled.

Harry stood back, watching this hurricane of banter whip around him, and let a grin tug at the edge of his mouth.

This was what he’d never seen before.

Not from memories. Not from stories. Just this-- three people so tangled together with love and history they sparked like flint against steel.

The spark of it lived in their laughter.

Sirius had just feigned outrage, hand to chest, eyes scandalised, after Lily accused him of putting a Sticking Hex on James’ prefect badge in fifth year so it would stay on his chest while he did handstands.

“It was a display of strength and balance,” Sirius protested, waving his firewhiskey like a wand. “The badge appreciated the elevation. It finally got the view it deserved.”

Lily snorted. “The badge was upside down the entire time.”

“And still more dignified than your potion partner that term,” he shot back, eyes glinting.

“Oh, not this again,” Lily groaned, elbowing James, who doubled over laughing.

“Slughorn paired her with Bertram Aubrey,” James wheezed, making eye contact with Harry, pulling him into the know. “The bloke spent more time trying to flirt with his reflection in the cauldron than making antidotes.”

“He mistook my Pepperup Draft for perfume and spritzed it behind his ears before our exam,” Lily muttered, face in her hands.

Sirius clapped. “That’s why he had steam coming out of his collar in that Prefect photo!”

Harry couldn’t help it; he laughed. A sharp, real sound that cut through him before he could control it.

James turned to him with a grin. “Aha! See, I was trying to tell Pomfrey that you'd feel better once you got out of her grasp. You just needed pub stories and bad decisions.”

“I’m gathering that,” Harry said, letting himself lean against the table, the old wood warm from the firelight and the firewhiskey. James seemed pleased enough at Harry's acceptance, and very content to avoid Lily's studious glare at his mild insult to Madam Pomfrey.

Harry continued to watch as Sirius once again pulled James into memory and began trading barbs so smoothly it was like choreography.

“Remember the time you told McGonagall you’d invented a new kind of wandless summoning and it turned out to be just me in the cupboard behind her desk, tossing things at you?”

“I maintain that the method was sound,” James replied solemnly.

“You got detention for two weeks.”

“And worth every hour,” James said, swigging from his glass. “McGonagall actually cracked a smile.”

Sirius barked a laugh, tipping his chair back dangerously. “She did not.”

“She did. Tiny twitch, right side of her mouth. That’s basically a standing ovation in McGonagall.”

“You two,” Lily said, shaking her head, recovered from her blight of annoyance, “are going to end up immortalised on a Hogwarts plaque one day under ‘Most Detentions Acquired in a Single Term.’”

“We’re already contenders,” James said brightly.

“Oh, I know,” Lily replied dryly. “I had to sign half of them.”

Harry was watching it all with the quiet astonishment of someone who had never seen this version of them before. The way they moved around one another—like stars caught in orbit, pulling and giving in turn.

And then--

“I’m surprised Moony isn’t here yet,” Sirius said, almost offhand, refilling his drink.

Harry froze.

Moony.

Remus.

The name landed in his chest like a stone dropped in deep water, rippling outward, silent and cold. He hadn’t let himself think about this, about him. Not properly. Not since the bookstore.

Remus had seen him. Spoken to him. Kind, as ever. That same careful quiet. That same old coat. And Harry had said nothing. 

He’d been terrified then, barely holding his story together, watching every syllable in case it cracked the wrong part of time open. It was easier not to speak, not to feel, just stay distant. Just survive.

But Remus had looked at him like he knew something. Not what, not yet. But something. The name had slipped; Sayre, from Healy’s lips. Harry had seen it lodge in Remus’ mind like a splinter. Quiet and sharp.

He hadn’t let it go. Harry was sure of it.

And now, now Remus would see him again, not in some quiet shop, but here.

Among the Order.

Among his friends.

And Harry would have no shadow to hide behind.

He felt... ashamed.

Which was stupid, wasn’t it? Remus didn’t know. Not really. And even if he did, what could Harry say? Sorry, I couldn’t tell you. Sorry, you meant too much and I didn’t know how to lie to your face. I'm a time-traveller, Remus. I'm sorry.

Harry wasn’t sure what scared him more: the idea that Remus would be angry, angry that the man he'd got on so well with hd kept such a secret of being a wizard... or that he wouldn’t be. That he’d just look at Harry the way he always had.

Like he deserved an explanation.

And Harry... didn’t know if could come up with another reliable lie.

Not one that would make it better. Not one that would make it right.

It was James who cleared his throat and brought Harry back to reality, and he noticed instantly there was a flick of tension entering the air. “He’ll be along.”

Lily glanced down into her glass, brows drawn slightly.

Sirius tilted his head toward James, but his eyes, sharp and bright, cut briefly toward Harry. “Our mate, Remus. Part of the Order and he shared a dorm with James and I. He was out north last full moon,” he said, voice light, but too measured. “Should’ve been back this morning. Probably sleeping off the travel. Or the, er… company.”

There was a moment’s pause.

The word company hung, just a beat too long.

Harry knew what they meant. He knew.

Still, Sirius was watching him now. Like he was waiting. Testing. For a reaction. For disgust, or fear, or judgment.

Harry took a casual sip of his drink and said, “Company like the packs in Bulgaria?”

James glanced up, surprised. “Yeah. Yeah, amongst others. You know about that?"

Harry shrugged. “I keep tabs. My mum used to help out an old man who lived near the edge of the forest back home. He never said it out loud, but I think he was one; a werewolf. Came around every full moon, stayed a day or two. She brewed him potions, made him stew.”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Then Lily, voice warm: “She sounds like a good woman.”

“She was,” Harry said simply. Horror, sadness and mortification entered Lily's eyes at the past tense usage, and Harry, not being able to bare the lie, turned away.

Sirius didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then he nodded once, and whatever tension had curled beneath his ribs seemed to ease. “Alright, Sayre. You pass.”

“Pass what?” Harry asked, raising a brow.

“The test,” Sirius said. “You’d be surprised how many people in this room-- brave, noble, good little soldiers-- still flinch when Remus walks in.”

Lily’s jaw tightened.

James glanced at the floor.

Sirius rolled his eyes. “Idiots, the lot of them. Moony’s the best of us.”

Harry didn’t doubt it for a second.

“Right, enough brooding,” Sirius said suddenly, and slammed his drink down. “We’ve got a reputation to maintain. Tell me something interesting, Rigel Sayre.”

“I’m not sure I’m that interesting,” Harry replied.

Sirius tilted his head. “Doubtful. But, if you insist. Then tell me something scandalous.”

Lily leaned across the group, her sadness disappearing in waves, her grin wicked. “Oh yes. Do. In fact, does he pass the next test?”

Sirius winked at her and gestured to say that she had the floor.

Harry took a long, slow sip of his firewhiskey.

And then, with perfect timing, Lily grinned and said, “So… not to be crass, but-- do you fancy Sirius?”

Harry choked.

It was instant. Firewhiskey nearly went down the wrong pipe. He slammed the glass on a table and coughed, eyes watering.

Lily’s grin only widened. She leaned in, dancing around James like this was a play they’d rehearsed. “What? Is it the hair?”

“I don’t-- what-- I-- no!” Harry sputtered.

“Oh, come on,” Lily said sweetly. “We all saw you staring when he came over. He’s got cheekbones you could cut paper with. All that brooding charm. Leather boots.”

“Don’t forget the reckless disregard for personal safety,” Sirius added helpfully.

Harry blinked furiously. “I-- no-- I don’t--”

“You’re not about to tell me you don’t fancy him, are you?” Lily said with mock horror.

Harry’s brain betrayed him.

It offered up the image of Draco Malfoy handing him a book in fifth year. Hermione’s voice whispering: Are you sure you’re not just projecting something else?

And his fourteen-year-old self, loud and furious, standing on the sofa in the Gryffindor common room, shouting: I’M STRAIGHT, THANK YOU VERY MUCH.

Harry stood up straight, bracing his palms on the table behind him on which he'd been leaning. “I’m straight,” he declared. “Definitely. Very straight. Staggeringly straight.”

James burst into laughter.

Sirius smirked, raising one eyebrow. “Well, I suppose I’ll just have to break someone else’s heart tonight.”

“Please do,” Lily said, giggling and gripping onto James' arm like a lifeline. “I couldn’t take the awkward silences.”

“Also,” Sirius added, winking at Harry, “you’re not really my type anyway.”

Harry blinked. Relief coursed through him. “I’m… not?”

“Too broody,” Sirius said, with a faux-dramatic sigh. “It would be like dating a mirror.”

James cackled. “That’s rich coming from you.”

“It is not brooding if it’s aesthetic,” Sirius replied, gesturing to himself like a model on a catwalk.

Lily was laughing so hard she had fully to lean on James’ shoulder. “Oh my God, I can’t breathe.”

“You’re welcome,” Sirius said. “I’m here all night.”

They were still howling moments later, and Harry had barely had the time to absorb it, to take it all in, when he noticed Sirius' eyes latch onto something behind him. 

“Oi, the Longbottom's have entered the building. Get yourselves together, Mr. and Mrs. Chuckles,” Sirius said beside James, elbow nudging both he and a cackling Lily in the ribs.

Harry turned and saw them.

Frank and Alice Longbottom, newly arrived, still dusted with cold air and the faint sparkle of snow caught in the creases of their cloaks. Frank’s hand was casually linked with Alice’s, and she wore the expression of a woman who knew exactly how to wield both affection and sarcasm like twin blades.

They didn’t look like ghosts here.

Not like they had in St. Mungo’s.

Harry had seen them once in that ward-- catatonic and hollow, their minds fractured and unreachable. He’d been fifteen, pressed to the back of the room with Neville at his side, grief folded tight in the corners of his friend’s eyes. Neville hadn’t said much then. Just stood there. And Harry had stood beside him, not understanding yet how cruel time could be.

But here, now, Frank and Alice looked radiant with youth. Whole.

They were golden.

There was no other word for it. Not just in the romantic sense, though they practically glowed together-- but in the way they walked into the room and the air tilted toward them. The weight of promise clung to their shoulders. They looked like hope in a war-shaped world.

Frank’s hair was dark, tousled, and he had a stocky kind of athleticism to his frame, like he’d always just finished a run or was about to start one. There was something familiar in his smile-- something Harry didn’t recognise until it hit him like a bludger: it was Neville’s smile. Softer, yes. But the shape of it. The way it curved unevenly on the left. That was all Neville.

Alice wore dark navy robes trimmed in auror black, her wand arm bare to the elbow like she’d forgotten to redress her holster after training. Her honey-brown hair was up in a twist that had begun to unravel at the crown; clearly they’d rushed here from somewhere official. Her eyes scanned the room with sharp, tactical precision before she caught sight of Lily and broke into a grin that could've melted any frost within a hundred-yard radius.

“Evans,” Alice called across the room, voice a mix of glee and mock exasperation.

Lily grinned. “Alice. Looking absolutely dreadful as usual.”

Alice strode forward and pulled Lily into a crushing hug.

“You smell like hospital antiseptic,” she said, nose wrinkling. “Have you been licking bandages again?”

“Only the high-grade ones,” Lily replied, squeezing her. “You smell like a hex gone wrong.”

“Compliment accepted.”

Frank laughed as he slowly sidled up to the group and pulled James into a quick, enthusiastic handshake.

“You’re earlier today, Potter. Normally McGonagall has already started minutes and you're waltzing in.”

“I had time to make sure I looked good, no messing about tonight,” James said, fluffing his own hair. “It’s a full-time commitment, as you well know.”

“You look like you were licked by a confused hippogriff.”

“Thank you.”

Lily and Alice broke apart with a shared, indulgent sigh. Harry watched them-- how Lily elbowed her gently, how Alice tugged her braid in response, how their eyes rolled in perfect sync. They were opposites in some ways, Alice sharp, brash, decisive; Lily precise, composed, strategic, but there was a language between them older than the war, older than this room.

A language of sisterhood.

Harry didn’t realise he was staring until Sirius nudged him and took him by the elbow, moving them both back, and leaving the other four in the spotlight.

“Yeah, I get it,” Sirius murmured. “They kind of steal your breath, don't they?”

“Yeah,” Harry echoed, voice low.

“Frank Longbottom,” Sirius said, voice low and fond, “Year above us in school. Quidditch Captain. Duelling Club President. Prefect. Bit of a bloody legend, if we’re honest. James used to watch him fly like a bloke at mass. Practically genuflecting every time Longbottom pulled a dive.”

Harry blinked. “Really?”

“Oh yeah,” Sirius smirked. “Hero worship of the highest order. He’d drag me and Remus to every match Frank ever played. Swore up and down he was going to fly like him one day. And when Frank started dating Alice-- Merlin, it was like someone had robbed James of a national treasure.”

Harry huffed under his breath.

Harry glanced sideways, watching the way James leaned slightly toward Frank, posture bright with admiration. The grin he gave him now wasn’t just one of camaraderie, it was the grin of someone still not half-convinced their hero was actually talking to them.

“And then there's Alice.” Sirius’s tone turned even warmer. “Brightest witch in her year, if we forget Lily, and don’t let the Professors hear you say otherwise or they'll be murmuring about it for the next three staff meetings. She and Lily shared a dorm every year until seventh. When Lily got the Head Girl suite, Alice spent more nights on the couch in there than in her own bed.”

"Why?"

Sirius’s mouth twisted with something like sympathy. “Because Frank was gone. Obviously year above us meant graduating the year before. His field work started early. Dumbledore had him on the unofficial roster for the Order before he even graduated. There was one stretch where he was out for three weeks, one for the Order and the other two for his Auror training and Alice refused to sleep without knowing he was alive. She’d stay up in Lily’s common room until sunrise most days.”

“Frank eventually finished top of his class, naturally. Completed the compressed training track with ease. The instructors used to joke that he was what happened when you raised a Gryffindor inside a textbook on military strategy. Knows his spells. Knows his angles. And he’s quiet, too. Not shy, just… deliberate. He doesn’t waste words.”

Harry glanced back at the man, noting the way Frank shifted his weight to better shield Alice’s back, just slightly. A warrior’s instinct. A protector’s stance. He recognised it, like looking in a mirror.

“Compressed training?” Harry asked. Of course, he knew what it was, from his own years in the Corps. But he figured it didn't hurt to ask, for appearances sake.

Sirius’s grin curled, slow and sharp. “Right, you don’t know. America would be different."

He straightened slightly, rolling the tension from his shoulders, and the smirk faded into something more thoughtful.

“Training to be an Auror usually takes three years. Five, if you don’t want to spend half your nights being hexed half to death by lunatics like Mad-Eye Moody. But the war’s got everyone twisted sideways, even if the Ministry are trying to ignore what's going on, they need more security now than ever; Dark Lord or not. So, they made an accelerated route; nine months, if you can hack it. Full brutality. No days off. Trial by fire, basically.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “And he did that?”

“A lot of us have. Alice and I have just finished year one,” Sirius said, pride flickering across his face for a moment before being carefully extinguished. “Graduation’s next month. Technically, we'll be full Aurors in six weeks, but I’ve already been in the field half the year, and Alice slightly longer. I'm on the front lines though, and her focus has been pretty much shifted more to magical forensics and cursebreaking. She works in tandem with St. Mungo’s now; heads up an experimental team handling arcane residue in high-casualty scenes. We don't see much of each other now."

Harry blinked, taking it all in. “Seriously? Only nine months?" 

Sirius gave a lazy shrug, but there was a bite of something bitter beneath it. “Like I said, the Ministry’s not picky these days. We’re bodies with wands. If we’ve got a moral compass and don’t piss ourselves under pressure, we’re qualified. They may be avoiding the inevitable, refusing to believe that You-Know-Who could be as bad as Grindelwald, but they're not completely stupid."

Harry was quiet for a moment. He thought of Kingsley Shacklebolt-- poised, formidable, calm even in chaos-- and of the half-formed stories he'd picked up in the battle-scarred corridors of the Department of Mysteries. He thought of Tonks; bright-eyed, half-laughing, falling through death like it was a misstep. He thought of the wreckage the title had always seemed to imply.

And then he thought of Sirius, barely out of school, charming the room, already branded by something too old for his skin.

"Frank’s just as cool as Alice. He's off leading reconnaissance ops in the north. Keeps catching wind of movements Voldemort doesn’t even think we know about.”

He let it hang for a moment, watching Harry.

Harry was watching Frank and Alice.

They were laughing with James and Lily now, Alice poking Lily’s shoulder with mock annoyance, Frank rolling his eyes affectionately. It was too easy to picture Neville, tall and kind, somewhere in the curve of their expressions.

“They’re the real thing,” Sirius said. “That thing people always pretend love looks like.”

Harry nodded, throat tight.

Sirius clapped his shoulder once, then tilted his head. “You thought James was an Auror, didn’t you?”

Harry blinked. “He's not?”

"No, it was the plan though." He turned, leaning against the table behind him more fully, his eyes now fixed on James. “We all applied together, you know. Me, James, Remus... though we didn’t know about Remus’ application until months later. He didn’t tell us. We’d have stopped him.”

Harry felt something clench in his chest.

“Remus wouldn’t have been accepted anyway,” Sirius went on, voice low now. “Even though he was top of every theoretical. Even though he’d trained harder than all of us. Even though he risked his bloody life. One scratch on the registry, one full moon on your record, and they throw the whole thing out.”

Harry glanced over sharply, but Sirius didn’t flinch. Just kept going.

“Dumbledore stepped in,” he said. “Asked Remus not to apply. Said there were better uses of his talents. Ones that didn’t require Ministry signatures.”

Harry frowned. “Like what?”

Sirius didn’t answer at first.

Then, quietly, he said, “Like infiltrating the wolfpacks on the continent. The ones Voldemort’s courting. France. Germany. Balkans. There are dens out there that don’t follow our laws. Not even close. And Remus… Remus goes in.”

There was silence between them.

The warmth of the fire, the crackle of conversation across the pub-- it all felt distant now, like another room.

“Remus walks into those places,” Sirius continued. “on the full moon. Unarmed.”

Harry’s breath caught.

“He should be here by now,” Sirius said quietly, more to himself than Harry. "He's normally hours early."

And Harry, suddenly, wasn’t sure if he should be asking questions, or apologising.

But before he could decide, Sirius clapped his hands together once and shook the thoughts off like water.

“Anyway,” he said, louder now. “James.”

Harry turned toward the firelight again, gaze flicking toward the figure of James Potter, who was now laughing as Alice gestured animatedly toward something that had apparently happened at the Ministry. He looked content. Settled. Not like someone who’d missed out, even though he had.

"What happened? Why didn't he join?" Harry asked.

