Of a Feather

by Spork_in_the_Road

Summary:

"Well, here we are." Sirius pushed open the door with a grand sweep of his arms. “Home sweet Hell.”

Sirius had bad memories of Grimmauld Place, tainted by his own less than stellar family. But for Harry, whose summers had previously involved being locked away either in a cupboard or Dudley's second room--with bars on the windows, no less--it was perfect.

---
With Sirius free from Azkaban and taking up his role as Harry's guardian, Voldemort pursuing a political path to power rather than bloodshed, and a defense teacher that isn't actively trying to kill him for once, Harry has high hopes for his third year at Hogwarts. It'll be nice to sit back and be a kid for once.

Only Harry's life is never so simple, and he soon finds himself facing a myriad of new challenges: school bullies and new family dynamics, horcruxes all but falling into his lap, his deja-vu brain giving him mixed signals, and hidden murmurs arising from old Death Eater circles that may pose a threat to him regardless of his tentative alliance with Voldemort. Things seem destined to never be easy, but if there's one thing Harry knows by now, it's that he won't have to do it alone.

Notes:

THIS IS THE 3rd BOOK IN THE SERIES. If you haven't read Resurrection & Tip of Your Tongue, none of this is going to make any sense <3
Now for the summaries you have all come to expect and love:

Sirius: My teachers used to hate me because I was a prankster.
Harry: Some of my teachers hate me too. But like. In a murder way.
Harry (internally): I’m so good at family bonding.
Sirius (internally): What the fuck.

 

Sirius: How do you know what’s good for me???
Remus: THAT’S MY OPINION.

Chapter 1: LOCAL FAMILY STRUGGLES TO DECIDE WHO AMONG THEM HAS THE MOST TRAUMA

 

Sirius’s house was only a quick walk from King’s Cross Station, and so they’d taken the opportunity to stretch their legs and get some fresh air rather than apparating the short distance. Harry was grateful for it. His déjà vu brain had let him know in no uncertain terms that apparation did not agree with him.

Puking on the doorstep isn’t exactly the impression you want to make, the déjà vu brain had said, just as a phantom wave of nausea washed over Harry.

No thank you, Harry thought. Normally he was eager to experience everything the magical world had to offer, but perhaps it would be no great loss to skip over some things.

Neither Harry nor Sirius really knew how to talk to each other—one heartfelt conversation at Hogwarts wasn’t enough to make up for over a decade of lost time, and relationships couldn’t be built in a day—but Sirius was giving it his best effort, and Harry was determined to, too.

“—and after that time with the exploding toilets, he always took points from me and your father every time he saw us, no matter what we were doing. Kensington knew how to hold a grudge. I’m glad the old bastard retired before you went Hogwarts, or he might have carried it over to you.”

“Yeah,” Harry commiserated, nodding along. “I understand what it’s like to have a teacher out to get you. Lockhart was so upset the Prophet was writing about me and not him that he tried to frame me for murder. As if that was my fault.” And he’d dragged Harry’s friends into the grudge match, too. Unacceptable. If he wasn’t already in prison… “So excessive.”

Sirius’s steps faltered for a moment. “They, uh, didn’t put all that in the papers.”

Harry scoffed. “It’s the Prophet. If they’re not exaggerating for the sake of driving sales via fear-mongering, then they’re helping to cover up a scandal by misrepresenting the details. Typical.”

Sirius couldn’t argue with that, and for the last block, they walked in companionable silence.

And then there it was, Grimmauld Place. Somewhere Harry had never personally visited before, but which instinctually brought out a blend of conflicting emotions in him: comfort and gloom, anger and joy. A sense of family. A sense of loss.

“I hate this house,” Sirius muttered even as he went to unlock the door. He turned back to Harry with a grimace. “Unfortunately, we’re stuck with it for now. The other properties I inherited are in even worse condition. I’d have just bought a new house altogether if it weren’t for the fact that the Black accounts are all tied up in red tape.” Sirius paused, frowning. “The Goblins have been very accommodating, all things considered. It’s the Ministry that’s dragging their asses on filing the paperwork. Fucking bureaucracy.”  

“You’d think they’d be a little more eager to put all this behind them,” Harry mused. “Considering how badly they’ve messed up.”

Politics, the déjà vu brain spat.

We should consider the likelihood that someone has purposefully slowed the process for the sake of making Fudge look worse, the horcrux brain said. If it were up to just him, I’m sure Black would have been paid in full, all paperwork sorted and filed and buried by now. The fact that it’s still an issue means someone’s making a play behind the scenes.

Your other self? Harry wondered. It seemed like the sort of sneaky, quiet disorder that Voldemort as Tomas Sayre would sow for his own benefit. What better way to work his way up to the top of the ladder than by showing just how incompetent the current leadership was?