“Life happened,” Sirius said simply. “James was about to send off his application owl when news came through from St. Mungos; the main hospital in London. Fleamont and Euphemia..."

The fire crackled behind them, casting warm flickers of gold against the stone floor.

Sirius was quieter now, drink in hand, eyes distant.

It took Harry a moment to realise the shift.

Sirius hadn’t said anything for nearly two minutes. For Sirius Black, that was practically funereal silence.

Then, in a voice that dropped low and unexpected, he said, “They died in their bed. You know that?”

Harry blinked. “Who?”

Sirius didn’t look at him. His gaze was locked somewhere behind the firelight.

“Our parents,” he said.

And Harry’s chest tensed. “You mean James’--”

But Sirius shook his head, slow and firm. “No. I mean ours.”

The words sank like a stone.

Harry turned, about to speak, but stopped when he caught the look on Sirius’s face; so unguarded, so full of something Harry hadn’t seen on him before.

Sirius exhaled, sharp and unsteady. “I ran away in fifth year. Middle of the night, blood on my hands from trying to hex my own brother when he held me down. They were going to take me to one of You-Know-Who’s hideaways, mark me, brand me like some pet mutt. Told me I’d been chosen. Told me I should be proud.” His voice caught, a flare of remembered rage flickering behind his eyes. “I hexed my father down the stairs. My mother tried to crucio me, and I got away. Just ran. Apparated straight to Potter Manor in the clothes I’d been sleeping in.”

Harry didn’t breathe.

“They didn’t ask questions. Fleamont and Euphemia just… opened the door. Let me in. Gave me a bed. Fed me. Never asked what I’d done or why. Just... took me.”

Sirius’s fingers tightened around the glass in his hand. “And the next week, Euphemia cursed my mother in the middle of Diagon Alley when she tried to spit at my feet. Hit her so hard her stupid peacock hat caught fire.” His lips twitched. “Never loved a woman more in my life.”

Harry laughed. It burst out of him, surprised.

Sirius smiled faintly, but the grief was still there. Still seated deep.

“They were my parents as much as they were James’. Maybe more, in some ways. And they were... brilliant, you know?” He swirled the firewhiskey, amber light catching in the glass. “Elegant and clever and sharp as bloody dragons’ teeth. Euphemia could make you feel like the most important person in the world with one look. Fleamont... Merlin, he had the most ridiculous moustache in history. But when he spoke, the room shut up and listened.”

Harry tried to picture them. Not as the faint wistfulness in James’ eyes-- but alive. Laughing. Welcoming.

“They got sick at the same time,” Sirius said quietly. “Dragon pox, we thought. But it moved too fast. Way too fast. By the time we realised it wasn’t natural, Euphemia was already coughing up blood.”

He paused. Swallowed.

“We couldn’t stop it. James tried everything. She was unconscious within a day. Fleamont died three hours after. She followed him that evening.”

Silence stretched between them.

Sirius didn’t fill it. Not at first.

Then: “James didn’t leave their bed for a week.”

Harry looked up.

“He just lay there. Wouldn’t speak. Wouldn’t eat. Barely moved. We tried everything-- me, Remus, even Dumbeldore at the time. Nothing worked.” He rubbed a hand across his jaw. “Eventually Lily had enough. Walked into the Manor, marched up the stairs, and dragged him out by his ear.”

Harry blinked. “She what?”

Sirius huffed. “Swore at him the whole way. Called him a selfish bastard. Told him he’d lost a family, but still had one down here. That if he didn’t stop wasting away, she’d hex his bollocks into orbit.”

Harry choked on his drink. “She said that?”

“Word for word,” Sirius said fondly. “It worked. He got out of bed. Shaved. Ate something.”

There was a pause.

“Didn’t smile again for weeks,” Sirius said. “But it was a start.”

The fire crackled behind them. A chair scraped somewhere nearby. But Harry sat still, listening.

“Few days later, Dumbledore came calling. Asked to speak with James in private. Wouldn’t tell any of us why. James came out of his office with his jaw clenched so tight I thought he might break a tooth.” Sirius shook his head. “Didn’t say anything until we were home.”

Harry waited.

“He told me Dumbledore wanted him to take up the seat. The Potter seat, on the Wizengamot.”

Harry stared. “What?”

“Lord of the Ancient and Noble House of Potter,” Sirius said, voice dry now, sardonic around the edges. “Which, apparently, comes with a bloody chair and a ring and a whole heap of political nonsense. James hated it. Said he wanted to be in the field. Said he wanted to fight.”

“But Dumbledore--”

“Promised him he still could,” Sirius said. “Told him that wars weren’t just fought with wands. Said if we wanted to stop You-Know-Who’s sympathisers from slipping legislation past the Ministry while we were all out chasing shadows, someone had to stand in that chamber and yell ‘no’ loud enough to be heard.”

“And James said yes?”

“Eventually,” Sirius murmured. “And now he bloody loves it.”

He gestured toward James, who was laughing again with Frank, arms moving, animated.

“He sits in those ridiculous robes, ring on his hand, voice sharp as glass, and he terrifies the lot of them. Even the ones twice his age. Got a memory like a vault and morals like a Gryffindor textbook.”

Harry’s gaze dropped.

To James’ hand.

The ring.

He hadn’t noticed it before. But now, with the firelight glancing off the gold, it was impossible not to see. A thick band wrought of ancient metal, gold interwoven with threads of copper and opal. The crest of House Potter-- a beautiful lion rising from flame-- was set into the centre in deep enamel, with three stones flanking it: one for legacy, one for protection, one for truth.

It didn’t glow. But it shimmered.

It shimmered like it knew Harry.

Not like a pull. Not a need.

Just a… greeting.

A recognition.

A whisper: Hello.

He stared.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Sirius said, watching him.

Harry nodded. “I didn’t even realise what it was. What it meant.”

Sirius tilted his head. “You don’t even know what the Wizengamot is, do you?”

Harry blinked. “What?”

“You know-- the council. The magical court.”

“I… don’t,” Harry admitted. “Not really.”

Sirius looked surprised. Then understanding. “Ah. Right. You’re foreign. Or just not the politics type.”

“Not really, no,” Harry said.

Sirius said, suddenly all energy again, “Let me break it down.”

He leaned back on the table, one boot braced against the leg, firewhiskey in hand, and gave Harry a look somewhere between conspiratorial and theatrical.

“Alright, Sayre,” he said. “The Wizengamot. Imagine if the House of Commons, a goblin bank, and a snake pit had a child.”

Harry blinked. “That sounds awful.”

“Oh, it is,” Sirius said cheerfully. “But it’s also the most powerful legislative body in magical Britain. Think: every law, every piece of legislation, every sweeping bit of reform, or attempt at one, starts there.”

He paused, swirling his drink.

“Picture a massive chamber under the Ministry. Circular. Four tiers, rising like an amphitheatre. Built to resemble King Arthur’s Round Table, if Arthur had a taste for purple carpet and too many torches.”

Harry was already imagining it; stone and velvet, magic woven into every corner.

Sirius continued, “Top tier’s for the public. Family members, invited guests. Basically, it’s a long wooden bench where grandmothers whisper furiously into their knitting and small children fall asleep halfway through testimony.”

Harry cracked a grin.

“Third tier’s for the press,” Sirius said. “You’d think they’d be loud, but cameras aren’t allowed to flash, too disruptive, so you’ve got a dozen people with auto-sketching quills and tired eyes watching for a single eyebrow raise from Dumbledore like it’s the second coming of Merlin.”

“And the second tier?” Harry asked.

Sirius raised a brow. “That’s where the real power lives. The Ancient and Most Noble Houses.”

His tone shifted slightly, just enough to hint at the weight of the words.

“There are sixteen of them,” he said, lifting a hand and ticking them off one by one. “Abbot, Avery, Black--” he said this one with a curl of distaste “-- Blishwick, Bones, Burke, Greengrass, Longbottom, Malfoy, McKinnon, Nott, Potter, Prewett, Rosier, Selwyn, Shafiq, Yaxley.”

Harry’s brows drew in. “Some of those are… familiar.”

“They should be,” Sirius muttered. “Half of them fund half the shite we’re fighting against.”

He glanced toward the room and casually pointed with his glass.

“Edgar Bones, Lord Bones, over there near the fireplace. Brilliant man. He’s on the Wizengamot now. Grew up in the House of Bones, which is one of the oldest lines in Britain. His magic’s so precise it’s like duelling with a scalpel; I always let Remus be his sparing partner."

Harry followed his gaze. Edgar now stood speaking quietly with Dedalus Diggle and Sturgis Podmore, his movements clipped, shoulders squared. His presence was composed, measured, but firm.

“And of course,” Sirius added, “James; Lord Potter. Got that ring on his finger, yeah? Signet’s the key to his seat. Once that ring accepts you, you can vote, speak, and challenge laws. It doesn’t pass to you unless the family accepts you.”

Harry swallowed. “It’s magical?”

“Sentient,” Sirius confirmed. “Sort of. Or maybe ‘instinctive’ is the better word. It knows blood, yes, but it knows intention more.”

Harry thought of how it had shimmered at him. Not demandingly. Just… present. Like it had known he was watching.

“What about Frank?” Harry asked quietly. “Is he--?”

“Heir Longbottom,” Sirius said. “His mother, Lady Augusta, holds the seat still. She’s old and terrifying, but still sharp enough to put Yaxley in his place on occasion. Frank’ll take over the second she cedes, or... when the time comes.”

“And Alice?”

“Not from an ancient house, technically,” Sirius said, “but that woman could hex a thestral out of the sky and make it apologise. She’s more respected than half the room down there.”

There was a pause.

Harry looked back at Sirius. “What about you?”

Sirius’ smile went thin.

“I’m Heir to the House of Black,” he said. “Still, even though I walked out. Even though I spat in their pureblood tea and hexed my own mother’s silver.”

“You still get a seat?”

Sirius tilted his head. “Technically. I’m allowed to sit by blood and by magic. But I don’t. And I won’t. That chair isn’t mine. Not while it means siding with people like Rosier or Selwyn.”

Harry’s throat was tight. “But you could.”

“I could,” Sirius agreed. “And I may. Someday. But only when I can vote in direct opposition to everything they’ve ever stood for.”

The room was quiet for a moment.

Sirius gave him a look. “James tried to get me to take it last year. Said we’d do it together. I told him I was too busy learning how to make Death Eaters cry.”

Harry laughed.

“What about the other tiers?” he asked, voice softer.

Sirius leaned forward. “The first tier, the bottom, is where Dumbledore sits. Chief Warlock, he has the final say. Can override any deadlock. He shares it with the Minister for Magic, the Clerk of the Wand--”

“The what?”

“The Clerk of the Wizarding Wand,” Sirius repeated solemnly. “Sounds stupid, I know. But it’s a title as old as the Wizengamot itself. The Clerk records every vote cast, every word spoken. There’s a magical transcript sealed at Gringotts for every session. Unalterable.”

Harry blinked. “And people just… trust that?”

“People don’t just trust it,” Sirius said. “It’s magically bound. If the Clerk tries to falsify a record, their wand shatters. Literally.”

Harry whistled. “Okay, that’s... alright.”

“At the Minister’s side is their assistant,” Sirius continued. “Usually someone chosen for their discretion, but occasionally just a glorified secretary with illusions of grandeur.”

“And I'm assuming there's security?”

“Oh, yeah. Aurors; one on either side of the dais,” Sirius said. “Wands at the ready. Not just for protection, but also to shut down unruly debates. You ever seen a debate go sideways in magical politics?”

Harry shrugged. “Not particularly my brand of entertainment."

Sirius snorted. “See, I thought that too until I saw Lord Selwyn try to jinx someone for correcting his Latin. Edgar Bones hit him with a Stunning Spell so fast the press didn’t even catch it. James showed me his memory.”

Harry leaned back, trying to take it all in.

“And all of this... James is in the middle of it?”

Sirius nodded. “He speaks at nearly every session. Sometimes twice. Takes notes like a madman. Studies old laws in the evenings just so he can be prepared when they try to reintroduce old blood purist legislation in new robes.”

“Does it help?” Harry asked.

Sirius looked at him. “Sometimes. Sometimes he wins. Sometimes he forces a tie, and Dumbledore has to break it. But he’s there. And that matters. To people watching. To people who think no one in power cares about what’s happening.”

Harry didn’t respond. He just stared into the fire for a moment, heart full and aching.

Harry leaned back, firewhiskey forgotten in his hand, eyes drifting toward the hearth as Sirius spoke. The room’s warmth felt distant for a moment, as if his body were here but his thoughts were slipping sideways, into memory.

He remembered Kingsley.

Remembered the heavy hush of the Ministry after the war. The way everything felt brittle, like the world itself was stunned into silence.

Kingsley had taken him aside not a week after Voldemort’s fall. The man’s robes had been soot-stained, his eyes ringed with exhaustion but still clear, still kind.

“You’ve got a right to the Potter seat on the Wizengamot,” he’d said, voice low, almost reverent. “If you ever want it. It’s yours.”

Harry had blinked at him, barely processing the words. He didn’t ask what the Wizengamot even was. Didn’t ask what it would mean. At the time, he hadn’t wanted to know. He’d wanted quiet. Sleep. The chance to walk down a corridor without reaching for his wand. He hadn’t fought to sit in a chamber and make laws.

He’d fought to survive.

So he’d thanked Kingsley. Politely. And never brought it up again.

And now, here he was, hearing about it from Sirius Black; alive, young, laughing beside a fire in a world where everything was still possible. Harry’s stomach twisted, but he said nothing.

Sirius, oblivious to the reverberations in Harry’s silence, leaned back and clinked his glass against the table.

“Stick with us, Sayre,” he said with a wink. “You might just learn how to rule a country.”

Harry smiled faintly, swallowing whatever strange ache had lodged in his chest.

All of a sudden, the main door creaked open.

The hush that followed was instant.

Even among this riot of voices, this warm constellation of people and history, something about that door opening made the air shift.

Harry looked.

Remus Lupin stepped inside.

He looked… tired.

Not frail, not broken-- but tired in a way that clung to his shoulders. His coat was patched, old but cared for. His boots were muddy. His eyes, those same soft, watchful eyes Harry remembered from Quiet A Few Books, swept the room with quiet precision. Not looking for threats.

Looking for home.

And when his gaze landed on Sirius, it lit.

Sirius’ grin stretched, boyish and brilliant. “About time, Moony. We were starting to worry the wolves had claimed you as their own.”

Remus raised an eyebrow. “They offered. I declined.”

A ripple of laughter followed, warm and easy.

But Harry couldn’t laugh. He couldn’t move.

The door opened again.

Harry didn’t need to look.

He knew.

He felt it.

The air grew thick.

The blood in his veins turned hot and crawling.

He looked.

Peter Pettigrew stood in the doorway.

Small, slight, pale with the cold. His hair damp from snow, his robes too big at the sleeves, frayed at the hems. He looked around, gave a tentative wave to someone, eyes flicking nervously. He looked harmless.

Ordinary.

Forgettable.

And Harry’s magic surged.

He didn’t feel it until the windows in the far wall trembled. Until the candle flames bent inward. Until someone’s butterbeer tipped itself.

But Lily saw.

Harry frowned just as a bottle on the nearby table gave a tiny, sudden tremor.

Lily saw this too. Flashbacks to the Hospital Wing; windows rattling in their panes, bed frames shaking and scarpering.

Harry didn’t notice it. Another one followed. A glass. A chair leg. A spoon.

And then the bottle in Sirius’s hand rattled once, sharply.

He blinked down at it. “Oi,” he said, grinning. “Merlin, Pete, your entrance’s got the girls shakin' and my beer foaming. You owe me another if this one overflows.”

That cut the tension. Laughter again.

And Lily moved.

She was at his side in seconds, laying a careful hand on his arm.

“Hey,” she said softly. “Rigel, you alright?”

He blinked. His heart was hammering. His jaw ached.

“Yeah,” he said. Too fast. “Yeah. All good.”

Lily didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t press.

Instead, she smiled, as if gently pulling him from wherever he’d gone. “Come on. I don’t think you’ve met Frank and Alice properly. Or-- Remus and Peter.”

Harry exhaled.

Swallowed.

“Alright,” he said. His voice was rough.

She led him forward. The group shifted, welcoming, moving to include him.

“Frank, Alice,” Lily began, turning slightly to gesture. “Remus. Peter. This is--”

But Remus had already turned.

His eyes widened.

“Rigel,” he breathed. “Rigel Sayre.”

Harry froze.

Remus stepped forward, stunned. “I thought-- I mean, I wasn’t sure, but-- the bookshop.”

His voice was half-broken with wonder, half with confusion.

Harry smiled, sheepish. “Yeah. That was me.”

Remus reached out, took his hand.

The shake was firm. Warm. And entirely too kind. Just like the last time they'd seen each other, and everytime before.

“I knew it,” he said. “I knew I wasn’t imagining it.”

Sirius leaned between them with theatrical flair. “Alright, alright, what is this? Are we greeting long-lost brothers now? Moony, how do you know our secret wizard?”

Remus laughed, still shaken. “Bookshop near Charing's Cross. I thought he was a Muggle at first, but then introduced himself as Rigel Sayre. He gave me a travel guide on Belgium."

Harry grinned, "And an excellent fantasy novel."

“Oh." James blinked. "That’s how you knew about the werewolves.”

Remus stilled.

Just slightly.

Harry caught it. And softened.

“It’s brave,” he said quickly. “What you’re doing. All of it. I barely want to walk into a room of wizards most days. Let alone a den of wolves.”

Remus looked at him-- and smiled.

A proper smile, wide and full and a little cracked at the edges.

“Thank you,” he said.

Lily grinned, delighted. “Right, now you’ve met Remus; Frank, Alice, come here, don’t make me yell.”

Alice snorted. “When have you ever not yelled?”

They came forward.

More laughter. More introductions.

Everyone spoke.

Except Peter.

Harry watched him from the corner of his eye. Small, quiet, not yet the traitor, not yet the coward. Just a boy. Looking for his place.

Sirius said something to Remus, and Lily pulled Alice into a discussion about some patient at St. Mungo’s.

And James clapped Peter on the shoulder and said, “Pete! This is Rigel Sayre. You didn’t get to meet him-- he was off playing spy last week.”

Suddenly a hand was extending toward him, pale and clammy, fingers short and chewed at the nails. Awkward. Hesitant. Polite.

Harry stared at it.

Peter Pettigrew.

He knew this hand.

He had seen it trembling while clutching a wand in the Shrieking Shack. Had seen it gleam silver and merciless as it closed around his own throat. Had felt it dig into his ribs as they tumbled through the cellar of Malfoy Manor, the stink of fear clinging to them both like blood and dust.

He had watched Peter die.

And now here it was again, offered to him like a peace branch he did not ask for, attached to a boy who looked like he’d never even held power in his life. Not the kind that broke a friendship. Not the kind that broke a world.

The fury rose in him like heat-- uninvited, involuntary. Rage with no direction. Fury that pulsed in his bones, made his knuckles itch. The glass in someone’s drink nearby gave a tremble. Bottles on the bar gave a polite rattle, like someone had knocked against the shelf.

Harry didn’t notice.

But Lily did, yet again.

He caught the shift in her eyes this time just before he took Peter’s hand, the way she snapped her gaze to him, like she was remembering something.

He took Peter’s hand.

It was warm. Sweaty. Slightly shaking.

And Harry gripped it too tightly.

Peter flinched.

It wasn’t obvious, just a slight twitch at the corner of his eye, the way his lips parted like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite get air.

Harry stared down at him. Looked into the pale, too-round face. The thinning, straw-coloured hair. The faint acne scars. He was... soft. Blurry at the edges. A boy built of anxiety and uncertainty. Already folding in on himself from years of not quite fitting in beside the bright and burnished people he called friends.

Forgettable.

So forgettable.

That’s what made the betrayal worse, in the end. It wasn’t that Peter had been powerful. It was that he hadn’t. That he’d been... normal. Mild. That he’d loved them, and then handed them over like they were meaningless.

He remembered the exact sound of Sirius’s voice, rasping with grief in a ruined drawing room: “We trusted him.”

He remembered Remus’ silence.

He remembered death.

But this boy, this Peter, hadn’t done it yet.

He hadn’t even imagined it.

He was just standing there, looking nervous and oddly hopeful, as if trying to prove to himself that he belonged in the room at all.

And Harry-- Harry realised his grip had gone white-knuckled.

Peter’s hand was clammy under his own, twitching.

He let go like he’d touched a live wire. Snatched his hand back. Swallowed hard.

“Sorry,” he said, voice rough. “Nice to meet you. Um. Spy work, that’s… dangerous.”

He meant it as a question, maybe. A nudge. Anything to normalise the moment. Anything to pretend he hadn’t just tried to crush the bones of a boy who hadn’t yet earned his sins.

Peter blinked. Then squeaked, “Oh, yeah... um, yeah, it’s-- well, it’s mostly, you know, just listening. Or… um. Watching. But still! Important. Dumbledore’s got me on it.”

He lifted his chin slightly as he said it, like the name Dumbledore was a badge of honour in and of itself. Like it justified his presence here, among all these sharp-edged people.

And to be fair, it did.

Remus, standing just beside them, chimed in with that familiar quiet warmth: “Dumbledore tends to give everyone a task when they join. Something just for them. To prove themselves."

He gave Harry a smile that was genuine, curious, and steady. Harry felt the last of his panic ease under its weight.

James, already grinning, leaned toward Harry. “Yeah, wonder what yours’ll be.”

Harry gave a noncommittal hum.

Peter was still standing nearby, shuffling his weight, looking uncertain.

Harry glanced sideways.

If he hadn’t known the truth, if he hadn’t lived the cost, he wouldn’t have noticed anything odd about Peter at all.

He blended.

That was his magic.

That was the gift no one had seen until it was too late. He was the kind of man who slipped into the cracks between great names and let the shadows do the work.

He wasn’t evil. Not yet.

Just weak.

Just tired.

Just small.

Harry felt the anger shift sideways inside him; not gone, never gone, but no longer burning.

It wasn’t pity, not quite.

But it was something like clarity.

He’d forgotten what it was like to meet someone before the damage had been done.

To see a scar before it formed.

“Reckon reconnaissance must be exhausting,” Harry said eventually, quieter now, eyes scanning Peter’s face.

“Oh, no! I mean, yeah. I mean--” Peter scratched the back of his neck, ears going a bit pink. “I haven’t done anything, you know, dangerous dangerous yet. Mostly just… reporting. Notes. Following people. Nothing flashy.”

“You’ll get flashy soon enough,” James said, clapping him on the shoulder. “They always throw us in the deep end eventually.”

“Don’t scare him,” Remus said gently. “He’s doing fine.”

“Doing better than I did when I started,” Sirius added, cutting between them with a grin. He elbowed Peter lightly. “At least you didn’t accidentally infiltrate the wrong meeting in your first month. Ended up at a knitting club. They taught me three different ways to purl before I escaped.”

Peter laughed, high-pitched and grateful. Remus chuckled. Even James cracked a crooked smile.

But Sirius’ eyes drifted to Harry again.

He was watching. Still watching.

And Harry felt, for a moment, like something had been set in motion. Like a stone had been dropped, and ripples would come.

He just didn’t know where yet.

But for now, he smiled faintly. Let his shoulders settle.

This was Peter, for now.

Just Peter.

Not Wormtail.

Not traitor.

Not yet.

“Welcome to the Order,” Peter said.

Harry nodded once.

And said nothing.

There was a beat of silence.

Not awkward at first. Not entirely. Just the sort of quiet that follows the weight of too many introductions, too much newness.

A lull that waits to see who will speak next.

Harry stood, acutely aware of every eye in the room. The laughter that had come with introductions had died down, and now, in its place, hung something uncertain. Not suspicion. But tension. Like a string pulled taut between people who hadn’t quite decided whether to trust the note it played.

Lily’s hand came to rest on his back.

Warm. Steady.

He didn’t flinch. But he did feel it, like a nudge of reassurance against the anxiety thrumming behind his ribs.

James clocked the movement. Harry saw his eyes flick to Lily’s hand, then to Harry’s face. Concern tightened the corners of his mouth. Not jealousy. Not quite suspicion either. Just… the protective instinct of someone who’d spent a war learning to notice the silences between words.

Sirius, meanwhile, was still watching Remus like he couldn’t quite believe he was real.

And Remus--

Remus tilted his head at Harry, eyes narrowed with something thoughtful. Not distrust. Curiosity. That gentle, analytical gaze Harry remembered from a dozen nights in the Grimmauld Place drawing room, from quiet fireside talks. The kind of gaze that could disassemble someone’s soul with kindness alone.

And then Frank clapped his hands together, rubbing his palms with purpose. “Right. Let’s not stand around gawping like ghouls. Dumbledore will be here any minute. Might as well get this show on the road.”

He drew his wand and flicked it in a slow, circular gesture.

“Tempus.”

The charm shimmered to life in a burst of orange wisps-- soft and curling, like fire coaxed from breath and spun through invisible threads. The magic drifted upward, slow and delicate, dancing like marionettes pulled by threads only Frank could see. They bent and turned, twining into a lattice of shapes and motion until, with a flicker, the air snapped still.

A date etched itself in flame at the centre of the room:

5 January, 1979 — 20:17 GMT

“Right on time,” Frank murmured, satisfied. “Let’s find our seats.”

The room shifted into motion. Chairs dragged back, bodies turned. People murmured greetings again as they filtered toward the crescent tables that arced through the centre of the pub. There was a worn sort of order to it, like something rehearsed a hundred times before, even if half the players were new.

Harry moved with the group, letting himself be guided. Lily took one side of him, James the other. Their presence on either side felt oddly anchoring. Like they formed a barrier against whatever storm might come next.

Once seated, James leaned in, elbow on the table, voice lowered just for Harry. “You alright?”

Harry blinked, dragged himself back into the present. “Yeah,” he said. “Just a bit overwhelmed. A lot of new faces.”

James tilted his head. “Yeah. I get that.” He paused, then smiled crookedly. “Want me to write a cheat sheet on everyone? I could do stick-figure portraits. That’d help.”

Harry chuckled, a little weakly. “Honestly, wouldn’t be the worst idea.”

“Right then,” James said, pretending to crack his knuckles. “Lily, obviously, terrifying in five languages. Sirius, morally allergic to shirts with buttons. Frank, very married, don’t try it. Alice will hex your eyebrows off. Dorcas is faster than she looks, and Marlene will win at cards even when she’s losing.”

Harry blinked. “You’re... actually doing it?”

“Absolutely. This is vital information.”

Lily rolled her eyes. “You forgot Edgar Bones.”

“Ah, yes. Edgar. Voice like a cello. Stares at everyone like he’s about to take them to court.”

Harry huffed a laugh just as the door creaked open once more,

Every head turned.

And in swept Dumbledore.

He didn’t stride so much as drift, cloak whispering along the stone, stars embroidered at the hem catching what little light the room offered. His expression was grave, but his eyes… his eyes softened at the sight of them.

“Thank you, Aberforth,” he said, pausing by the bar. “Your generosity remains unmatched.”

From behind the bar, Aberforth grunted. He looked almost exactly the same as in Harry’s time;  stubborn beard, pinched expression, as though the entire act of being awake annoyed him. He jerked his chin and said nothing.

Dumbledore moved to the front.

Harry watched the way his gaze passed across the room. How it hesitated-- just slightly-- when it reached Harry. There was no suspicion. Just quiet consideration. He saw the way Harry sat at the helm of this gathering, flanked by James and Lily, Sirius and Remus just behind.

It wasn’t subtle.

It was a placement of trust.

Or at least an invitation to earn it.

Dumbledore cleared his throat, and the room hushed as if someone had laid a silencing spell over them.

“Good evening,” he said, voice like deep water, quiet and steady. “And welcome. It is a gift to see so many familiar faces. And a great many brave ones besides.”

A pause.

“I shall begin, as we must, with the minutes from our last meeting.”

He opened a parchment scroll, eyes scanning. “Held on the third of December. Absent were Gideon and Fabian Prewett, due to a mission intercepting Dark Artefact transfers in Kent. Outcome: successful, with minimal casualties. Sturgis Podmore and Caradoc Dearborn also excused due to international travel. Minerva McGonagall was present.”

He looked up, a small twinkle in his eye. “Unfortunately, she is not here tonight. She is currently serving late-night detention duty after two students decided to levitate their dormitories above the Astronomy Tower. I believe it involved an illegal cauldron and a flying carpet.”

Sirius and James exchanged a look of pure mischief.

“I’ll kill them,” James said under his breath. “Stealing our act.”

Sirius snorted. “They better leave a legacy.”

Dumbledore allowed the laughter to ripple gently before continuing. “Now then. We shall begin with brief reports.”

He turned his gaze to a man Harry hadn’t recognised earlier;  tall, lanky, with a dark blond beard and sharp cheekbones. His robes were travel-worn.

“Caradoc?”

The man nodded, brushing his fingers over a map at the table in front of him. “Two weeks in Hungary. Spotted a new crest among the Eaters out there-- three snakes entwined, not a known sigil. Possibly a splinter faction, or a new disguise. Saw them near the dragon preserves. No attacks, but enough activity to note. I sent a report back with the centaur courier, for their safety.”

“Very good,” Dumbledore said. “Continue monitoring. And your contact?”

Caradoc nodded. “Still alive. Still refusing bribes. Good man.”

Dumbledore turned his eyes to Peter.

“Mr. Pettigrew?”

Peter squeaked upright in his chair, nearly knocking over his water. “Oh! Yes, um… France. Northern edge. Recon team picked up whispers of recruitment happening in small villages. Some of the names match those who’ve refused Hogwarts for years. Old bloodlines. They’re trying to build loyalty.”

“And how did your cover hold?”

Peter blinked, then smiled a little too brightly. “No one suspected a thing.”

“Excellent,” Dumbledore said.

He moved forward, voice dipping.

“And now…” he said, looking directly at Harry, “we welcome a new member among our ranks.”

Every eye turned to Harry. Lily nudged him to stand.

Harry stood like someone being summoned for execution. His legs felt longer than he remembered. His tongue didn’t feel like it belonged to him.

“Hi,” he said, then winced. “Er-- my name’s Rigel Sayre. I, um… recently came over from the States.”

There were a few polite nods. Edgar Bones raised a brow.

Harry pressed on. “I happened to run into the charitable Professor Dumbledore on New Year’s Eve.”

Someone from the back, possibly Mary, called, “Lucky! What kind of parties does Dumbledore attend?”

James snorted. “The kind where Death Eaters target children.”

Silence.

Sharp and cold.

Dumbledore’s voice was solemn. “Yes. But thanks to our new recruit here, only five were injured. The village is being rebuilt. Lives were saved.”

He paused.

Then turned, and for the next full minute, he spoke directly to the room.

“He did not come seeking membership. He did not ask for it. But when the moment arose, he acted. Without promise of reward. Without protection. He is brave. He is moral. And I believe… he is trustworthy.”

Harry’s throat closed. Trustworthy, he said. Harry didn't believe it.

“I ask you to bear witness as he joins us fully.” Dumbledore said.

A silence followed.

Then a few nods. A few murmurs. Not enthusiastic, but accepting.

Dumbledore’s gaze lingered on the crowd for a breath longer, then he nodded once and turned toward the edge of the firelight.

“Edgar,” he said, his voice low but commanding, “would you act as Bonder?”

There was a shifting in the far circle of chairs, and Edgar Bones stood with the solemnity of someone called upon to keep tradition, not just law. He adjusted the cuffs of his robes, stepped forward with measured grace, and pulled from his sleeve a wand that shimmered at the core; blackthorn, by the look of it, but veined with streaks of white like old marble. The kind of wand used by magistrates. 

“Step forward,” Edgar said gently.

Harry did. His limbs felt loose and clumsy. Every eye in the room clung to him like lichen, silent and weighing.

He met Dumbledore at the centre of the circle, where the firelight seemed to breathe. For a moment, there was only the sound of wood crackling, and the slow creak of Frank shifting in his chair.

Then Dumbledore offered his hand.

Harry took it.

The contact jolted through him like lightning; not painful, but potent. There was power here. An ancient, heavy kind. Something steeped in stone and time. He thought, for a heartbeat, of the Unbreakable Vow, and his own fingers twitched instinctively.

Dumbledore felt it. He didn’t say anything.

Just quirked an eyebrow, dry as old parchment. As if to say: Yes. I know what this reminds you of. No. It isn’t that.

“Begin, Edgar,” Dumbledore said, still not letting go of Harry’s hand.

Edgar raised his wand.

The air shifted.

There was no flash. No thunder. Just a slow unraveling of colour; ribbons of deep green and scarlet unfurling from the wand’s tip like silk caught in water. The strands twisted around Harry’s and Dumbledore’s clasped hands, weaving through the space between them, pulsing gently.

“Rigel Sayre,” Edgar intoned, voice steady, ritual-bound. “Do you swear fealty to the Order of the Phoenix? To hold its secrets close, to protect its members as you would your own?”

The green thread dipped. Paused. Waiting.

“I do,” Harry said.

One of the ribbons snapped into place around his wrist, like a shackle made of light. Like a promise tightening.

“Do you swear to stand when others fall? To fight when it is easier to hide? To be the voice in silence and the shield in shadow?”

“I do,” Harry said, more certain this time.

A scarlet band looped around the first, forming a pattern now-- braided, beautiful.

“Do you swear to defend the helpless, the hunted, the forgotten? Even at the cost of your safety? Even when no one remembers your name?”

Harry swallowed.

“I do.”

A third strand joined the others, gold this time. Luminous.

“Do you swear,” Edgar said at last, “to guard the secrets of the Order, to reveal them to none without sanction? To carry its mission in silence and steel, no matter what comes?”

Harry hesitated.

Only a moment.

“I do.”

The final thread, silver, thin as spider silk, wove itself through the others, and all four locked into place, shimmering around his wrist.

Then, as gently as it had begun, the light receded.

Edgar lowered his wand. The strands faded into Harry’s skin, gone, but not. Not really. He could still feel them humming beneath the surface. Like a second pulse.

Dumbledore finally released his hand.

“Then it is done,” Edgar said, stepping back.

Dumbledore turned to the room, voice low but clear.

“Welcome,” he said, “to the Order of the Phoenix.”

The cheer rose instantly. Not thunderous; this wasn’t a celebration. But warm. Accepting.

Lily clapped once, then again, pulling Harry into a brief, fierce side-hug. James grinned and whooped, slapping him on the back hard enough to make him stumble. Sirius raised his glass. Frank gave a firm nod. Alice winked.

Even Remus-- watchful, measured-- smiled.

Peter clapped, too.

Harry looked at all of them, these people he’d known only through memories and gravestones, and for one impossible moment, he let himself believe it might be real. That this war wasn’t already written. That these names wouldn’t fade into history, smudged with blood.

That maybe--

Just maybe--

He could save them.

Chapter 10: Misplaced in Time: Stew with the Company of Ghosts

Summary:

this one is just worldbuilding and dialogue. very sorry to anyone who wanted ACTION KAPOW.

6th of January, 1979
Ladbroke Grove, West London
A Day Later

Harry stood in the centre of the flat and turned in a slow, deliberate circle.

It was quiet. Not the kind of quiet he’d known at the Hogwarts Hospital Wing, or in ever in the woods behind the Burrow, or even Grimmauld Place when it was behaving-- but the kind of silence that hummed just beneath the surface.

A mundane quiet.

The kind that carried through walls and ceilings, paper-thin, the occasional distant stomp of footsteps from the floor above, a car door slamming three streets over, a baby crying three houses down.

The air smelled faintly of bleach and damp. Cold clung to the windows, condensation painting the corners like frostbite. Somewhere behind the walls, a pipe groaned in protest, and he thought he could hear the gentle drip of a tap that refused to quite close.

The flat was small, narrow as a shoebox, squeezed into the second floor of a washed-out brick terrace on the edge of West London. The living room was barely large enough to hold the sagging brown sofa that slouched against one wall, its leather cracked and peeling like the skin of something sun-scorched. A matching armchair had long since lost the fight for symmetry-- its arms threadbare, its back dented like someone had punched it in frustration and no one had bothered to fix it.

A small kitchenette stood adjacent, separated only by a partial counter and an ancient linoleum floor that peeled like dead bark. The fridge was a cube of beige enamel, humming erratically like it couldn’t decide whether it was alive or not. A two-ring hob rested beside a shallow sink, above which hung a cupboard door that refused to close all the way. A single tea towel-- clean, suspiciously clean-- hung on a crooked hook beside it, as though waiting for someone to make use of it and never quite getting the chance.

In one corner stood a narrow dining table, warped with water damage at the edges, a single chair tucked under it. The chair’s front left leg was shorter than the rest, and someone had wedged a matchbook beneath it in an act of desperate optimism.

To his left, a door hung slightly open to reveal a bathroom the size of a cupboard. Pale green tiles lined the walls, cracked at the corners, the grout long since surrendered to age and time. The sink was a squat pedestal thing with separate taps, one marked “Hot” in red plastic lettering. The mirror above it had silver peeling off at the edges, and the pull-chain for the toilet hung like a noose.