Possibly, the horcrux brain said. Though my other self is not the only one who would benefit from such a scheme.

“Well, here we are.” Sirius pushed open the door with a grand sweep of his arms. “Home sweet Hell.”

Harry peered into the darkened entryway, cautious before stepping inside. The hall seemed dim by atmosphere alone rather than a lack of actual lighting, deep burgundy walls and heavy gilded portraits adding a serious gravity to the space. It was obviously old, but much better maintained than Harry expected. And clean, too, he realized, absently swiping his fingers across the door frame and marveling as they came away clean.

It actually looks…decent, the déjà vu brain said, not bothering to hide his surprise. He must have spent the past month getting this place ready to properly live in.

Bringing it up to par for the wizarding child protective services, was Harry’s guess. Peeling wallpaper and decapitated elf heads likely wouldn’t go over well with the authorities when it came time for a home visit.

Not that the renovations could do much for the house’s general aura. There was magic here, nearly palpable in the air and set deep into the foundation, and with the way the horcrux in Harry’s brain was all but basking in it, it had to be dark. It was lucky, then, that Harry didn’t mind it at all.

The same couldn’t be said for Sirius, who stood in his own entryway fidgeting and uncomfortable.

That may have less to do with the magic itself and more to do with the associations he has with this house, the déjà vu brain said. Not to mention, it’s the first time you’re seeing his home—your new home—and he’s probably not sure what you’ll think, if you’ll be happy here.

Harry opened his mouth, ready to assure Sirius that Grimmauld Place was perfect—that Sirius shouldn’t worry, because anywhere was better than the Dursleys and Harry would have been happy to live in a shack or a cave or a hole in the ground if it meant being with Sirius rather than them—but before he could speak, there was a loud crack, abrupt enough to make Harry startle.

And then there was an elf.

The meanest, rattiest looking elf that Harry had ever seen—not that he’d seen many, but still. Harry had thought Dobby’s pillowcase clothes were bad enough, but whatever thing this one was wearing was about ten times dingier and full of twice as many holes. His back was hunched, hands curled in and gnarled—whether from age or old injury, Harry couldn’t be sure—and his skin was wrinkled, ears wilting. The glare he leveled at Harry was nothing short of murderous.

“Master Blood-Traitor is bringing tainted filth into this great house,” the house elf spat, turning his glare on Sirius. “Ruining the Black family name. Bringing shame onto the family. Oh, Mistress would have skinned you, yes. Would have skinned you for bringing trash into the ancestral home.”

“Kreacher—” Sirius started, voice raised and temper flaring.

“Incredible,” Harry said, awed, the words slipping out without thought. Sirius’s head whipped towards Harry, and Kreacher’s followed at a much slower pace. “He’s like the exact opposite of Dobby. Like if Dobby had an older counterpart from a dark dimension.”

Sirius blinked at him. “What.”

Harry shook himself. “Sorry, just thinking about this other house elf I know. Very sweet. Well-intentioned. Did, accidentally, almost kill me once, but we’re good now.”

“What.”

“There will be no almost,” Kreacher said ominously, eyes glinting.

Sirius whipped back around to Kreacher, and Harry half worried the man would make himself dizzy at this rate. “You will not harm Harry. You can’t. He’s my heir, and you will listen to his orders the same as mine.”

Harry grimaced at that. He wasn’t really big on giving orders, and while he’d yet to dig into the history of house elves and their position in the magical world, from what he’d seen so far, the whole business stank a bit too much of slavery for Harry to be at all comfortable with it.

Yet another thing I’ll have to add to the list, Harry thought. Hermione, at the very least, would be on board. Probably Luna too—she seemed very invested in the welfare of magical creatures. 

And then the rest of what Sirius had said registered.

“Wait. Heir?”

Sirius flapped a hand dismissively. “Of course. It’s not like I have any other children.”

Now it was Harry’s turn to stand in the hallway, dumbstruck. There was a lot to unpack there.

The horcrux brain was laughing. Heir to the Potter and Black estates. Your luck truly is outrageous.

But neither Harry nor the déjà vu brain could be bothered to respond to him, both of them stuck on the same fragment of wording. It could be insignificant, of course, a slip of the tongue, a thoughtless phrase, but—

Sirius had said he didn’t have any other children. Not, “It’s not like I have any children.” He’d said any other children. Implying…well. Implying that Harry—that he thought of Harry like—

There was a soft hissing in his ear, the flicker of a thin tongue at his cheek, bringing Harry gently back into reality.

“Mother? We have stopped moving. Are we at the new nest?” Eden hissed, nudging her head along Harry’s jaw as she tasted the air of their new home. She had settled around his neck for the duration of the train ride from Hogwarts, insisting that he was much warmer than the charmed rock in her terrarium. She was long enough for it now, nearly 30 cm and still growing, and since she could hide easily enough under the collar of his robes, Harry had allowed it.