Ahead, a second door led to what passed as a bedroom, a sloped-ceiling thing with a single iron-framed bed and a nightstand so short it barely cleared the mattress. The bedding was neutral, nondescript. Not new. But not threadbare either. Not yet.

It was ordinary.

Painfully so.

He thought back to the previous evening.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

5th of January, 1979
The Hogs Head, Hogsmeade

Harry found himself in a loose circle with Remus again, the heat from the hearth soaking into the back of his legs as voices twisted up through the haze of firewhiskey and fresh memory.

“You ever get that feeling,” Remus said dryly, eyes flicking to where James and Sirius were loudly arguing over whether a Hippogriff or a Griffin had better aerodynamics, “that you’ve walked into someone else’s extremely noisy, highly alcoholic family reunion?”

Harry chuckled, sipping his drink. “I’d be more worried if they tried to set up a three-legged race.”

“Don’t tempt Sirius,” Remus muttered. “He once made us do a broom relay race in the middle of Charms. Flitwick didn’t know whether to applaud or expel us.”

“I’m guessing it was both.”

Remus grinned, his teeth just peeking out beneath the pale stretch of his smile. “You’d have done fine. You’ve got that look.”

Harry raised a brow. “That look?”

“The one that says you’d rather die than lose in a friendly competition.”

Harry smirked. “Can’t confirm or deny.”

They stood like that for a moment, shoulder to shoulder, while the chaos around them ebbed and flowed like tidewater. The room hadn’t quite emptied after the meeting; the people who remained were the kind of people who lingered in the doorway long after a war had ended just to be sure. Laughing a bit too loud. Drinking a bit too slow. There was something defiant in it.

Fabian and Gideon were in the far corner, playing a vicious game of Exploding Snap with Dorcas Meadowes that was quickly escalating into a duel. Emmeline Vance was perched on the edge of a chair, legs crossed elegantly, voice low as she conversed with Marlene, who had stolen one of the firewhiskeys from the bar and was now pretending it was hers by divine right.

Everywhere Harry looked, people were alive.

It made something twist, painfully, in his ribs.

“You alright?” Remus asked.

Harry blinked, realising his gaze had lingered too long.

“Yeah,” he said. “Just--taking it in.”

Remus nodded. “Hard not to, sometimes. Everyone looks different when they’re not actively dodging curses.”

“Speak for yourself,” Harry said. “James looks like he’s still preparing a duel with that barstool.”

“I’m ninety percent sure Sirius just tried to proposition it.”

“‘Do you come here often?’”

Remus choked on his drink.

“Don’t encourage him,” he wheezed, patting his chest. “You’re going to get me hexed.”

Harry was grinning by now. “That’s alright. I’m new. I’ll pretend I don’t know you.”

“That’s fair.”

They shared a look, the kind that wrapped around a dozen unsaid things. It was easy, being around Remus.

Too easy. Like slipping on an old coat you forgot you still owned.

“You really threw me,” Remus said after a moment, voice softening. “Back at the bookshop.”

Harry’s stomach jolted.

“Did I?” he asked, as casually as he could.

Remus gave him a sly side-glance. “You did. I was told I came back to headquarters with this look. Like someone had stolen the last page of my favourite novel.”

Harry felt heat bloom beneath his collar. “I wasn’t trying to--”

“I know,” Remus said. “But I suppose I've got a mind like a trap. And you were the first puzzle I couldn’t solve in a while.”

“I panicked,” Harry said, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “I thought-- I was trying not to… be seen.”

Remus shrugged. “You were seen anyway.”

There was something about the way he said it that made Harry freeze. Not a threat. Not quite a comfort, either.

Just truth.

“You were seen,” Remus repeated, “and still, here you are.”

Before Harry could respond, another voice joined them.

“Oi, Moony,” Lily called from across the room, her arms crossed, mouth quirked with amusement. “You haven’t monopolised our mystery man, have you?”

Remus grinned. “You’re just jealous because he laughed at my jokes.”

“I’m scandalised,” Lily said, sweeping over with a half-drunk glass of wine and mischief in her eyes. “Has he even been introduced to Mary yet?”

As if summoned, Mary Macdonald appeared beside her, laughing as she tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “Heard my name. Should I be flattered or worried?”

“Both,” Lily and Remus said in unison.

“Mary,” Lily said, “this is Rigel Sayre, the new recruit. Talented wizard. Savvy under pressure. Possibly has an illegal haircut.”

“Oi,” Harry said.

Mary raised a brow. “You’re not as tall as I imagined. You looked huge during the vows.”

“That’s because he’s all mystery and no proportion,” Remus added helpfully.

“I could hex all of you,” Harry muttered, but he was smiling.

“Too late,” said a voice from just behind him. “We’re already hexed. With your charm.”

Harry turned.

Marlene McKinnon.

Her grin was slanted, dangerous, and inviting all at once. She didn’t so much arrive as descend.

Beside her, Dorcas Meadowes offered a quiet nod, her expression softer but no less striking. Together, they looked like trouble and the promise of more.

“Rigel,” Lily said grandly, “these two will be your downfall.”

Marlene winked. “I do so love living up to expectations.”

Harry didn’t know what to say, and didn’t have to.

Marlene slid an arm around his shoulder like they’d known each other for years and said, “So, I heard you’re American.”

Harry blinked. “Er--technically.”

“That’s alright,” she said, steering him toward the hearth. “We’ll forgive you. Eventually.”

Dorcas followed, arms crossed, lips twitching. “Marlene collects strays.”

“I do not.”

“You do. Remember the Hungarian diplomat with the glass eye?”

“He flirted with me.”

“He was forty-seven.”

“And gifted in languages.”

Harry laughed.

Properly, this time.

Loud and bright and a little startled at how easy it came.

He didn’t know Marlene. Not really. Not from his time. And maybe that was why it felt so simple.

There was no ghost between them. No memory layered beneath her skin that he had to navigate.

It was like making a friend. Fresh.

And for once, it didn’t feel like betrayal.

“Tell me, Rigel,” Marlene said, planting him on a barstool, “how do you feel about enchanted darts and borderline-illegal trivia?”

“That depends,” Harry said, deadpan. “How many borderline-illegal parts?”

She grinned. “All of them.”

“Then I’m in. Prepare to lose." Harry said with the kind of nonchalance that made him sound more dangerous than he really was.

The group howled.

Remus barked a sharp laugh into his drink, nearly spilling it. Marlene slapped Dorcas on the shoulder so hard she coughed mid-sip. Mary doubled over wheezing. Sirius was halfway into saying something smug but just gave up, giggling into his sleeve.

“I’m not saying you’re trouble, Sayre,” Marlene said through a smile, “but if the Aurors ever raid the Order’s pub, I’m tossing you at them first.”

“Good,” Harry replied. “Then I can hex them in the back when they think I’m unarmed.”

Dorcas choked on her drink again.

And then, without warning, Marlene grabbed Harry’s wrist and yanked. “Come on, Rigel. You’re not getting away with sitting still all night.”

“I’m literally sitting peacefully,” Harry objected, but he was already halfway across the room, pulled in Marlene’s orbit like some wayward moon.

“You’ve got the posture of a man who hasn’t played darts against a Gryffindor,” she shot back.

Behind them, chairs scraped and voices lifted-- Remus, Dorcas, and Mary trailing after. Sirius, muttering something about not letting anAmerican show him up at a pub game. James called, “Save me a go!” and then, to Lily, “You’re in charge of making sure I don’t try to enchant the darts again.”

“You enchanted them to hum the Quidditch anthem,” Lily said flatly.

James grinned, entirely unrepentant. “I wanted atmosphere.”

They gathered near the back wall where a lopsided dartboard hung, faded concentric rings barely visible through years of abuse. The game began immediately, fast and loose, with Dorcas tossing first and missing entirely, prompting Sirius to gasp, “I thought you were the sharp one.”

“I am,” Dorcas replied sweetly. “But this board’s crooked.”

Mary elbowed her. “Just admit you’re pants.”

Dorcas flipped her off cheerfully and stepped back.

Marlene took the next round. Her throw was precise, graceful, and dramatically overdone. “Watch and learn,” she said as the dart hit just shy of the bullseye. She bowed.

Harry gave her a slow clap.

Then it was his turn.

He stepped up, rolled the dart between his fingers once, and stared at the target.

The world fell away,not completely, but just enough. Enough for him to remember how to breathe slow and steady. To sink into the silence behind his ribs where the aim always lived. No spell. No wand. No magic. Just precision and pressure and memory.

He raised his arm, and let the dart fly.

It hit the bullseye dead-centre.

Remus, from behind, gave a soft huff of air.

Another dart. Another bullseye.

Marlene blinked. “Bloody hell.”

Harry didn’t smile. He just kept going, calm and quiet and wordless. Each dart landed perfectly, as though he was pouring something into them. Rage. Grief. Focus.

Sirius whistled low. “You’re not even trying, are you?”

“Nope,” Harry said, finally cracking a grin.

Remus, leaning back with arms crossed, watched with that old, slow patience that always made Harry feel known. “You’re emptying your head,” he said, mostly to himself.

Harry shrugged. “Sometimes it helps with footwork, why can't it translate to darts?"

Sirius scowled dramatically. “I call cheating.”

Dorcas handed him a dart. “You call cheating when you trip over your shoelaces.”

“I trip with style.”

“You tripped on a cat once,” Mary added.

“It was disguised as a rug.”

Marlene turned to Harry. “This is our life now. Insults and bad darts.”

“Could be worse,” Harry said. “Could be fighting Death Eaters.”

That earned a ripple of silence. Then Marlene nodded once. “Too right. Alright, Pretty Boy, your round again.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Pretty Boy?”

“You’ve got the cheekbones for it,” Dorcas said. “Sirius is threatened.”

Sirius raised his hands. “I’m not threatened. I’m flattered.”

“I’m threatened,” James called from the bar. “He’s prettier than me.”

“You said that about a frog once,” Lily shouted.

“That frog had charisma!”

Laughter again, spilling into the haze of firelight and shared drinks. Remus finally stepped forward to throw a dart, but he did it like someone solving a puzzle: careful, calculated, a map forming in real time behind his eyes. It landed squarely in the second ring.

He turned to Harry. “Still not quite your level, I see.”

Harry shrugged. “Practice makes adequate.”

Sirius stepped up and missed entirely, and the group lost it again.

“You’re drunk,” James said, catching him by the shoulder.

“I am offended by the implication,” Sirius said, stumbling slightly. “And also, you’re not wrong.”

Lily had wandered over by now, a finished glass in hand. She looked between them with fond exasperation. “You lot are insufferable. Every single one of you.”

Mary raised her glass. “We try our best.”

“You always look like you’re about to start a union meeting when you drink,” Dorcas told Lily.

Lily gave her the finger without looking. “It’s the wine. It gives me opinions.”

James stumbled beside her, clearly perhaps one too many deep, and slinging an arm around her shoulders. “Wait, what’ve I missed? I feel like i've been under the lake with the Giant Squid.”

“Rigel's beating us all at darts,” Marlene said.

“Of course he is,” James said cheerfully. “Anyone who says ‘prepare to lose’ with that much granduer has to be good at projectiles.”

“Didn’t you tell me once Spotty could out-shoot you at darts?” Lily asked.

“He cheated,” James replied, aghast. “You try playing against someone who can apparate mid-throw.”

Harry frowned. “Spotty?”

James grinned. “My house-elf at Potter Manor.”

“Potter... Manor?” Harry echoed. He’d never heard of anything like that. Not really. He knew his father had grown up well-off, but a manor?

“Yeah,” Sirius chimed in, dramatically swinging an arm across Harry’s shoulders. “Big old estate. Full of secret tunnels, one particularly haunted orchard, and a library you can actually get lost in. For days. Literally.”

“He’s not exaggerating,” Remus added. “Alice once got stuck behind a shelf and started reading so long we forgot she was there.”

“She hexed the books to bring her snacks,” James said proudly.

“Unsurprising,” Lily muttered. “That woman is always twenty moves ahead of us.”

Almost on cue, Alice and Frank approached, coats already on, eyes warm with fatigue and fondness.

“Right,” Frank said. “We’re heading off. Got myself an early shift tomorrow.”

“Traitors,” Marlene called.

“We love you too,” Alice said, hugging Lily briefly. “Don’t let these idiots burn the place down.”

“No promises,” Lily replied.

They turned to Harry. “Welcome again,” Frank said. “Properly.”

Alice smiled. “You’ve got good people around you now.”

Harry nodded, a quiet lump rising in his throat. “I know.”

With that, they slipped away.

The group lingered.

Remus sat again, quieter now, but still engaged. Sirius had gone back to dramatics, arguing with Dorcas about something to do with broomsticks. Lily sipped her wine. James leaned against the wall, occasionally tossing glances between Harry and the rest like he was cataloguing something unspoken.

And Marlene, beside Harry, nudged him with her shoulder.

“You’re alright, you know,” she said, without looking at him.

“So are you.”

“Shut up,” she said fondly. “You’ll ruin my brand.”

Harry swallowed hard, stepping back, feigning a smile The dart game continued, but he couldn’t stop himself from mentally traveling to the old manor in his mind: high stone turrets, portrait-lined halls, echoes of laughter and tragedy. Why had no one mentioned it?

Potter Manor. The name felt heavy on his tongue, foreign yet familiar. He’d never heard it in his original timeline, never saw it in headlines or newspapers or heard it from any of his loved ones. And yet… here it existed, spoken reverently by Sirius. A place, a home, lost to him in every sense except in memory.

Harry caught Lily’s gentle glance. She scanned his face, eyebrows lifted, as though asking, Are you okay?

He forced a nod, and stepped aside from the group for a moment, leaning on the bar’s worn ledge. Air tasted thick with ale and firelight; the low buzz kept them warm against the encroaching autumn chill.

Potter Manor… Sirius had described it as if it were breathing in the room, alive and bearing witness. Remus too; did he know in their original timeline? What had he left unsaid? And Dumbledore: entrusted him with the murdering of a DarkLord, but had never mentioned the his family's legacy; either on the Wizengamot or in ownership. 

And now here he was, a stranger in a world caught in cycles of homes, legacies, battles, all these threads he was tangling himself into.

He was furious at himself for not asking, furious that these people-- his friends, mentors-- had all kept something so central from him. Furious at the idea he didn’t deserve to know, despite his own war, his own bloodline being legendary. Yes, Kingsley had asked him about the Lord Potter title pot-war, but no other explanation was given.

He closed his eyes, hearing the swirl of voices fading behind a hum of static rage. He wanted to demand answers. Why not me? Why not tell me about something that I was owed from blood and grief?

He opened his eyes to see Lily standing close, her voice low. “You sure you're okay?”

He forced a laugh that surprised him on its own harshness. “Just-- thinking.”

She gently nudged his arm. “Want some air?”

He nodded, and they stepped away from the group.

Lily stepped outside, through the low back door of the pub, into a narrow alleyway that smelled faintly of ash and old rain. The air was crisp-- January’s kind of cold, not sharp enough to bite but persistent in the joints, the type that hummed in silence between footfalls and breath. Behind them, the laughter and clinking glasses softened to a muffled drone, as though someone had stuffed a thick blanket over the world.

She didn't speak at first.

Just leaned her shoulder against the wall, exhaled a cloud into the chill, and looked at him sidelong.

Harry stood a few feet away, hands in his pockets, staring at a patch of broken cobblestone like it might offer answers. He wasn’t shivering, but he felt brittle. Tight in his own skin. The kind of stillness that came before something splintered.

“You alright?” Lily asked again, gently.

Harry blinked. Looked over. Forced the corners of his mouth up. “Yeah. Sorry. Bit of a weird night.”

Lily didn’t move. Didn’t nod. Just watched him.

“It’s not just the night,” she said. Not accusing, not sharp, just… certain.

Harry swallowed.

She continued, quieter, “I’ve seen people that play at calm. Seen people drink through it, or laugh through it, or sit so still you think they’re statues. But that’s not what you’re doing, is it?”

Harry shrugged, a motion too slow to mean anything. “Not sure what I’m doing, honestly.”

Lily gave a soft huff of laughter, then rubbed her hands together. “Well, whatever it is… it’s not working.”

That pulled a small smile from him, fleeting and real.

There was a pause.

She looked at him again, properly this time, her brow knitting in concern. “Is it… your mum?”

And just like that, Harry’s stomach dropped.

He turned slightly, the movement careful, measured, as if she might see through it otherwise. “What?”

“You told us she passed,” Lily said, gently. “That’s why you’re here. On your own. So far from home.”

There it was.

The lie he'd built like scaffolding around himself.

Harry hesitated, then gave the softest nod.

Lily watched him for a moment longer. Then, when she spoke again, her voice was softer. “I lost my mum last year.”

He looked up.

Something had shifted in her, just barely, like a door opening in the floor of her composure.

“I still expect to see her sometimes,” Lily said. “In the crowd at King’s Cross. Or reading in the kitchen when I floo home too quickly and forget she’s gone.”

Harry stared at her.

Her face, her freckles, her voice that was warm and direct and too much like home.

“I know it’s different,” Lily went on, “but… maybe not that different.”

Harry's throat felt tight.

He nodded, more because it was easier than speaking.

She didn’t press.

Didn’t say anything for a long stretch of seconds. Just stood there with him in the alley, her presence like a buffer against the cold and the weight of everything he couldn’t say.

And he thought-- not for the first time-- how impossibly cruel it was to finally know her. To have this.

To lie to her every time he opened his mouth.

“You know,” Lily said after a moment, her voice thoughtful, “I used to think grief was supposed to look a certain way. Crying all the time. Breaking things. Writing poetry.”

Harry huffed a quiet breath. “I’ve tried none of those.”

She smiled faintly. “Good. You don’t seem the poetry type.”

“I’m not.”

“Didn’t think so.”

She leaned her head back against the wall, red hair catching the glow from the back lantern hung above the door, and Harry realised, with a flicker of pain, that he didn’t know what she’d looked like when she grieved. When she’d lost her mother. There were no photos. No letters. No stories. Just the echoes of things that might have been.

“I went back to school two days after the funeral,” Lily said softly, “because I couldn’t stand being in the house. My dad didn’t say much. Petunia had already moved out by then. She sent flowers. She didn’t come.”

Harry’s head snapped toward her. “Petunia?”

Lily glanced at him. “My sister.”

He stared, struggling to hide the shock.

Lily’s face softened, mistaking his reaction for sympathy. “We’re not close.”

He looked away. “No. I… I know the type.”

She didn’t ask.

Didn’t press.

Instead, she folded her arms again and let the silence stretch between them, not heavy, not cold, just present.

He thought of Petunia’s silence. Of how they never talked about Lily’s name in that house. Not once. Not in seventeen years. Like it might wake ghosts.

“I guess I’m saying,” she murmured eventually, “that if you need anything-- someone to talk to, or just a place to sit and not say anything-- you’ve got that now. You’re not alone here, Rigel.”

Harry didn’t trust his voice, so he nodded again, slow and deliberate, like maybe that would be enough.

It wasn’t.

It wasn’t even close.

He wanted to scream the truth. To shake her and tell her, You were the one. You were the one who died for me. You were the one who loved me enough to stand between me and death and never even got to see who I became. And I’m standing here, alive, with a name you don’t know and a future I’ve stolen just by breathing.

But instead, he said: “Thanks. Really.”

She gave him a warm look, and nodded. “Of course.”

A moment passed. Two.

Then Lily glanced back toward the pub door. “I think James is probably getting antsy. He always thinks I’ve run off to duel someone when I vanish for more than five minutes.”

Harry managed a smile. “And do you?”

“Only if they deserve it.”

She turned back to him then, more serious. “You sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Just… I didn’t expect all of this.”

“All of what?”

Harry gestured vaguely. “The people. The kindness. The… everything. I’ve been on my own a long time.”

Lily studied him, brow furrowed just slightly.

“You don’t talk like someone who’s in their early-twenties,” she said.

He frowned.

She smiled, not unkindly. “That’s not an accusation. Just an observation. You’ve seen a lot.”

“Feels like I’ve lived a lot,” he said, before he could stop himself.

Then, quickly, “I mean-- moving around. You pick things up.”

She gave him a long look.

Then nodded, slowly. “Well. Whatever it is, it’s made you strong.”

Harry didn’t know how to answer that.

So he didn’t.

Lily offered him a small smile again and turned back toward the door. “Come on. Before Sirius tries to adopt a raccoon again or James starts lecturing the firewhiskey on taxation law.”

Harry chuckled, following her. “Again?”

“Oh, you have no idea.”

They stepped back into the warmth of the pub together, the sound washing over them like a wave. Laughter. Voices. A clatter of chairs. Someone calling someone else a cheating bastard with entirely too much affection.

James spotted them first. His eyes squinted with firewhiskey, one hand still loosely cradling a bottle of Ogden’s, and a lopsided grin spread over his face.

“There you are,” he called out, mock stern. “Was about to send a search party. Or a howler. Or both.”

Lily didn’t miss a beat. “You wouldn’t know how to send either in your state.”

James gasped, hand to heart. “Wounded.”

From the bar, Sirius raised his glass like he was toasting a wedding. “I assumed they were out duelling. In the alley. Shirts optional.”

“Yours always are,” Lily shot back, glancing at his undone collar.

“Free the clavicle,” Sirius said solemnly.

Remus, leaning back in his chair, lifted his brows at Harry as he stepped into the circle again. His gaze swept over him once, calm and steady, but there was a flicker in it, sharpness behind the softness. The look of someone who noticed things. Who always had.

Harry managed a crooked smile.

He didn’t feel quite like smiling.

The laughter didn’t touch the parts of him still humming with grief and confusion. But he made the expression stick anyway, let it curl just enough to pass. Because that’s what you did in the presence of ghosts still walking around with warm hands.

Dorcas leaned toward him. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Just needed a minute.”

She didn’t press. Just handed him a half-full glass. “Try that; it’s Marlene’s invention. Something to do with mead, espresso, and poor judgment.”

Marlene, sprawled across two stools, pointed at him without looking. “If you say a single bad thing about that drink, I’m hexing your eyebrows into spiral shapes.”

Harry took a sip.

Winced. “Is it supposed to taste like betrayal?”

“Exactly,” she said, nodding gravely. “It’s very popular with the Ministry girls.”

Mary leaned over her shoulder. “Don’t listen to her. It’s an abomination.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Marlene said, straightening. “Was that from the woman who once put bumbleberry jam in a cocktail and called it ‘abstract’?”

“It was innovative!”

“It was war crime adjacent.”

Harry chuckled, but it came out tight. His body was back in the pub, but his mind still drifted, echoing with the weight of Potter Manor and all the memories he never had.

As Dorcas and Mary bickered beside him, Marlene’s eyes flicked sideways.

Just for a second.

Watching him.

She wasn’t smiling.

Not quite.

Her head tilted in that way people do when they're trying to work out what kind of puzzle they’re looking at. But she didn’t ask. Didn’t push. Just nudged her boot against his under the table, a grounding tap, like: Still with you.

More drinks appeared. Sirius began telling a story that ended with an exploded cauldron and a singed eyebrow that took three months to grow back. James jumped in halfway through to correct the names, the setting, and, most of all, the part where Sirius claimed full hero credit.

The laughter returned. Slower now, softer. The room’s heat grew heavier with the weight of the hour.

People started pulling on cloaks. Dorcas muttered about a midnight rotation. Gideon slapped Fabian on the shoulder and announced a patrol near Surrey. Mary kissed Lily's cheek and said she’d be back next week.

And Harry watched it all, something aching behind his ribs.

He turned slightly, scanning the room. Caught, across the firelight, a small motion.

James had leaned in toward Lily to murmur something into her hair.

And she laughed.

Not a loud sound-- just a quiet, warm, breathy thing. The kind of laugh people only make when they’re home.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t a grand gesture. But the way Lily’s eyes crinkled. The way James’s hand stayed at the small of her back, steady like a vow. The way her body tilted into his, instinctive and soft--

It cracked something open in Harry’s chest.

Sirius yawned with the flair of a theatre actor at curtain call. “Alright,” he announced, stretching like a cat in the sunlight, “I’ve had five drinks and exactly two minutes of dignity left. Time to depart before I lose both.”

“You lost the dignity before the first drink,” Remus said mildly.

“That’s cruel and accurate,” Sirius agreed, mock-wounded. “And I respect it.”

He pulled his coat on with the kind of flair that made it look like he expected a spotlight. “I’m heading to Potter Manor. Spotty worries when I don’t check in.”

“Is that the house-elf or your dog?” Mary asked.

“Depends on the day, she likes to mix it up. Barked at me once.” James replied, cheerfully.

Harry blinked again at the name. Spotty. Potter Manor. It still sounded like a story someone else had been told. Not his. Not even in echo.

“Do you need to crash there too?” James asked, nudging Sirius with a shoulder."You know you can have mum's room, I'll be a bit late."

Sirius shook his head. “Nah, just stopping in. I’ve got night patrol.”

Lily groaned. “Still? You were on morning rotation.”

“War waits for no man,” Sirius said. Then, with a smirk, “Besides, I look great in moonlight.”

Dorcas snorted. “You look like a sleep-deprived hyena.”

“Even better,” Sirius said proudly. “They’re tenacious.”

Remus stood, brushing off his trousers. “I’ll walk with you to the gates.”

“You’re a gentleman,” Sirius said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Terrible at darts, excellent at loyalty.”

“Like you said,” Remus replied dryly. “Gentleman.”

As they turned to go, Remus caught Harry’s gaze. Not long, just a passing look. But there was something steady in it. Something unspoken. As if to say, I see you. I still do.

The rest followed.

Mary and Dorcas said their goodbyes in tandem, Dorcas giving Harry a half-hug he hadn’t expected and Mary patting his cheek with a grin. “We like you,” she said. “That’s rare. Don’t make us regret it.”

Then they were gone in a breeze of cloaks and boots, the cold from the outside slipping briefly into the pub and then closing again behind them.

And just like that, the room was quiet.

Only Lily, James, Marlene, and Harry remained at the hearth, the fire throwing long shadows against the floor.

James yawned too, but in a way that didn’t seem performative. Just real. A long day pressing against his bones. He looked at Lily, already reaching for her hand, and she leaned into him without a word.

Harry watched them again. Couldn’t help it.

Platonic his arse.

Marlene was quiet for a moment, swirling the last of her drink, eyes idly on the fire. Then, suddenly, she asked; low, casual, but with a strange undercurrent of purpose:

“So. Where are you staying, then?”

Harry looked up too fast. “What?”

“Like-- sleeping,” she clarified. “You got a bed somewhere? Or are you just loitering in pubs until closing and hoping no one notices?”

The question was light, even funny. But it had teeth.

Harry hesitated. “I… yeah. Sort of.”

Marlene’s brow rose. “Sort of?”

“I’m figuring it out,” he said quickly, hoping that sounded better than it felt.

“What do you mean ‘figuring it out’?” she asked, still light, but firmer now. “Figuring it out like you’ve got options, or figuring it out like you’re kipping behind Quality Quidditch Supplies and hoping no one hexes you in your sleep?”

Harry didn’t answer.

She leaned forward slightly, narrowing her eyes in that way that suggested she’d done this before. “What do you mean?”

Lily spoke then, voice calm but clear, her hand brushing James’ sleeve as she stepped forward. “We’ve actually been trying to sort something. For reconnaissance.”

Harry blinked. “Reconnaissance?”

“In Muggle London,” Lily explained. “More eyes, more reach, and it’s harder for Death Eaters to sniff out. They don’t move easily through Muggle spaces. We’re looking for a base; somewhere low-magic, ordinary. But secure.”

James added, “We’ve got the wards ready to go. Just need the right property.”

“And the right person to anchor it,” Lily said, glancing at Harry.

Harry’s stomach turned. “Wait-- what?”

Marlene perked up again, nodding to herself. “Actually, I think I might know somewhere. Just off Ladbroke Grove, near Kensal Rise. Old council flat, mostly Muggles. Bit grimy, but the lease is clean, the landlord doesn’t ask questions, and there’s enough plumbing issues to put any pureblood off for life.”

She glanced at Lily, then James. “It’d be perfect.”

James looked to Harry. “That alright with you?”

“I-- wait. What’s happening?” Harry said, looking between them. “I don’t understand.”

“You’re the one living in it,” Marlene said bluntly, like it was obvious.

“What?” Harry’s voice pitched up slightly.

“If you haven’t got a place,” Lily said, stepping beside him again, “then you will. You can’t sleep on the streets of London forever, and you sure as hell can’t do Order work from a bloody bench in Hyde Park.”

“But--” he started. “I can’t afford rent. I don’t even have a vault here, I don’t--"

“ISQ’s got it,” Marlene cut in.

Harry turned to her. “What?”

She gave a lazy shrug, but her eyes were sharp. “Internal Security Quorum. Dumbledore's Vault-backed. He privately funds covert field bases for Order liaisons. You’d technically qualify as a freelance associate. Limited stipend, furnished lease, and you get to lie to your landlord once a month about your ‘consulting work in utilities’.”

“I…” Harry ran a hand through his hair. “This is a lot.”

“Yeah,” James said, clapping him on the shoulder. “But you’re one of us now. Get used to it.”

Lily smiled. “And you won’t be alone. We’ll help with the wards. Marlene and Alice are brilliant with the concealment spells, and I can file the housing paperwork through one of our Muggleborn contacts.”

Marlene stretched her arms overhead, then pointed her empty glass toward him like a wand. “So. Tomorrow afternoon. You’re coming with us.”

“To see it?”

“To move in.”

Harry opened his mouth. Closed it again.

“Unless,” she added, squinting at him, “you really prefer sleeping in broom closets of random bookstores.”

James muttered under his breath, “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”

Harry stared at the fire again, the silence around him curling in like smoke. The idea of four walls. Of a door that locked. Of something real. Stable.

He looked up, heart twisting sideways in his chest.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “Yeah. I’ll come.”

Marlene smiled, wicked and proud. “Knew you would.”

Lily raised her glass. “To new headquarters, then.”

James clinked his bottle against hers. “And a landlord who’s about to be very confused.”

They drank.

 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

6th of January, 1979
Ladbroke Grove, West London
A Day Later

And that’s how Harry found himself in a Muggle flat with peeling linoleum, three witches, and a landlord named Ken who smelled vaguely of marmalade and Brylcreem.

Lily was in the living room, perfectly composed, hair tied back in a neat plait, wearing a crisp navy coat and holding a Muggle clipboard like she was born to do audits. She spoke to Ken in clear, bright tones about rent control and heating efficiency, nodding thoughtfully every time he gestured at the ancient radiator like it was a miracle of engineering.

Alice was in the bathroom.

Not using it.

Just… staring at the toilet with furrowed brows, one hand hovering near the tank, the other flicking at the chain like she wasn’t quite sure it wouldn’t bite her.

“It flushes itself at Hogwarts,” she whispered when Harry passed the door. “Why would you do it manually?”

In the kitchenette, Marlene was bent double under the sink, swearing gently under her breath.

Harry hovered in the doorway. “You alright?”

“Perfectly fine,” she said, bumping her head on the pipe. “Just marvelling at Muggle plumbing. Look at this-- copper pipes. Very rustic.”

“Marlene,” he said carefully, “are you about to start unscrewing something?”

“I am merely observing, Sayre.”

“You have your wand out.”

Marlene glanced at it like it had appeared in her hand of its own volition. “It’s just for pointing.”

“She was definitely about to hex the U-bend,” Alice called from the loo.

Marlene looked mutinous. “It was leaking. A little Scourgify never hurt anyone.”

“Except for the time you vanished half the drainage system in the Hog’s Head,” Lily called from the living room, without turning around. “Aberforth was furious. The floorboards smelled like goat for weeks.”

“I thought the smell was the goat,” Harry muttered.

Ken the landlord chuckled obliviously. “I should warn you, the hot water takes a bit to kick in, but once it does, it’ll scald the skin off your back.”

“Lovely,” Lily said brightly, flipping to the next page on the clipboard. “Just what we were hoping for in a shower.”

Harry looked at her sideways.

She winked at him without looking up.

Ken continued, “Electric metre's in the cupboard; bit temperamental. You’ll want to hit it with a torch if it gets stuck. Rent’s monthly, cash or cheque. None of that… credit card business. And no pets.”

Marlene emerged from the kitchen. “What about birds?”

Ken narrowed his eyes. “Depends on the bird.”

She opened her mouth-- probably to ask about owls.

Lily spoke over her. “She means budgies. Canaries. Very tame.”

Alice wandered out of the bathroom. “Toilet works. It’s just unnecessarily aggressive. Tried to flush me back to 1975.”

Ken laughed like this was charming. “Old handle. You’ve got to show it who’s boss.”

“I don’t think I’m qualified,” Alice muttered.

They wandered into the main room again. Harry took it all in;the worn sofa, the tiny table, the brown carpet that may once have aspired to a different colour but had long since given up.

He could picture himself here.

He didn’t know what to do with that.

Ken slapped his hands together. “Right, then. If you’re still interested, I can leave the keys today. First month’s due end of the week.”

Harry glanced at Lily, who smiled.

“Perfect,” she said. “We’ll be in touch.”

Ken handed over the keys with a grunt, then gave Harry a squint. “You the one moving in?”

Harry nodded.

“Looks alright,” Ken said. “Don't seem like the type to run a meth lab. Don't prove me wrong.”

Marlene gasped. “A what?”

Ken laughed heartily, waved, and shuffled down the stairs.

There was a moment of silence.

Then:

“A meth lab, Marlene,” Alice said. “He thinks we won't making Muggle drugs in the basement.”

“Why would I--” she spluttered. “What do we look like?”

“Honestly,” Lily said, shutting the door behind her, “probably someone who knows how to distill illegal substances.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Harry stood in the middle of the room, the keys still warm in his hand.

“Hey,” Lily said gently. “Everything okay up there?”

He nodded. Swallowed. “Yeah. Just…”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

Just looked around again. At the dusty corners. The crooked cupboard. The ordinary nothingness of it all.

Alice threw herself onto the sagging sofa. “Bit tragic, isn’t it? But charming. In a ‘don’t touch anything without gloves’ sort of way.”

Marlene sank into the armchair and kicked her boots up. “I like it. No cursed portraits. No shrieking teapots. I could get used to this.”

Lily moved to stand beside Harry. “It’s yours. For as long as you need it.”

He blinked.

Something behind his ribs felt strange.

Not bad.

Just… unmoored.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” he said, voice low.

Lily tilted her head. “You think we didn’t?”

He met her eyes. They were very green. Brighter than his. Alive.

She smiled. “Don’t be daft. You’re one of us now.”

Marlene raised a glass-- which had somehow appeared in her hand filled with amber liquid. “To our very own man in London.”

“To dodgy plumbing and near-fatal showers,” Alice added, raising an invisible toast.

Harry let out a breath and laughed.

It felt real. More real than it had in weeks.

He dropped the keys into his pocket. “Alright. When do I start? The whole move-in process, I mean. Getting ready for Order stragglers to be sleeping on this poor sofa.”

“Tomorrow,” Lily said. “We’ll bring you a kettle and some tea. And maybe a blanket.”

“And warding materials,” Marlene added.

“And a decent loo brush,” Alice muttered.

Harry nodded, blinking fast.

For once, he didn’t need to say thank you.

They already knew.

And Harry nodded, thinking fast. “If I’m going to be living here, I suppose I’ll need to find the best food nearby.”

“Oh,” Lily said, eyes lighting up, “I know just the place. You haven’t lived until you’ve had the stew at the Leaky Cauldron.”

A twinge in his chest at the name, one he recognised deeply.

“You sound like a woman possessed,” Marlene teased, reaching for her coat.

“She is,” Alice added, already at the door. “She tried to re-create it once. Nearly poisoned us.”

“That was one time,” Lily grumbled, leading them down the stairs.

They stepped out onto the narrow Muggle street. Early evening had crept in softly, laying shadows over the stone and brickwork, but the orange glow of nearby lamps caught in their coats, casting them gold-edged and laughing.

“Come on,” Lily said. “It’s a bit of a walk. Apparating in’s too conspicuous, even from this end.”

They headed through the cracked side streets toward the Leaky Cauldron. The city around them buzzed quietly;cars idling at distant lights, the flicker of telly sets behind curtained windows, the low hum of life humming through the concrete veins of West London.

They reached the alley behind a record shop, where the bricks glistened with the sheen of recent rain. Lily tapped the correct ones with casual precision, and the archway slid open, brick by brick, like the sigh of a hidden world stretching awake.

And there it was:Diagon Alley.

Not gleaming, not bustling.

But present. Breathing, slightly.

It was quiet, the kind of quiet that wrapped itself around you like an old cloak. Shop windows flickered with low, enchanted light. Spell-o-grams glowed dimly in display glass, advertising half-price cauldron polishing kits and winter cloaks with warming charms. Flourish & Blotts was shuttered, but a single lamp glowed behind the upper window. Owls perched on the overhang of Eeylops, feathers puffed against the chill.