“Yes,” Harry responded. “I will find a good sunspot for you soon.”

“And a mouse?” she asked, ever hopeful.

Harry rolled his eyes. “You ate a mouse last night.”

“So long ago,” Eden mourned.

Harry snorted and shook his head. Everything he’d read about adders suggested that they digested food slowly and would only need to eat once every few weeks. But Eden had a voracious appetite, claiming starvation sometimes mere hours after a meal, and Harry was loathe to deny her. Besides, despite eating much more than the average adder was supposed to, Eden still looked healthy. Maybe she was eating so much because she was still growing.

As Eden settled back under the collar of Harry’s robes, he noticed how quiet it had gotten and looked up to find both Sirius and Kreacher staring at him.

Oops, Harry thought. He’d become so accustomed to speaking parseltongue freely in front of his friends that he hadn’t considered warning Sirius. Or Kreacher, for that matter. Sometimes Harry forgot that speaking to snakes wasn’t common in the wizarding world—that it was, in fact, a rare ability that only two people in Britain (and the various soul pieces of one said person) could lay claim to.

“Right,” Sirius said, sounding a bit strangled but doing a good job of pretending he wasn’t freaking out. “Your pet snake. Was she around your neck this whole time?”

“Eden,” Harry offered. “She’s really very polite. I promise she won’t cause you any trouble.”

“No, no, of course. Because you can just…tell her not to, I suppose.”

Harry nodded. “Yes. And she’d much rather sleep and eat most of the time. She’s still a baby.”

“A baby,” Sirius repeated. “Your foot-long snake is a baby. Right. Okay. Good. Yep.”

He’s processing, the déjà vu brain said. Give him a minute.

Kreacher, for his part, was just staring. But unlike before, the murderous hostility was all but gone.

Harry smiled at him. “Kreacher, Eden won’t bite you so long as you leave her alone. Deal?”

The house elf was silent for a moment longer, but then his mouth split into a truly terrifying grin. “Oh Mistress would be pleased, after all. Master Blood-Traitor did well to bring Young Master Snake-Tongue here. Yes he did. There is hope for Master Blood-Traitor yet.”

There was more mumbling, but Harry couldn’t make it out, given that Kreacher decided now was the moment to begin wandering off to…somewhere. Harry watched him go with no small amount of concern; if he’d thought Dobby had a screw loose, then Kreacher’s brain was like a whole drawer full of mismatched spare parts.

The Black insanity may be contagious, the horcrux brain offered. I would warn you to take precautions, but I’m actually not convinced you haven’t already been contaminated.

Thanks, Harry drawled.

“Well he seems…nice,” Harry said once Kreacher was gone. “Real sunny personality.”

Sirius grimaced. “He adored my mother. That should tell you all you need to know about her, really.” Then he clapped his hands. “Anyway. Let me show you around. You can pretty much have your pick of the rooms, though I’ll warn you I think some of them might be haunted.”

Then Sirius launched into a story about how some of the objects in the drawing room moved around when he was cleaning in there, and how every time he tried to throw out his uncle’s creepy butterfly collection, it ended up back on the wall above the fireplace anyway, so he eventually gave up. Harry wasn’t convinced it was ghosts—it seemed much more likely that Kreacher was the culprit, in his opinion—but Sirius was a good storyteller and he found himself laughing along.

Home, the lizard brain hummed happily. Home. Safe. Family.

No matter what happens from here, Harry thought, it’s shaping up to be an interesting summer at least.

 

---

 

Habit once again had Harry rising early, the sun barely peeking in through the window in his bedroom. His bedroom, which was not a spare room intended for his cousin’s toys. His bedroom, which had perhaps belonged to some distant relative at one point fifty years ago, but not in Harry’s lifetime. His bedroom, which Sirius had told him to redecorate as he liked, because it was his and Harry should make it to his liking.

“Paint it, rip up the floors, take out a bloody wall if you want,” Sirius had said with a grin. “I don’t plan for this to be our permanent home, but in the meantime, well. It’s your house, too.”

The room Harry had chosen was currently painted in a dark blue-gray color that he’d found soothing. The bed was both larger and softer than anywhere he’d ever slept, and there was a desk, some mostly empty bookshelves, and plenty of light from the windows. It was already pretty perfect on its own, and it would only become more so as Harry unpacked his things, filled up the space and left his mark on it.

Strange how life can change so much so quickly, he thought. This time last year, he’d been grieving the end of his year at Hogwarts, bracing himself to suffer through another miserable summer. The pain of going back to the Dursleys last year had been all the worse because he’d had a taste of what life was like without them, of what Harry could be without them. And now he was here with Sirius. Both of them free from their own prisons.