Harry glanced around as they walked. It felt different now.

He’d been here before, more times than he could count: first with Hagrid, then with the Weasleys, then on missions, then on patrols. But now, walking here with Marlene and Alice chatting about wand holsters behind him, and Lily happily reminiscing about stew, it felt like a place again. Not a stage. Not a memory. He could even ignore the reason why it was quiet.

“I came here in second year,” Lily was saying, her voice bouncing softly off the stone. “My dad brought me. I needed new books because I accidentally burned through Intermediate Charms trying to make my hair curl on its own. I smelled like singed sage for a week.”

“That explains your hatred of herbal shampoo,” Alice said.

Lily ignored her. “Anyway. Dad brought me here, and I was starving, and he got me this massive bowl of beef and barley stew. Honestly, I thought he’d slipped me a potion. Never had anything like it. Still haven’t.”

They reached the crooked doorway of the Leaky Cauldron just as she finished the story. Its old wooden sign creaked gently in the wind, still slightly tilted, still painted in half-faded gold. The windows were fogged, and the door swung open with its usual groan.

Inside, the warmth wrapped around them immediately; stewy and thick, tinged with smoke and spilt ale. Tom was behind the bar, polishing a glass with the same enthusiasm he always had (which was to say, not much). His hair was a ghostly halo around his bald head, and his skin looked like it might crumble if you tapped it too hard.

Harry caught himself wondering, not for the first time, How old is this man, really?

Alice beat him to it.

“Evening, Tom,” she said. “Quiet one tonight.”

Tom looked up, then gave a raspy chuckle. “Quiet? I prefer it quiet like this in these times, missy. It's better than last week. Had three goblins, two cursed teapots, and a banshee with a toothache in before midnight.”

Marlene leaned on the bar. “Sounds like the start of a bad joke.”

Tom sniffed. “The punchline was me losing two chairs and half my hearing.”

“Two pints, a butterbeer, and--” Lily turned to Harry, “--what do you want to drink?”

“Er. Surprise me?”

She nodded decisively. “Firewhiskey, then.”

Tom ambled toward the taps, muttering under his breath about people who didn’t read the specials board.

They carried their drinks to the far corner, a booth tucked into the shadow of the stone hearth. Harry noted, quietly, curiously, that they all sat with their backs to the wall. Not just him. All of them.

It didn’t feel like paranoia.

It felt like pattern. Like survival.

Harry settled beside Marlene. The bench seat creaked under their combined weight. Alice passed out coasters like a war general distributing rations. Lily was already peeling off her gloves.

The fire crackled to life in the hearth beside them.

“You know what I love about this place?” Marlene said, tipping her glass.

“The beer?” Harry offered.

“The fact that the ceiling’s probably got three ghosts, minimum,” she replied. “And Tom never tries to clean them.”

Alice laughed. “Don’t say that too loud. He’ll start charging extra.”

Harry took a sip of his drink. Warmth spread down his chest like molten certainty. Lily was telling some long-winded story about her seventh-year Potions partner getting drunk and inventing a hangover draught that made you speak Mermish for an hour. Alice was arguing about whether or not it was the same potion used during the incident with the Thestral herd and the misfired Confundus charm.

And Marlene just leaned into his side and said, “Not bad for a bloke with nowhere to live one day ago.”

Harry smiled.

“Thanks to you lot,” he said.

She lifted her glass. “We’re very efficient enablers.”

“Also,” Alice said around her butterbeer, “you’ve got stew coming. So really, your life’s on the up.”

Harry laughed.

Just as he was about to ask if the ceiling really had ghosts (and whether they were the kind that whispered or just wafted), the food arrived.

Not with a server. Not with a tray.

One moment the table was bare save for their drinks. The next, four bowls of steaming stew appeared with a soft pop, like magic sighing into being. Spoons clinked gently into place, and warm, thick bread rolls landed beside them, wrapped in napkins and still glistening with melted butter.

“Oh, Merlin,” Lily breathed. “I think I just saw the face of God in this barley.”

Marlene snorted. “You say that every time.”

“And I’m right every time,” Lily said primly, scooping up her first bite like she was preparing for war.

Harry took a cautious taste.

It was… ridiculously good. Deep, savoury, full of richness that hit the back of the throat like a hug from someone who knew how to cook. The barley had bite, the beef melted. He blinked down at the bowl.

“Oh,” he said. He didn't remember this stew on the menu in his time. Maybe he hadn't looked hard enough.

“Told you,” Lily mumbled through a mouthful.

They fell quiet for a moment-- the kind of hush that only comes when everyone is too busy inhaling their meal to hold a conversation.

Alice was the first to sit back with a satisfied sigh, butter clinging to her fingers. “That,” she said reverently, “might’ve been my reason for living.”

Lily dabbed at her mouth. “You say that like it’s not always food.”

“Food and chaos,” Alice allowed. “Preferably together.”

Marlene drained her pint with a sigh. “Alright, now that I’m thoroughly sedated by stew, someone tell me what we think Rigel’s first mission’s going to be.”

Harry blinked. “I’m sorry-- what?”

Lily grinned. “You didn’t think we brought you into the Order just to play darts, did you?”

“I wouldn’t be opposed,” Harry offered.

“You wouldn’t be effective either,” Marlene said, waving her wand around them in a circle to enact a privacy bubble. “Unless the plan is to distract Death Eaters with perfect aim.”

Alice pointed her spoon. “Don’t tempt them. That’s basically how I survived my first week; misdirection and looking too innocent to hex.”

“Until they realised you’re terrifying,” Lily said fondly.

“I am terrifying,” Alice agreed cheerfully.

Harry leaned forward. “Okay, so seriously. What do you all do in the Order? You’ve talked about missions and shifts and-- I don’t know-- spies?”

“Oh, there are definitely spies,” Marlene said. “Peter’s technically one. That’s why we don't really see him lately-- Dumbledore’s got him skulking around northern France listening to purebloods argue over whose grandfather owned more basilisk skin.”

Alice laughed. “It’s not glamorous. Most of what we do is... prevention. Intercepts. Keeping track of who’s being recruited. Trying to keep people safe.”

Harry nodded slowly. “So what about you?”

“Me?” Alice stretched. “I split time between here and St Mungo’s. I’m technically in Healing, but I’ve got a nice little side gig patching up everyone who’s too stubborn to go to hospital. You know. Like Sirius. Or James. Or Frank. Basically all of them.”

“She’s being modest,” Lily said. “Alice can regrow bones faster than half the ward medics. Dumbledore trusts her with triage after almost every mission.”

“I’m just good with blood,” Alice said, shrugging.

“Comforting,” Marlene said. “Very casual Hannibal Lecter vibes.”

“And you?” Harry turned to Lily.

Lily rolled her eyes. “I was on track for Charms Mastery. Still am, I suppose. Dumbledore pulled me in last spring. I’d been developing counter-hexes to blood magic, and creating stabilisers for magical cores whilst in comatose states during apparation-- it got his attention.”

“Now she spends her time trying to make shielding spells smarter than the average Death Eater,” Alice added. “And tutoring people who never paid attention in school.”

Harry blinked. “Like?”

“Sirius. Marlene. Mary."

“Rude,” Marlene said. “I paid attention. I just didn’t write anything down.”

“Or read the assigned chapters,” Lily said sweetly.

“Reading is a trap.”

Harry grinned. “And you, Marlene? What do you do?”

Marlene leaned back and draped an arm over the back of her chair. “I’m a McKinnon.”

Alice groaned. “Don’t let her get started.”

“My father,” Marlene continued grandly, “is Lord Cassian McKinnon. Wizengamot seat holder. Old money. Old power. Entirely useless in a fight. Once got hexed by his own Floo powder.”

Harry tried not to choke on his drink.

“I was expected to take a Ministry position,” Marlene said, suddenly more real. “Follow the line. Be respectable. Instead, I joined the Order. Dad’s not thrilled, but he pretends. We all pretend.”

Lily reached over and squeezed her hand once.

“So now,” Marlene went on, “I mostly help with enforcement. Hit-and-run tactics. Auror-adjacent. Dumbledore sends me when something needs to be broken quietly. And I crash with whoever’s free. Dorcas when she’s in town. Lily when she’s not busy--"

Lily blinked. “Excuse you?”

“Well, you know,” Marlene said with faux innocence. “Wouldn’t want to cockblock anyone.”

Alice howled.

Harry sputtered. 

“I beg your pardon?” Lily’s eyes were wide. “What do you mean cockblock?”

Marlene waggled her brows. “Just saying. You and James. The Potter Palace. I’ve been very considerate.”

Lily turned bright red. “There’s nothing to block! That would never-- I mean, we’re not even--”

“You’re not?” Harry asked, utterly unbothered. “Really? Never?”

“Not helping,” Lily hissed.

“I’m just saying,” Marlene said, all fake innocence. “If I’m there, nothing happens. If I’m not... something might. I'm basically a human silencing charm.”

Harry leaned over his bowl. “Do you think that makes you the hero of the story?”

“Oh, I know I am,” Marlene said.

Alice wiped tears from her eyes. “Merlin’s ghost, you lot are unhinged.”

“I blame the stew,” Lily muttered.

“The stew is powerful,” Harry agreed. “Possibly cursed.”

Marlene grinned. “Back to the point-- what do we think Dumbledore will give you, Sayre?”

Harry tilted his head. “I don’t know. What would you give me?”

Alice considered. “You’ve got good aim, as we've seen in darts. Good instincts, as we saw yet again in darts.”

“Quiet under pressure,” Lily added. “Which is rare.”

“And you don’t flinch around Dark topics,” Marlene said. “You weren’t weird when we brought up curses or infiltration.”

“That is weird,” Alice said. “Most people try to pretend it’s not that bad. You didn’t.”

Harry shrugged. “It is that bad.”

“Exactly,” Marlene said, pointing. “He gets it. So Dumbledore’ll probably test that. Give you a moral quagmire to navigate. Some rat’s nest of secrets and spells and see what you do.”

"And obviously you're pretty good with a wand so maybe in combat too.An active zone, perhaps?"

“Reckon he’ll put you with someone,” Alice mused. “Maybe a mentor sort.”

“Maybe Remus,” Lily said.

Harry glanced at her. “Really?”

She nodded. “He’s the best at quietly watching someone and not pushing too hard. He’s already got an eye on you; bookstore buddies.”

“Yeah,” Marlene said. “Lupin gets that quiet isn’t always peace.”

They all went quiet for a moment.

Not awkward. Not heavy.

Just understanding.

Harry stirred his stew again. “Thanks. For all of this.”

Lily smiled. “You’re welcome.”

“We’re not that nice,” Marlene said. “We just want to keep you alive long enough to see who wins the betting pool on your first assignment.”

“I’ve got five galleons on assassination,” Alice said.

“Mine’s infiltration,” Lily said. “Classic spy.”

“I said moral quagmire,” Marlene reminded. “And seduction.”

Harry choked. “Seduction?!”

“You’re very symmetrical,” Marlene said helpfully. “It confuses people.”

“Remind me not to be in debt to you,” Harry said.

She grinned. “Too late.”

The fire popped beside them, sending a crackle of warmth into the air.

Around them, the Leaky Cauldron settled deeper into its quiet.

A few new patrons wandered in, but no one paid them any mind.

Just the way he liked it.

Chapter 11: Misplaced in Time: A Post-Bird Comes A-Knockin'

13th of January, 1979
Order of the Phoenix Safe House, Specific Location Hidden Beneath Wards, West London
A Week Later

Harry woke slowly.

The kind of slow that didn’t come from sleep so much as surrender.

The kind of slow that said, you’re safe here. For now.

The light in the bedroom was soft and unsure of itself; pale and wintry. The colour of breath on cold glass. Not golden, Gods, no. The flat never got that kind of light. It was a northwest-facing building with single-glazed windows and a grudge against happiness. But today, somehow, the light filtering through the threadbare curtains looked less like a threat and more like a possibility. Faint and shy and silver-touched.

There was warmth, too. Not sunlight warmth, but radiator warmth. Blanket warmth. The kind that clung to old flannel sheets and held tight between the crooks of limbs and folds of heavy duvets. The kind you didn’t question. The kind you protected, on instinct.

Harry didn’t move.

He lay flat on his back beneath the covers, limbs stretched long and lazy, and stared up at the ceiling like it might offer instructions.

The plaster was cracked in the corners, jagged hairline fissures that split and curled across the surface like ancient runes. He'd spent too much time tracing them with his eyes over the last week. Mapping them like constellations, giving them names. That one in the corner that curled into a spiral above the window; that was probably “the Sleeping Moon.” The one that forked into three uneven branches; “Cerberus’ Reach.” The one shaped a little too perfectly like a lightning bolt... he tried not to look at that one too much.

At first, when his silent paranoid descent into madness officially begun two days post move-in, he’d wondered if someone had entered the flat secretly and placed them there deliberately. Some kind of code. A warding signature. An arcane defence disguised as household disrepair. It felt like something an enemy of his would do, they were always so dramatic.

But the more rational part of Harry, the part that had lived through one too many, and only the one, ancient prophecies and not enough council meetings, knew it was probably just water damage. Something to do with the neighbour upstairs. Mrs. Wallace, that was her name. Widow, seventy-three, proud owner of an ancient fat cat named Percival and an even older washing machine that had nearly flooded the kitchen ceiling on day three. She’d come down personally, knocking on the door with a tin of almond biscuits and an apology that smelled like lavender. Told him not to worry about the leak. Said she’d get it sorted. Asked if he liked crosswords.

He liked her. She reminded him a little of Mrs. Figg, if Mrs. Figg had been more competent and less obsessed with cats in bonnets.

He closed his eyes again.

Let the silence stretch.

It had been seven days.

Seven days since he’d first walked into the Hogs Head with James and Lily flanking either side, like sentries in plainclothes. Seven days since Dumbledore-- younger, keener-eyed, somehow taller, much more serious and wartorn-- had sworn him into this original version of the Order with old magic and a steely look in his eyes. Seven days since he’d said the words that bound him to the Order.

To this timeline.

To them.

He could still feel the echo of it, the vow, humming under his skin. Not painful, not even uncomfortable. Just... present. Like a pressure in his chest, not unlike the one he used to feel when holding his wand too tightly before a duel. The quiet tension of responsibility. Of forward momentum.

It hadn't been a decision he'd taken lightly, swearing himself to them all, joining them, becoming a part of them. 

The choice had left a mark; not the kind people could see, but the kind that made his breath catch sometimes when he looked around the flat and saw them, really saw them: laughing, arguing, lounging on worn furniture like they’d always been in this flat, like it was normal. Like this was just how things were.

The vow had made it real.

More than real-- irrevocable.

He hadn’t said the words without knowing what they meant. Dumbledore had been clear. So had Lily, when she'd gently offered to explain what happened to those who broke it in the Leaky Cauldron post-stew. Not because she thought he would-- he didn't think so, anyway-- but because she believed, clearly, that being informed mattered, even in war.

Especially in war.

But even before knowing the risks of the vows, Harry had stood there, spine straight, palms open, voice steady, and given himself to the cause.

Not as Harry Potter, Boy Who Lived, Chosen One, symbol of resistance.

But as Rigel Sayre.

A name he wore like armour now. A name that still fit a little funny, like a jumper that hadn’t been washed enough to shrink into shape. But it was what he had. And the Order didn’t need legends. It needed hands. Wands. People who would show up. People who would stay.

And somehow, in the space of a week, he had become one of them.

That was the strangest part.

He had always been at the centre of things, that much was true. From the cupboard to the castle, people had been orbiting him his whole life; some drawn in, some burned away. But here?

He wasn’t the centre. Not even close.

He was just one more person in the room. One more voice at the table. He fetched tea, and passed toast, and ran out to buy milk when the bottle curdled in the fridge. He made jokes. He helped with shielding charms. He tuned the wireless Mary had brought over once with the side of his wand and learned how to fix the temperamental fuse in the kitchenette wall.

He belonged.

That was the part he hadn’t expected. That was what terrified him most.

Because belonging was dangerous.

Belonging meant wanting. Wanting meant attachment. 

Attachment was terrifying.

He’d already lost these people once.

And yet…

This James had a laugh that cracked like sunlight.

This Lily had a kind of wit that could slice through any silence and leave you grateful for the wound.

This Sirius burned at both ends and still had energy to spare, much like his own. 

This Remus could fold a sentence like origami and make you forget you’d been crying.

This Marlene…

He closed his eyes.

Marlene was all edge and grace and something soft hidden underneath, like a wire wrapped in silk. She was one of the only ones he hadn’t known before, along with Mary and Dorcas. He hadn't known of the three of them, not really.  Not more than a photo and a whispered story from Moody or Sirius. He’d never met them. Never grieved them. They were a blank page.

And now they were scrawled all over the margins of his days.

Dorcas was the opposite of loud. The kind of opposite that came in silences that meant something. Her voice was low, smooth, a little dry around the edges. She didn’t fill rooms so much as hold the corners of them together. Intelligent, yes, painfully so, but never the kind that made a show of it. She had a way of asking questions that felt like gentle prodding and managed to make you feel like you’d volunteered the answer. She liked black coffee and annotated her own spellbooks in blue ink. She spoke fluent French and never mentioned it, unless she was mocking Sirius. Her eyes were sharp and steady, and every now and then Harry caught her watching the world like it was a puzzle that hadn't quite solved her yet.

She didn’t laugh often, but when she did, it was honest. Quiet. Like a reward.

He liked her. Maybe more than he realised.

Mary was all elegance and shine. Not flashy, not like Sirius or even Marlene when she was performing for a room-- Mary moved through the world like it owed her nothing and still gave her everything. There was grace to her that didn’t feel learned, just natural. She trusted people with an ease Harry didn’t understand, and trusted him with a softness that felt like a secret. She remembered names. Bought birthday gifts. Always kept an extra scarf in case someone forgot theirs. Her wit could match Remus on a good day and run circles around James when she was feeling sharp. But there was no cruelty in it.

She was funny, but kind. Elegant, but approachable. Thoughtful in ways that felt deliberate.

He loved them both, and loved them all.

They made the radio silence from Dumbledore slightly more bearable.

He let his mind drift back once again.

Seven days, and not a single word from Dumbledore.

He hadn’t expected fanfare. Or immediate deployment. He knew how the Order worked-- patient, careful, subtle. But still.

A week.

A week without a letter.

Without a summons.

Without a single floating message appearing in the fireplace, requesting his presence.

At first, he thought it was caution.

Then, maybe, a test.