The house was quiet, no sign of anyone else awake, but for once, Harry would not be expected to wait for someone to unlock his cupboard door. He got out of bed at will, used the adjoining bathroom to wash up and get ready for the day, and crept out into the hallway, footsteps silent. He had to remind himself he would not be yelled at for moving about the house freely, that Sirius had specifically said to make himself at home, go anywhere he liked.

Despite himself, Harry found his way to the kitchen.

It was bigger than the one at Privet Drive, designed to feed a large family and therefore more spacious out of necessity.

And to show off what they can afford, the horcrux brain added. With the old pureblood families, wealth is something meant to be shown off. Even if it is ostentatious.

I’m surprised you don’t think it’s a waste of money, the déjà vu brain said. I’d have thought you’d rather spend money on bribes than flashy but ultimately useless displays.

The horcrux countered, Why waste money on bribes when blackmail and torture are more effective?

Harry rolled his eyes at the déjà vu brain’s spluttering indignation. As if they didn’t all know by now how flexible Voldemort’s morals were. It wasn’t that Harry approved, necessarily, it was just that there was little point in trying to change who the horcrux fundamentally was. And neither Harry nor the déjà vu brain could truly claim the moral high ground anyway, not when they were both plenty homicidal in their own right.

The kitchen, ostentatious or not, continued to loom in front of him.

He didn’t have to cook. Probably. He didn’t think Sirius would expect him to. Sirius didn’t seem like the type, though Harry could be wrong. And even if he did expect Harry to make breakfast, he probably wouldn’t yell like Vernon had or swat at him with the frying pan like Petunia.

And Sirius had been in prison for over a decade, so any food would do. He wouldn’t be picky, having been accustomed to much worse.

You don’t have to, the déjà vu brain assured him, and Harry believed him, he did, but—

Fifteen minutes later and Harry stood over the stove, poking delicately at the eggs frying in the pan. There were footsteps coming down the stairs, and Harry turned when he heard Sirius come in, smiling and offering a good morning before getting back to it. The eggs were almost done—perfect timing.

“What on earth—” Sirius started, voice sleep-roughened and confused. “Harry, why—you’re cooking? Where’s Kreacher?”

Harry, who hadn’t actually seen the house elf all morning, shrugged. “Don’t know. I’m making breakfast—I didn’t know how you liked your eggs. Is sunny-side up fine? Or I could do a scramble?”

There was a long silence, so Harry turned to look at Sirius again. Sirius was standing in the middle of the kitchen in red and black flannel pajama bottoms and a dark grey bathrobe, eyes bleary and squinted as he looked at Harry. He looked half asleep still. And confused. But not…not angry.

Something in Harry’s chest eased, a tension he hadn’t really been aware of until right that second.

Sirius shook himself. “Uh. No. No need to do a…a scramble. Whatever you’ve made is great, I’m sure.”

Another minute more and Harry was handing his godfather a plate and fork, which Sirius took and plopped down at the table. When Harry didn’t immediately sit across from him, though, he frowned.

“Come. Sit. Eat.”

“You don’t mind?” Harry asked. He had to be sure. He knew normal families ate together—like the Weasleys, like meals at school—but things had never been normal at the Dursley house. And yes, Grimmauld Place wasn’t Privet Drive, and Sirius wasn’t like Vernon or Petunia, but—

But this was still a new place, a new person, a new set of unspoken rules that might need to be followed, and Harry was willing to follow those rules if it meant he got to stay. He just needed to know where the lines were first.

“Mind? Why the fuck would I—” Sirius took a deep breath. “Sorry. Let me—ugh. Would you like to eat breakfast together?”

“Yes. I—yes.” Harry sat down with his own plate and took a tentative bite. Nothing bad happened—in fact, nothing happened at all aside from Sirius nodding quietly.

“So. Family meals. You didn’t do that with your aunt’s family?” Sirius asked after a few minutes.

Harry snorted involuntarily. “At the Dursleys? No way.”

“But you cooked,” Sirius inferred, lifting a piece of his egg on the fork. “It’s very good. Much better than Kreacher’s idea of breakfast. The toast was basically charcoal. I think he’s trying to find a loophole where he can kill me without it technically going against the family magic.”

“Well, I can make breakfast,” Harry offered. “I’ve got plenty of practice, so I don’t think I’ll burn the toast. And I’m definitely not trying to kill you.”

Sirius smiled, but it was a softer thing than Harry would have expected from him. “Maybe sometimes, when you want. I make a mean batch of pancakes you’ll have to try. And there’s a bakery down the street—best damn croissants I’ve ever had.”

So not cooking all the time, then, Harry thought, a touch relieved. Not that he wouldn’t have done it, if that’s what Sirius wanted, but it was nice to know the burden of feeding them wasn’t going to fall solely on Harry.

Something must have shown on Harry’s face, or maybe Sirius was psychic, because he asked, “Did you cook all the time at your aunt’s?”

Harry shrugged. It hadn’t been all the time. Harry had usually been in school during lunch, and he hadn’t cooked when he’d been ill, of course, in case it was contagious. There were dinners for Vernon’s colleagues that Petunia had done—things that were more complicated or fancier than Harry could be trusted to manage.

Sirius seemed to have taken the shrug as a yes. “So you did most of the cooking, but you didn’t eat together.” His brow furrowed. “You thought I’d mind if you sat with me—Harry. Did your aunt not let you sit at the table?”

Harry grimaced. This wasn’t something he particularly wanted to talk about. It had been hard enough telling even some of the details to his friends, and part of the reason he’d told Ron in the first place was because he’d seen the bars on Harry’s windows first-hand. Harry knew the way the Dursleys had treated him was wrong, but there was something about speaking it out loud that made it all feel so much more real. Like by acknowledging it, somehow all the slights and cruelties could hurt him all over again.

Telling Sirius was probably the right thing to do. That didn’t make it easy.

He will love you anyway, the déjà vu brain said, cutting straight to the heart of the matter. If anything, he will be angry for you.

Safe, the lizard brain murmured, a soft hiss.

As I told you before, the horcrux brain added. If he is deficient, you will still have us. And he will be dead.

Stop threatening my godfather, the déjà vu brain said. He hasn’t done anything yet.

It’s not a threat. It’s reassurance.

Of course offering to murder someone is your idea of reassurance. The déjà vu brain groaned. You goddamned psychopath.

Oddly enough, it was the bickering of his inner voices that calmed Harry the most. Calmed him enough, at least, to get the words out.

“No. Or, well, I could if it was after everyone was done.” Harry paused, fists clenching. “Things were…not great. The Dursleys were…not great. There were a lot of things that—it’s hard. To talk about, it’s…hard.” He took a deep breath, shaking his head to try to regain some clarity. “I lived in a cupboard under the stairs until I was eleven, and it locked from the outside. That’s…that should give you an idea, I think.”

It took Harry a long moment to be able to look up from the table, but eventually Sirius’s silence was too much to bear.

But whatever Harry had been expecting, it wasn’t this: Sirius sitting stone-faced, eyes squeezed shut as his hand clenched around the silverware in his fist, breathing raggedly through his nose.

Just when Harry was wondering if he should try to reach out, or if that would be unwise, some of the tension uncoiled from his godfather’s shoulders, and with one more shuddering breath, he opened his eyes. Which were both damp and furious.

“I’m going to kill them,” he said with a remarkable amount of calm that only leant credence to his threat.

(Harry knew that sometimes when people got angry, they said things they didn’t mean.

He didn’t think that was the case here.)

The rational part of him thought that the proper response to that should be No, don’t, it’s not worth it.

He found that he did not want to say that, and thought that even if he did, he wouldn’t have meant it.

What he said instead was, “Probably should hold off on the murder for now, seeing as you just got out of prison.”

Sirius jolted a bit, startled, and then he barked out a laugh, effectively cutting through the tense atmosphere. Harry smiled in response, and it felt real.

“Yeah,” Sirius agreed, once he’d calmed down. “Probably a good idea. But I can still think it, can’t I?”

“Of course,” Harry assured him cheerfully. “I certainly do.”

 

---

 

After the not-totally-disastrous breakfast, the underlying worries that Harry had subconsciously had about living with Sirius seemed to dissolve with very little effort. It was still an adjustment, of course, to share a house with someone new and to learn the other person’s habits and quirks. But Harry did not feel like he had to tip-toe around Sirius, and Sirius seemed to go out of his way to make sure Harry knew that.

And with every soft assurance from his déjà vu brain, every whispered encouragement from his lizard brain, every threat of retribution from the horcrux, Harry settled incrementally into the house and into the life he was building here.

Which meant, on his third morning at Grimmauld Place, while eating a delicious chocolate chip muffin from Sirius’s favorite bakery, he felt comfortable enough to pick up the copy of the Daily Prophet that was sitting on the table between them and give it a quick scan the same way he would have at breakfast at Hogwarts. Sirius, who was still waking up and really only had eyes for his coffee, didn’t even blink.

(He was not a morning person, Harry had learned, but he still made the effort to get up and have breakfast together. Maybe he knew it meant something to Harry, or maybe it was that he was just as desperate for company after all those years isolated in Azkaban.

Maybe, in some ways, he and Harry were exactly the same.)