Now... he wasn’t sure what to think.

He knew Dumbledore didn’t trust him. He'd said he did in front of the Order, but in private, in the Headmaster's office at Hogwarts pre-meeting, he'd admitted without embarrassment that he didn't. Not yet.

Maybe Dumbledore had looked too closely during that first meeting and seen something he didn’t like; something fractured, something... dangerous? The wariness in the Headmaster’s eyes had been brief, but it hadn’t gone unnoticed. Harry had felt it like a chill in his bones. Not suspicion, exactly. But distance. And in Dumbledore, distance was never accidental.

Was it the way he stood too close to James? The way Sirius had clapped him on the back after the vow, grinning like they were already old friends?

Was it how easily he slipped into the gaps of their world, like he belonged there?

Was that the problem?

Was he too familiar?

He didn’t know.

And it was driving him mad.

He shifted under the blankets, one hand resting against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart against his ribs.

He had spent every day of this past week pretending not to notice the paranoia slipping in.

James had made it easy, at least.

They’d gotten into a rhythm-- lunch every day, like clockwork. James would owl in the morning with a time and a vague location (“somewhere with decent pies or I riot”), and they’d meet for forty-five minutes of Quidditch talk, café critique, and James trying to convince Harry that he should consider growing a moustache.

“It's a Potter tradition,” James had said solemnly on Thursday, twirling a sugar packet like it was a wand. “You haven’t truly lived until someone’s mistaken you for a Victorian poet or a tax collector.”

“Your only issue is, you dolt, I'm not a Potter.” Harry had replied, though his voice didn't quite carry the confidence he'd hoped.

James had waved him away, "Semantics. You've got the right bone structure, maybe there's some laying about in that blood of yours. And with facial hair, even more resemblance.” 

It was easier than it should have been, falling into step with him. 

Too easy, maybe.

Because even now, with the air still and the flat quiet around him, Harry could still hear the rhythm of James’s voice in his head. The way he laughed too loudly in public places. The way he talked with his whole face. The way he loved Lily like it wasn’t a choice, just a fact, even if they weren't together yet. Officially anyway.

It was strange. And warm. And terrifying.

And there was Marlene.

Merlin help him, Marlene.

She’d made a point of dragging him out almost every morning, usually before the rest of the flat was awake, to a nearby bakery on the edge of Diagon Alley that sold almond croissants with a slightly addictive warming charm baked into the dough.

“Routine keeps you alive,” she’d said, arm looped through his. “Routine and sugar. And flirtation. And hexing people who try to mug you. But mostly sugar.”

He’d never met anyone like her. Not in his time, not in any time.

She was sharp in every sense of the word. Smart, fast, viciously funny, and always a little too close. But she didn’t push, not really. She let him be quiet, even when she was loud. Let him watch her tear the corners off her croissant and feed them to the pigeons outside the café window. Let him sit in the silence and just… exist.

Something had shifted on the second day between them. Nothing grand. Nothing obvious.

Just... a moment.

They’d both reached for the butter dish at the same time. That was it. A clumsy, stupid little thing-- his hand knocking hers, fingers brushing, the dish nearly sliding off the counter. They’d caught it together, her palm braced against the back of his, and for a half-second, maybe less, the air between them went still.

Like a held breath.

And then they’d both said the same thing.

“Sorry.”

At the same time. Same cadence. Same half-awkward, half-amused grin.

She'd looked at him, properly, fully, and something settled between them that hadn’t been there before.

Since then, she’d been in the flat every single day.

She filled the kitchen with music while she boiled the kettle, sang under her breath while she mended seams in her robes, flopped onto the sofa like it owed her rent and complained about the state of Muggle taxis. She teased him like they’d known each other for years. Called him “Sayre” like it was a challenge.

But it wasn’t just the teasing.

Sometimes she watched him when she thought he wasn’t paying attention. Studied him.

Quietly.

Thoughtfully.

Like she was trying to piece together a puzzle whose edges kept shifting. And sometimes he caught her doing it, and she'd look away.

He wasn’t sure what it was.

It wasn’t a crush, not really. It wasn’t infatuation. And it definitely wasn’t something he could name out loud without it sounding foolish.

But it was something.

And from then on, sometimes she flirted.

He wasn’t sure what to do with that.

From then on, sometimes he flirted back.

He really wasn’t sure what to do with that.

They were friends, obviously. Friends first. He could confidently say that.

But something about it felt like a string being pulled too tightly across a violin. It hadn’t snapped. But it was vibrating.

He sighed, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes until colour sparked behind his lids.

And then there were the others.

Remus, who'd met him at the same coffee shop twice that week to discuss proposed legislation on werewolf rights, books, on what Harry thought would be the state of Quiet A Few Books without him, and who had-- without once asking-- slipped him a copy of the current Daily Prophet each time, folded just so, with the crossword already half-filled out in elegant block letters.

Alice, who had a tendency to show up in the flat carrying bruises and triumphant grins, and once asked Harry’s opinion on which hex left the most “aesthetically pleasing” burn mark.

Sirius, who could either be found sprawled on the rug with a stolen guitar or in the kitchen attempting to enchant the kettle to whistle his name.

And Lily.

He didn’t even know how to begin thinking about Lily.

She was so bright. So careful. So open in ways that made him ache.

She’d started leaving notes for him. Not big ones. Just small things, reminders about the Wards (“rotate counterclockwise, not clockwise”), or jokes in the margins of the breakfast list, or scribbled compliments on his chicken-scratch notes on ward-stones that she'd found on the table one morning.

You’re too good at these. I'm terribly jealous. she’d written in green ink, followed by a suspicious doodle of a magnifying glass and a snake.

It was her handwriting.

It made something twist in his chest.

He’d hidden the note under his mattress.

Ridiculous sounding, yes. But it warmed his heart.

In fact they all did. Warmed his heart, that is.

They hadn't know what he was.

Who he was.

Who he would be... or would've been.

But they’d let him in.

The safe house had stopped feeling like a borrowed bed and started feeling like something else. Not home-- he wasn’t stupid enough to call it that-- but close. A whisper of it.

The sounds of the flat had settled into his bones. 

The way Lily hummed sometimes while she worked; nothing recognisable, just notes spun between thoughts.

The way James clattered into the room like he’d invented movement.

The way Remus made tea by the book, timing each steep with a precision that bordered on obsessive.

The way Sirius left boot prints on the ceiling during practice duels and then denied it with a smirk that gave him away immediately.

The way Marlene always sat sideways in chairs, like furniture was optional.

He knew these things now.

They were part of his world.

And that scared the hell out of him.

Because the longer he stayed, the more real this became, the harder it was to hold onto the life he’d come from. The war he’d fought. The people he’d lost.

Ron. Hermione.

Ginny.

His chest ached.

He hadn’t thought of Ginny in three days.

Not properly. Not with shape and memory and all the weight that came with it.

Three days. That wasn’t grief.

That was erasure.

And if he could forget her…

Who else would slip through the cracks?

He sat there in the quiet, the duvet pulled high over his chest, eyes wide open now, and let the weight of it press down on him.

He was twenty-five years old.

He was living under a false name.

He was in the past.

And the worst part-- the part he refused to name-- was that he was secretly pleased he had decided to stay and help.

He didn’t know what that meant yet.

Didn’t know what it said about him.

But it was there.

Settling into the cracks like light.

Or rot.

Either way, it was coming for him.

And he wasn’t sure he had the strength to stop it.

His fingers, half-numb with sleep and thought, drifted downward. They found the dip in his collarbone, then traced the chain where it pressed lightly into the hollow of his skin.

The time-turner.

It had never left him, not for a moment. Not since the hedge debacle, not since he’d stumbled, dazed and somewhat smoking at the edges, into a century that didn't, couldn't know his name.

It rested now where it always did-- beneath his shirt, against his chest, pressed warm and constant like the memory of a hand.

He pulled it out carefully from under the duvet.

The chain unwound silently, catching briefly on the fabric before sliding free. The pendant glinted in the weak morning light-- no, not morning anymore. Nearly noon, maybe. He wasn’t sure. The hours slipped around him too easily now.

He let the time-turner settle in the centre of his palm.

He'd almost forgotten what it looked like. The glass was circular, about the size of a sickle, encased in an intricate ring of gold that caught the light and scattered it in soft flecks across the bedspread. Inside the glass: the same small pile of amber sand, fine and silty, unmoving in the calm. Beneath it, nestled like a secret, the shards of silver metal-- sharp-edged, irregular, each a different size and shape, like pieces of something once whole. When Harry tilted it in the light, the silver glinted, catching a glimmer of movement. But it never shifted on its own. It was like they were frozen mid-collapse.

Or mid-creation.

He couldn't quite figure out which.

There were two delicate rings etched into the glass face, running along the inner edge of the casing. One clockwise, one counter. Both carved with runes so fine he could barely see them without a magnifying charm. He hadn’t dared activate it. Not since that day.

And it hadn’t activated itself.

Not really.

But it responded to him. That much he knew.

He’d noticed it first the night James didn’t come back.

Not right away. Not obviously. Just... a subtle shift. A prickle beneath the skin.

James'd been on a mission in Horizont Alley, a poor-man's version of Diagon, which was somewhere near Nottingham. He had missed his final check-in, and was officially two minutes late back to the safe-house for final checks.

Everyone else had stayed mostly calm. Lily had done that quiet, controlled sort of worrying that came out in re-stirring her tea three times. Remus had flicked through the Prophet with the air of someone who knew panic didn’t help unless it was useful. Sirius had looked faintly ill and concerned-- “Prongs probably forgot what time was again,” he’d said, which had made Lily frown and stir harder; she believed that just as much as Sirius himself did.

But Harry-- he’d paced.

He hadn’t meant to. But his legs had carried him back and forth across the flat like they had a mind of their own. The whole time he’d been thinking this is how it starts. One change. One delay. One minute too long. This version of James didn’t have a child waiting for him. This version of James wasn’t protected by the bones of a prophecy. He was mortal, and real, and fallible, and late.

And Harry couldn’t breathe.

He’d walked tight circuits around the living room, counting steps, counting seconds, feeling the edges of his panic sharpening; fast, pointed, unbearable.

And then it happened.

Not with a bang. Not even with a flicker.

Just a single pulse.

Low and quiet, against his chest.

He froze.

The time-turner.

It had warmed. Just faintly. Enough for him to notice. Enough to anchor him.

He'd turned to face the window and reached for it, his fingers slipping beneath the collar of his shirt, finding the gold chain where it always sat-- cold usually, today warm. Tucked beneath his clothes like a secret. A talisman. A curse.

He drew it out, thumb brushing the glass pendant gently.

It looked the same.

Circular. Elegant. A piece of intent masquerading as jewellery.

The sand inside was unmoving and the etched runic rings on either side, clockwise and counter, looked dead still.

But Harry felt it again. A second pulse.

And then something stranger.

The clock on the wall, a squat Muggle thing with an old battery and peeling paint, stopped ticking.

Not slowed.

Stopped.

The second hand stuttered once. Then froze. Mid-tick.

And suddenly, the air around him didn’t feel normal.

It was quiet. Not flat, not hushed. Just... absent. Like someone had taken a blanket and thrown it over sound itself. He couldn’t hear the kettle bubbling and boiling anymore. Couldn’t hear Sirius shifting nervously on the rug. Couldn’t hear the floorboard that always creaked outside the loo.

It was like the room had taken a breath and forgotten how to let it out.

And Harry turned, slowly.

It felt like swimming.

Each motion slightly behind the one before, like his body was playing catch-up with his intent. His pulse was loud in his ears now, but it wasn’t panicked anymore. It was focused.

Sharp.

And when he turned his head--

Marlene was staring at him.

She hadn’t looked away.

She'd been sitting on the arm of the sofa, half-leaning against the window frame. Still in her boots, like she hadn’t planned to stay. Her hand had been frozen halfway through adjusting her sleeve. But her eyes had been locked on him. Right on him.

And there'd been no shame in her stare. No flicker of embarrassment or surprise.

It was like she couldn’t see that he’d turned.

Like time had stalled for her.

Or for everyone but him.

He felt his stomach turn over, cold and quick.

The time-turner thudded again against his chest-- an echo, a warning, a nudge.

And just as he reached for the clock, to check, to see--

Tick.

The sound returned in a rush. Not loudly, but all at once. The kettle, the clink of Remus flipping a page, the scrape of Lily’s spoon against the mug.

Marlene blinked and turned her head sharply, looking back out the window like nothing had happened.

Harry stood there, heart pounding, breath shallow.

The clock ticked again.

Back to normal.

Back to now.

He said nothing.

Just quietly slipped the time-turner back beneath his shirt.

Later that night, alone in his room, Harry'd sat with the pendant in his palm.

It looked innocent. Beautiful, even.

But it wasn’t.

He knew that.

He remembered Theodore Nott’s face, pale and wild, blood rushing from a gash Harry hadn’t seen until it was too late. His fingers had curled around Harry’s hand like a man drowning, and pressed the time device into it with a kind of clarity that still haunted Harry when he closed his eyes.

No words. Just blood and breath and intent. Always intent.

And then he was gone.

Dead in his arms.

Nott had always been known for his skill with experimental magic. Not in a formal way-- he’d never joined the Department, of course-- but in the same way Luna was good with creatures no one else believed in. Obsessive. Unnerving. Brilliant.

Had he made this?

Or found it?

Was it programmed?

Had Nott meant to send Harry back to this time?

Or was it an accident?

Had it reacted to his blood? Had something in that moment-- death, magic, panic-- triggered something that couldn’t be undone?

Harry didn’t know.

But he knew this: the time-turner wasn’t neutral.

It didn’t just sit dormant like the Ministry’s did. It didn’t just wait for instruction.

It pulsed.

It responded.

It helped... ?

The panic attack had subsided that day not because he’d breathed through it, but because the turner had slowed him down. Given him space. Given him time.

Not much. But enough.

Enough to notice that Marlene was watching.

Enough to wonder why.

Enough to distract from the missing James, who'd arrived moments later, a rogue and unplanned opponents wand in hand whilst he grinned victoriously.

Harry flipped the pendant over in his hand now, watching the silver shards catch the light. Sometimes they glinted red. He wasn’t sure if that was real or just a trick of his eyes.

He’d borrowed a book from Remus' collection two days ago-- Temporal Theory and Magical Chronomancy-- and told him he was just curious about how time sand worked. He hadn’t questioned it, no one ever did.

But the book was useless.

Too old. Too vague.

None of it accounted for the alive-ness of this.

None of it described a turner that watched. That waited.

The sand never turned. The rings never spun.

But something inside it was always listening.

And maybe that was the most terrifying part of all.

Because if Nott had built this; if he’d crafted it, or stolen it, or bent it into existence, then he hadn’t just created a way to move through time.

He’d created a way to send someone else through it.

A one-way ticket.

A closed loop.

A warning.

And Harry… Harry was still waiting to understand what, exactly, the warning had been about.

He let the turner rest there, warm against his palm for a beat longer.

Then, slowly, he reached for the hem of his vest, tugged it forward, and slipped the chain back beneath the fabric, letting it settle again against his chest like a second heartbeat.

The weight of it never quite disappeared.

But it was... quieter now.

Contained.

He exhaled, long and steady, pressing his palms once more to his face and dragging them down over his jaw, knuckles grazing the stubble along his chin.

Right.

Enough philosophising for one morning.

He kicked off the covers and sat up slowly, muscles stiff with sleep and something heavier. The flat was cool outside the shelter of his duvet, but not cold. Not unpleasant. Just enough to wake him.

His feet hit the floorboards with a quiet creak.

He stretched once, spine cracking, then crossed to the small mirror mounted above the desk in the corner.

It was a narrow thing, cloudy around the edges and probably nicked from a hotel two decades ago, but it did the job. He leaned in slightly, ran a hand through his hair.

It stuck up at every possible angle, defying the laws of both gravity and shame.

Typical.

The beard, though, that was new.

Not a full one. Not thick or sculpted like Ron had once attempted during a particularly rogue three-day leave. Just stubble, really. But heavier than shadow. A few days' worth of growth across his jaw and upper lip. Dark. Unruly.

He hadn’t shaved since... when? Tuesday? Monday?

There hadn’t seemed much point. No one had mentioned it.

It gave him a roughness he wasn’t used to seeing in himself. A certain edge. Older. Less... polished.

But then again, he wasn’t trying to be polished, was he?

He was trying to blend in.

And the truth was, the man in the mirror didn’t look like Harry Potter anymore.

He looked like someone who’d spent a week learning how to stay still.

Someone who’d stopped sleeping with his wand beneath his pillow.

Someone who hadn’t had a nightmare in three days.

He looked... tired. But not haunted.

That was something.

Harry stepped back, rolled his shoulders, and pulled on the threadbare grey jumper he’d left slung over the chair the night before. The sleeves were stretched out. The collar sagged. It smelled faintly like cinnamon and campfire.

Probably Marlene’s fault.

He padded out of the bedroom and into the dim corridor, the floorboards giving a familiar protest beneath his steps. The kitchenette was quiet, a few dishes in the sink from the night before, the little ceramic teapot Lily'd brought over the previous day, insisting it was “better than a kettle” sitting stubbornly on the counter next to a half-empty jar of instant coffee.

But it wasn’t the kitchen that made him pause.

It was the sofa.

Marlene was still there.

She lay curled under a blanket, one arm flung over her eyes, mouth slightly open, hair a complete disaster in a way that somehow still looked intentional. One leg was kicked out from beneath the cover, sock half-off her foot. Her boots sat beside the couch, one upright, one on its side.

There was a mug on the floor beside her, long cold. The book she’d been reading-- Magical Misdirection and Cloaking Hexes: A Primer-- was resting on her chest, open to a dog-eared page. She shifted slightly in her sleep, nose wrinkling.

She looked... peaceful.

No, not peaceful. Just real.

Marlene never did anything halfway. Not waking, not working, not sleeping. She took up space like she was born to it. She was here. Present in a way few people were.

Harry didn’t look for long.

Just enough.

Harry reached for the bread, pulling a half-loaf from the paper bag on the counter. It was the decent kind; crusty, seeded, slightly overpriced. Marlene had brought it in yesterday evening, claiming it was “fortified with something probably illegal, like wheat happiness,” and dropped it on the table before nicking his last apple.

He tore off two slices, slotted them into the toaster, and pressed the lever down.

The faint hum of enchantment started immediately, the coils glowing a soft blue before shifting to orange. Warm, familiar.

He leaned forward slightly, forearms braced on the edge of the sink, and stared out through the little window as he waited.

The view hadn’t changed since he arrived.