The front page of the Prophet was detailing some sex scandal of a Swiss diplomat that Harry had no interest in, and so he flipped through idly. On the second page, there was a somewhat fascinating article on collaborative dragon preservation efforts among twenty-three countries, and right under that sat a comprehensively flattering profile piece on one Tomas Sayre.

It was an almost excessively kind article, something of a rarity for the Prophet. But Harry supposed it would be difficult to find fault with the image Voldemort was currently cultivating: the long lost heir to a famous noble house, an educated man with incredible talents and a sense of justice, the man who had revived all the students harmed by Lockhart’s fame-seeking behavior, and who was now beginning to work with the Hogwarts Board of Governors to bring the school into a new era of greatness.

It didn’t hurt that Sayre was outrageously handsome, outrageously charming, and outrageously clever. The journalist who had written the profile—not Skeeter, but some woman named Mathilda Verne—had obviously eaten it right up. And who could blame her?

Wizarding Britain really doesn’t stand a chance, Harry thought. He was still unsure about whether or not that was a good thing. Voldemort was still Voldemort, and therefore there was an element of unpredictability to him.

But in every interaction Harry had had with the man, he’d been a far cry from the monster that so many people painted him as. And the more Harry got to know him—and the more Harry learned of Dumbledore—the more Harry thought that perhaps Voldemort was the better option. Maybe. If certain things could be investigated, verified.

Harry’s musings were interrupted by a knock on the door. Slowly, he lowered the paper to find that Sirius was looking back at him, equally confused.

“Are you expecting anyone?” Harry asked.

“Could be the wellness visit,” Sirius said, though he didn’t look like he believed it. “Other than that—no.”

Still in his pajamas, Sirius stood and went to the door, wand held comfortably at his side but ready. Harry waited behind, lingering in the hallway but largely out of the way.

(Maybe both of them were too paranoid for their own good. It could be anyone: a friendly neighbor, a ministry official here with the paperwork to give Sirius his bank accounts back, someone from the DMLE checking in.

But Harry was half expecting it to be a fight, and if the way Sirius rolled his wand in his palm was any indicator, he did too.)

Only when Sirius did open the door, the man on the other side was exactly the opposite of antagonistic. He was a tall, lean guy with mussed hair, sad eyes and face scars, a rumpled sweater, and a nervous demeanor like he thought he was about to get shoved in front of a moving vehicle just for having the gall to be on their doorstep.

He was also unnervingly familiar. Not from anywhere in real life. No. From Harry’s dreams.

Remus Lupin, the déjà vu brain offered, voice fond.

Family, the lizard brain said.

Oh this should be good, the horcrux said, sounding entirely too entertained for his own good.

“Hello, Sirius,” Lupin said as he shifted nervously on the doorstep.

Sirius was quiet for a moment, and since Harry could only see his back from this angle, he wasn’t sure what sort of reaction his godfather was having until, “What. The. Fuck.”

Remus flinched. Harry winced. That was not a warm welcome.

“No, really, what the fuck,” Sirius repeated. “I sent you a dozen fucking letters a month ago. Nothing. Radio silence. Fine, whatever, you don’t want to see me. And now you show up on my doorstep out of the blue. What the fuck.”

Harry winced again. Damn. It seemed like Remus was an even worse emotional wreck than Harry was.

Remus at least had the decency to look ashamed. “I didn’t mean for it to come across like that. I didn’t—I never wanted you to think I didn’t want to see you. I wanted to. I thought—you were getting settled, and I’d only get in the way. Bad memories, or—”

“Did you read them?”

A pause. “Yes.”

“So you knew that I wanted to see you, and you decided anyway, for me, that it wasn’t a good idea,” Sirius said flatly. Remus flinched again, and Sirius sighed. “Merlin, you’re a fucking idiot sometimes. Acting like you know best, making that choice for me.”

At Sirius’s words, Remus looked stricken. “Sirius—”

“What if you are what’s good for me?”

“I thought you would blame me. Or hate me at least. I believed you had betrayed them, for years, even despite how that never would have aligned with who I knew you to be. How could I ever make that up to you?”

“By being here. By trying.” Sirius reached forward, clasping Remus’s arm, and Remus let him. “So be here. Try.”

It wasn’t his déjà vu brain or anything so concrete, but Harry had the sudden sense that there were about to be tears—a depth of feeling best suited for dear, close friends and not the recently procured godson who only barely knew of these men in fractured, dream-like memory. Harry slipped away from the scene silently, content to let them have a moment in privacy. There were dishes in the kitchen he could tend to if he wanted to keep his hands busy. Not to mention there were still rooms that Harry had only glimpsed, not fully explored. And the library alone was enough to keep him occupied for years to come.

Wait, the horcrux said sharply, and Harry paused in his tracks. Do you feel that?

 It took him a moment of absolute concentration, but eventually he felt the faintest tingle of dark magic—deeper and blacker than even that which saturated Grimmauld naturally. And more than that, it was familiar.

There’s a horcrux here, Harry realized, and the horcrux in his brain hummed its affirmation.

The Locket, the déjà vu brain confirmed, sounding less than pleased. But that was to be expected at this point. The Harry that existed in the déjà vu brain’s memories had very likely never had a good experience with a horcrux, especially if the memories in the Chamber of Secrets were anything to go by.

Allowing the sensation of the horcrux’s magic to guide him, Harry took a tentative step towards where he thought the horcrux might be.

This is a terrible idea, the déjà vu brain said. That thing is a menace.

It is no more dangerous to Harry than the diary, the horcrux dismissed. Perhaps even less so, for it contains a much smaller fragment of my soul.

It nearly drowned me!

Danger, the lizard brain hissed.

Harry paused. Just because he had thus far managed to deal with every iteration of Voldemort that he’d met did not mean that other fragments of him would pose no threat. A little caution was warranted.

How many times must I tell you, Harry? I will not let anything harm you, the horcrux brain said. And then, addressing the déjà vu brain, Besides, would you not prefer the locket in our care rather than floating about for anyone to stumble across?

I hate when you make sense. Fuck it. Fine. Let’s do this.

But as soon as his brains reached a consensus, Sirius called out from the hall.

“Harry? There’s someone you should meet.”

The horcrux brain cursed, but Harry didn’t mind. The opportune moment would come. He had all summer after all.

 

---

 

“This is Remus Lupin,” Sirius said, happier than he’d been when he first answered the door but clearly twice as nervous. “He—you see, when we were young, we called ourselves the Marauders. There were four of us. Wormtail—Pettigrew, that is—you’ve already met. Your father was Prongs. I was—”

“Padfoot,” Harry finished, the name coming to him as easy as breathing. And when he looked at Remus, his nickname fell into place just as easily. “And you’re Moony.”

And then, seeing their gobsmacked expressions, Harry realized he’d once again let on that he knew too much. His mind raced as he tried to figure out how he could backtrack, how he could possibly explain how he knew their super-secret codenames from their teenage years, but before he could even really begin to fumble through an excuse, Remus came up with one for him.

“You called us that when you were a baby,” he whispered, already getting teary-eyed. “Our names were too hard for you to say, and James called us by our nicknames anyway. You…you must have remembered.”

It was a nice thought. Harry wished it was true, but there was no harm in letting them think so. Even if it was making Sirius sniffle again.

(And if it ended in crying and hugs, well, that was nice too.)

 

---

 

The first time Sirius had to go to his therapy appointment, leaving Harry alone to his own devices after much persuading, Harry was privately relieved.

(“You’re sure you’ll be okay here, by yourself?” Sirius had asked, unsure.

Harry had nodded. “I’m used to it. And besides, I won’t really be alone. I’ve got Kreacher.”

That hadn’t done much to ease Sirius’s nerves, not even when the house elf in question had popped in out of nowhere to say, “I will take good care of Young Master Snake-Tongue,” with an unexpected amount of sincerity. Harry didn’t quite know what to make of it. Neither did Sirius.

But the appointments were mandatory, and it wasn’t like there was anyone else to watch Harry.

“Honestly, Sirius. I’ve been practically self-sufficient for the past eleven years or so. An hour or two alone isn’t going to kill me.”

That had been that.)

It wasn’t that he didn’t like Sirius, or that they weren’t getting along. They were. Astonishingly well, really.

The problem was almost entirely Harry. Specifically that he wasn’t used to the sort of attentive, parental care Sirius seemed determined to provide. At the Dursleys, Harry had been assigned chores and then more or less told to get out of sight. At Hogwarts, the teachers might have cared more, but they were nearly as negligent.

Every problem Harry had encountered in his life, he’d had to fix himself.

The fact that Sirius made him breakfast some mornings, and wanted to know about Harry’s adventures at school, and wanted to know about his friends, and wanted to spend time in the evenings together—well. Harry didn’t know what to do with it.

It was everything he’d dreamed of and more. It was also incredibly overwhelming.

He was glad for a break, for the chance to explore the house undisturbed. And for a chance to continue making good on a promise he’d made.

“This is not Hogwarts,” Tom Riddle said when he emerged from the Diary in the midst of Harry’s bedroom, looking around at the room that was so obviously dissimilar from the Gryffindor Boy’s Dormitory. “And it is too saturated in magic to belong to your muggle relatives. Where are we?”

“One of the Black family homes.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed. “You did not mention you were acquainted with the Blacks.”