A crooked alley, part cobbled, part tarmac, where bins crowded like gossiping old men and the streetlamps flickered like they resented being awake. A rusted drainpipe rattled in the wind. Laundry lines zigzagged between windowsills overhead—scarves, a coat, one particularly ambitious bra flapping in the January breeze.

It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t magic.

But it was real.

That had begun to matter, strangely.

The flat, the people inside it, had a rhythm now. A pulse. It was a place with crumbs on the rug and someone always forgetting to tighten the jar lids. A place where Sirius had charmed the fridge to hum "God Save the Queen" whenever it was opened, and Lily had responded by sticking a Post-It inside that said “Queen lover.” He'd further retaliated by singing Freddie Mercury's high notes as loud as he could whenever she entered a room.

It was lived-in.

And Harry had started to live in it, too.

He found himself doing things he hadn’t expected; laughing easily, sitting with his feet tucked beneath him on the sofa, saying things like “See you later” and meaning it.

It scared the hell out of him.

He hadn’t planned to stay this long. Hadn’t expected to be pulled into their orbit so fast. And yet-- he could trace the shape of Remus’s tea habits better than his own. He could anticipate the way James would react to every opinionated article in the Prophet. He knew the exact time Marlene’s forehead creased when she was pretending not to worry about something.

They were becoming his people.

And that?

That was a problem.

Because they weren’t meant to be.

He hadn’t come back to the past to belong. He hadn’t even come back on purpose. And now that he was here and he couldn’t seem to figure out what Dumbledore wanted from him.

He thought again; one week, no word.

Not a single summons. No coded letter. No mirror call. No Patronus shaped like a phoenix dropping cryptic advice onto his toast.

He had half-convinced himself that Dumbledore had decided against involving him. That perhaps Harry was too much of a variable. Too powerful, too unpredictable, too close to people too fast.

The toast popped, sharp and loud.

Harry didn’t reach for it.

Because at that exact moment, there came a tap, tap, tap at the window.

He blinked.

Straightened.

The sound came again, sharper this time.

Peck, peck, peck.

He turned toward it.

A small owl, brown and scruffy, with feathers like mottled bark, was hovering just outside the glass. It had something clutched in its talons.

A letter.

No markings. No wax seal.

Harry stared at it.

His stomach tightened.

The flat was warded. Triple-warded, in fact. No post was supposed to get through without being filtered. Everything they needed was delivered to a neutral drop point and fetched later by someone designated. Owls didn’t come here, they couldn’t.

Unless someone had bypassed the wards.

Or had the authority to slip through them.

He reached for his wand, lying on the counter, beside the empty teacup from last night, and gave it a slow, practiced flick.

There was nothing but the soft pulse of Marlene sleeping behind him.

“Praeventus.”

The wards shimmered briefly around the window-- intact. No breaches. No tampering.

Still, Harry approached with caution, shoulders tense.

He cracked the window open half an inch, just enough for the owl to hop forward, stick-like legs shuffling. It extended the letter toward him impatiently, gave a low hoot of disapproval, then took off without waiting for thanks.

Harry caught the letter before it hit the floor.

Plain parchment. Folded. Sealed only with a simple sticking charm.

He didn’t open it right away.

Instead, he ran his wand over the edge, murmuring a series of detection charms-- hex-- sweep, curse-lure, minor tracking net. All clean.

Finally, he peeled it open and read.

Mr. Sayre,

If your schedule allows, I would appreciate a brief conversation.

There is a small Muggle diner two doors down from your current location. You’ll recognise it by the chipped red awning and the smell of burnt coffee.

I’ll be seated in the corner booth.

One hour.

No need to dress formally.

-A.P.W.B. Dumbledore

Harry stared at the letter for a long moment.

No signature sigils. No secret code. Just a location, a time, and Dumbledore’s initials like a full stop.

He folded it slowly, eyes still fixed on the scrawl.

He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or terrified.

Probably both.

Behind him, the kettle hissed into its final whistle.

And the flat remained quiet, Marlene still sleeping, toast growing cold.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

13th of January 1979
Just Inside The Chrome Spoon, Ladbroke Grove
One Hour Later

The bell above the door gave a half-hearted jingle as Harry stepped inside.

The diner was almost offensively ordinary. Red vinyl booths lined the far wall, their cushions cracked from years of elbows and coats and late-night spills. The counter ran along the left, low and brushed steel, backed by an alphabet of syrups and sauces and glass containers filled with sugar cubes. A chalkboard menu hung behind the grill, handwritten in curling white: Full English £1.90 / Chips Extra / No Substitutions.

It smelled like toast and old coffee. Not necessarily burnt, but the scent of something reheated too many times. There was the distant tang of vinegar, the grease of fried mushrooms still ghosting through the air from a breakfast long cleared.

Somewhere near the back, a radio played low through static, the soft croon of Dusty Springfield weaving in and out between the hiss of the griddle and the occasional clatter of cutlery.

Harry’s boots scuffed against the checked linoleum floor as he stepped further in.

It was warm. A little too warm. The kind of warmth that soaked into the sleeves of your jumper and made you itchy beneath your coat. But not unwelcome. It was the warmth of chipped mugs and the clink of teaspoons. The kind of warmth that had nothing to do with magic and everything to do with survival.

There were only a handful of people inside. A man in a hi-vis jacket slumped over a copy of the Sun. An elderly couple sharing a plate of toast without speaking. A girl in a red scarf behind the counter, chewing her lip and twisting a pencil between her fingers like she was trying to hex the milk frother into working.

No sign of Dumbledore.

Harry hesitated near the entrance, hands in his coat pockets, scanning the room again. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirrored panel beside the till-- windswept, dark circles under his eyes, hair unbrushed. He looked out of place here, even more than usual. Not dangerous, necessarily, but... watchful. Like someone who knew too many exits.

He did know them all already, he supposed.

The waitress at the counter straightened up, catching his eye.

“You alright, love?” she asked, friendly enough. “You meeting someone?”

Harry nodded, tugging off his gloves. “Yeah. Supposed to be.”

She squinted at him, then smiled. “Long red beard?”

“Er,” Harry blinked. “Sort of ginger.”

“Thought so.” She jerked her thumb toward the back. “Came in ten minutes ago. Ordered nothing. Just asked for the corner booth. Bit odd.”

Harry managed a thin smile. “That sounds about right.”

“Good luck,” she added, turning back to her register with the air of someone who’d once met a man with a long beard and never quite recovered.

Harry made his way to the back of the diner.

The booth was nestled in the farthest corner, half-shielded by a leaning hat stand and an old radiator that clicked with every other breath. And there he was.

Albus Dumbledore, but not the version Harry had buried of course not the one whose memory still pressed cold and heavy against the back of his throat.

This 1970s Dumbledore was younger, which he knew already but still alarmed him. His robes were dark green, trimmed in copper thread with numerous fidgeting wands thrumming over the fabric, and his fingers were steepled over a black coffee he hadn’t touched.

“Rigel,” Dumbledore said without looking up. “Do sit.”

Harry slid into the booth across from him, unsure where to rest his hands. “I wasn’t sure you'd actually be here.”

Dumbledore tilted his head, finally lifting his eyes to meet Harry’s. “And yet, you still came.”

Harry didn’t reply.

Dumbledore studied him for a long moment, then leaned back slightly, folding his hands together atop the table. “You’ve adjusted quickly. I'm pleased to see it.”

“I had help,” Harry said. “James. The others, they're all very welcoming.”

“Yes,” Dumbledore murmured. “You’ve placed yourself well.”

Something about the phrasing made Harry sit straighter. “An interesting way to say I've adapted.”

Dumbledore didn’t blink. “Interesting, perhaps. But not inaccurate.”

Harry sat back in the booth, leather squeaking under his coat. The air still smelled like old oil and burnt edges, like something left too long on the hob. Behind the counter, the waitress had gone back to her crossword, the radio warbling through a dusty chord of You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me.

He watched Dumbledore carefully. The older man wasn’t sipping his coffee. Just sitting there, regal and motionless. Robes dark as pine needles, embroidery glowing faintly at the sleeves. The kind of robes that whispered wealth and war in equal measure.

“You said you wanted a conversation,” Harry said eventually. “I assume that means more than commentary on my frienships.”

Dumbledore tilted his head. “Not everything I do is layered in riddle and threat, Mr. Sayre.”

Harry didn’t flinch, but his eyes narrowed slightly.

That amused Dumbledore, if only faintly.

Harry folded his arms on the table. “You haven’t contacted me for a week.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“You swore me in, vows and all, and then disappeared.”

“I hadn’t realised my absence required daily correspondence.”

“Funny,” Harry said, flatly. “I assumed the war effort could use more hands. Everyone has seemed pretty eager for an extra body. Even you were at the end of my hospital bed asking me to join this 'Order'."”

Dumbledore’s expression remained unreadable. Only the faint hum of the diner filled the space between them. The radiator next to Harry clicked softly.

“Let me be honest with you,” Harry said, low and steady. “I’ve followed every instruction I've been given. I took the vows. I moved into a safe house so they'd have an anchor for the first few days. I’ve followed protocol. And still, I’ve done nothing. No assignments. No briefings. No contact. So forgive me if I’m starting to feel like I’m being watched more than I’m being trusted.”

Dumbledore watched him over steepled fingers.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Dumbledore said, quietly, “That is an astute reading of the situation.”

Harry blinked. “Pardon?”

“You are being watched,” Dumbledore said, plainly. “That is, in fact, my intention.”

Harry stared at him.

Dumbledore sighed, as if the effort of saying it cost him something. “You arrived under unusual circumstances. You are powerful, that much is clear. You are persuasive. Capable. And you have made an impression on some of the Order’s most senior members.”

“I haven’t manipulated anyone,” Harry said.

“I didn’t say you had.”

“Then what is it?” His voice was low, tight. “You don’t trust me. Fine. But I’ve given you no reason not to. I’ve done everything you asked.”

“Yes. And perhaps that is precisely why I’m cautious.”

Harry stared at him. “You think I’m too cooperative?”

“I think you are not what you seem.”

The words were a matchstrike in the cold.

Harry leaned back, trying to bite down the heat behind his ribs. “I’ve told you who I am.”

“You’ve told me what you want me to believe,” Dumbledore said, tone still maddeningly calm. “Rigel Sayre. Son of a mother now passed, and a father who died when you were young. Arriving in England to track down your lineage, and instead falling into a battle against fifteen Death Eaters you held off alone.”

“I--”

“No one else can corroborate this, just yourself,” Dumbledore said, voice almost gentle. “That makes your presence... convenient. Or remarkable. Or both.”

Harry was silent.

“I am not accusing you of anything, Mr Sayre,” Dumbledore said at last. “Not yet. But I would be a fool to ignore what is obvious.”

Harry’s voice, when it came, was hoarse. “You think I’m a threat.”

“I think you are something I cannot explain. And in wartime, unexplained things often become dangerous before they become understood.”

They stared at one another.

Harry could feel the knot forming behind his ribs again. That too-tight sensation that warned of something breaking. He closed his eyes briefly.

He thought of James, laughing over a steak-and-kidney pie in Holborn on Tuesday.

Of Sirius, sprawled upside down across the flat’s only armchair, humming Bowie.

Of Marlene, nudging him with her elbow when he got too quiet at breakfast, saying nothing, just sipping her tea.

He opened his eyes.

“I didn’t come here to play verbal chess with you,” Harry said, quieter now. “If you want to accuse me of something incorrect, just say it.”

“I don’t. Not yet.”

“Then what is this? A warning?”

Dumbledore hesitated, then said, “A conversation.”

Harry stared at him.

Something in Dumbledore’s expression shifted. A very small movement-- barely more than the softening of his mouth, the slackening of his shoulders. 

“I've been watching you this week,” Dumbledore said. “I've had no choice. You've moved seamlessly; into their lives, into our spaces. You are not suspicious. You are not nervous. You are... adaptable.”

Dumbledore sipped his coffee, finally, as if offering a momentary ceasefire. The steam curled faintly against the edge of his beard. 

Harry didn’t speak. He didn’t move.

He waited.

“I know how he thinks,” Dumbledore said at last, and there was a tightness in the way he said it, like he’d pried open an old door he kept sealed. “Or I used to.”

The waitress passed their booth, dropping off a bowl of sugar without looking up. The clatter of plates at another table filled the silence that followed.

“You mean Voldemort,” Harry said, flatly.

Dumbledore inclined his head, ever so slightly. “I would ask you not to speak his name so loudly in public. If you recall our last private conversation, perhaps using his given name is best.”

“You said it in the hospital wing.”

“That was a warded room. This”--he gestured faintly to the red vinyl and ticking clock-- “is not.”

Harry watched him over the rim of his cup. “You think he noticed me. That night.”

Dumbledore met his gaze. “I know he did.”

Something dropped in Harry’s chest.

“You were… excessive,” Dumbledore continued, but there wasn’t accusation in the word. Only recognition. “Fifteen Death Eaters. Some of them branded, others awaiting initiation. Trained, each of them. And you crippled their attack single-handedly.”

“I didn’t kill them.”

“No. You didn’t.” Dumbledore’s expression shifted, approving, almost, but laced with something else. “But you left a mark. And there are very few marks Tom does not investigate.”

“He doesn’t know who I am,” Harry said, certain.

“No,” Dumbledore agreed. “But he’s asking.”

A prickle slid down the back of Harry’s neck. “How do you know that?”

“I don’t need a spy to recognise his pattern,” Dumbledore said, his voice quiet, even. “He is a predator. He senses threat long before the rest of us realise there is danger at all.”

Harry looked down at the salt shaker between them, watched it tilt slightly with the tremble in the table. “You think if I go into the field again, he’ll come for me.”

“I think,” Dumbledore said, “he is already looking. And if he sees you again-- sees the same magic, the same signature, the same defiance-- he’ll come in person. And he will not come alone.”

Harry’s stomach turned. “So I’m grounded. For the safety of others.”

“For now,” Dumbledore said. “You asked why I haven’t contacted you. That’s another reason. I didn’t want to alarm you... or the others.”

“Or make me feel like a danger to the people I’m trying to help.”

“That wasn’t my intention.”

“Doesn’t make it untrue.”

They fell into silence again.

Harry leaned back against the booth, running a hand down his jaw. His fingers brushed the edge of stubble, rough with sleep and days without purpose. He let the words sit. Let them settle in the base of his spine like cold water.

The fryer hissed behind the counter. Someone opened the door and let in a burst of cold London air, thick with petrol and wet brick.

When Harry spoke again, his voice was low. “You’re protecting them from me.”

Dumbledore sighed. “I’m protecting you from the one who already sees you.”

Harry’s eyes snapped to his. “He doesn’t know who I am, though.”

“He doesn’t need your name. He sees power. He sees patterns.” Dumbledore’s hands folded together on the table again, the worn joints of his fingers resting on the edge of the sugar bowl. “And he is interested. That interest is not benign.”

“Then use me,” Harry said. “Let me be something he doesn’t expect. Let me be a ghost. I’ve fought him before. I’ve stopped him before.”

Dumbledore’s eyes sharpened. “You’ve fought him?”

Shit.

Harry hesitated, too long, and quickly tried to patch it.

“Figuratively,” he said. “I mean I’ve-- trained against dark wizards back in the States. I’ve… read about him more specifically. Read the patterns. You said it yourself.”

Dumbledore was quiet. He didn’t press. But he watched. Like he was adding that sentence to a ledger in his mind.

“You have instinct,” Dumbledore said, slowly. “That much is certain. And you see through things more clearly than most. That’s part of why I asked you here today.”

Harry stilled. “There’s something else.”

Dumbledore reached into his robes.

He pulled out a narrow envelope and slid it across the table.

Harry turned it over.

His name-- Sayre, R.-- was written in sweeping Ministry script across the front.

He opened it carefully, eyes flicking over the contents. His pulse ticked faster the longer he read.

“You’re assigning me to the Department of Magical Transportation?” he said, incredulous.

“Officially, yes. Unofficially, you’ll be shadowing Jerome Whitmarsh. He's the head of the department and is suspected of interfering with internal communications-- specifically, leakages in the Department of Mysteries. We’ve had a series of minor security breaches. Nothing devastating. But timed too precisely to be random.”

Harry glanced back at the letter. “You think he’s working with the other side?”

“I think,” Dumbledore said carefully, “he is working with someone. I’d like to know who.”

“Why me?”

Dumbledore’s eyes glittered. “Because you’re untraceable. Because you’re new. Because he won’t see you coming.”

Harry folded the letter again. “I thought I was too risky to be in the field.”

“You’re not going into the field.” Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. “You’ll be wearing a tie. Sitting at a desk. Bringing him tea.”

“And spying on him while I do it.”

“Not all intelligence is gathered through a wand duel,” Dumbledore said. “Sometimes, it’s gathered through silence. Through what isn’t said.”

Harry exhaled slowly.

“Alright,” he said at last.

Dumbledore nodded.

“I’ll need my identity certified by this Ministry.” Harry added.

“It's already done,” Dumbledore said. “Being provided by a friend in Records.”

Harry looked down at his hands.

He wondered if he’d ever be Harry again.

If the truth would rot beneath this borrowed name.

“You said you didn’t trust me.”

“I said I was watching you,” Dumbledore said. “And I’ve watched you closely this week. The others like you. Sirius trusts you. Lily is intrigued. Marlene is..."

Harry looked up.

Dumbledore smiled, "... affectionate. I know all too well how quickly affection can become entanglement.”

Harry broke eye contact and ignored the pink that was most definitley blooming on his cheeks.

“You have influence,” Dumbledore continued. “That doesn’t frighten me. But it means I must know your centre, your purpose. If you will stand in the middle of the room, I must know which way you’ll fall when the winds shift.”

Harry looked away. “I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

Dumbledore nodded slowly. “Good. That’s what makes you human.”

Outside, a bus rumbled past.

Harry glanced again at the letter. “When do I start?”

“Wednesday. 8 a.m. Whitmarsh is punctual to the point of mania. Wear something forgettable.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Dumbledore stood.

Harry followed suit, stuffing the letter into his coat.

Dumbledore looked at him again. Measured. “Thank you, Mr. Sayre.”

Harry nodded, jaw tight. “Thank you for the coffee I didn’t get to finish.”

Dumbledore smiled, faint and wry. “We’ll call it a standing debt.”

And just like that, he stepped out of the booth, out of the diner, and vanished into the blur of winter wind outside.

Harry remained for a moment longer.

The sugar bowl was crooked.

The waitress gave him a sideways look.

He pulled a few notes from his pocket, laid them on the table, and walked out the door with the words of a man he didn’t trust ringing in his ears:

He already sees you.