There’s plenty about me I didn’t mention, Harry thought but didn’t say aloud. Instead, he merely offered a smile and let Tom stew in the irritation of not knowing everything for a few moments.

But however much he enjoyed getting one up on Tom, he had no interest in actually alienating the diary horcrux. They were not exactly friends, but due to the nature of the deal they’d struck last year, they had spent a fair amount of time together and would likely continue to do so for the foreseeable future.

“My godfather was recently acquitted of mass murder,” Harry explained. “He’s my guardian now. As long as you don’t cause me any problems, Tom, I don’t see why you can’t be free to move about while he’s out of the house.”

“How generous of you,” Tom said snidely, but Harry only hummed.

“I thought you might enjoy the Black library in particular. But if you’re not interested…”

Tom’s head jerked at that, and then, like he’d forgotten that Harry was practically immune to his bullshit, he tried to give Harry puppy-eyes: all soft and piteous and glimmering with buried emotion.

Or at least, that’s what someone who didn’t know Tom might have seen. Harry just saw his obvious greed.

Is he fucking stupid? the déjà vu brain asked incredulously. He can’t honestly believe that will work.

At this age, his manipulation tactics are suited to the dimwitted masses, not impossible teenage boys destined to be his equal, the horcrux brain said, though he was no less derisive. But he’s known Harry for months now. He should know better.

“Harry,” Tom started, voice coaxing and laden with false remorse. “Forgive me if I seemed ungrateful. It’s all this being cooped up that has me so snappish, and of course you don’t deserve to be the target of my ire. Really—”

“Dear god, just stop.”

You’ve always liked hearing yourself talk, the déjà vu brain commented, poking at the horcrux brain. Should have called yourself Lord Monologue.

You have no appreciation for the power of a good speech, the horcrux brain sniffed.

Blah. Blah. Blah, the lizard brain hissed, setting the déjà vu brain off into a fit of laughter than nearly caught Harry up in it as well.

“You don’t want my apologies, Harry?” Tom asked softly, as if wounded, still feigning the innocent act.

Harry snorted. “Not if you don’t mean them, no. We both know what you’re trying to do. So cut the shit. I told you, you can browse the library as long as you don’t stir up trouble. Deal?”

Tom stepped closer, leaning into Harry’s space as he dropped the pretense of nicety. Harry didn’t flinch back; he’d already put Tom in his place once, the first time the diary had tried to possess him, and he’d do it again in a heartbeat if needed.

But instead of aggression or even anger—the expected response, because no version of Voldemort liked not having the upper hand—Tom looked…almost pleased. Harry frowned.

You are the one who vanquished his elder self, the one everyone proclaims as the only true match to Voldemort’s power, the horcrux brain explained. If you were ordinary—if you were like everyone else, taken in by his charm and unable or unwilling to push back—he would be disappointed.

There was a warm feeling in Harry’s chest as there always was any time Voldemort—or the various pieces of him, horcrux brain included—found him worthy, whether as a student or an opponent or an ally. Maybe it was because Voldemort was a difficult man to impress. Acknowledgment from him meant something different than it did from nearly anyone else.

“I’ll be on my best behavior,” Tom said.

“Good,” Harry said. “Then shall we?”

 

---

 

Harry did not consider himself a bookworm, an academic. He liked reading well enough, and he’d certainly spent plenty of time researching in the Hogwarts library last year. But learning for the sake of learning was not his passion—the hat hadn’t been lying when it said that Ravenclaw was ill-suited to Harry.

His research had purpose: a desire to find ways to protect himself against both physical attacks and political ones, a burning need to secure his independence by making sure that no one could use his ignorance against him. He wanted knowledge because knowledge was power.

And maybe that was part of what Tom wanted, too. But Tom was also a massive fucking nerd.

“Incredible,” he muttered for what must have been the seventh time in the past ten minutes alone, eyes wide and reverent as he scanned the packed bookshelves of the library. “And is that—Harry. You have a book on Scandinavian skin-rune casting. That was illegal in Britain even in my time. Do you have any idea how priceless this is?”

The horcrux brain was wistful. At 16, I had not yet secured an invite to any of my housemates’ private libraries. It was only after I proved myself with the Chamber of Secrets that they took me seriously.

You’re trying to tell me you weren’t going around cursing people and subduing them with your ‘sheer magical superiority’ from the moment you entered Hogwarts? the déjà vu brain scoffed.

Of course they knew of my magic long before then, the horcrux sneered. My followers respected my power. It was their families who were not persuaded so easily.

Harry had entered the wizarding world and encountered few obstacles. Sure, there were Dumbledore’s schemes to take into account, and the looming threat of death that seemed to hang around every corner. But he’d had money enough to buy anything he needed ten times over, and he’d made loyal friends within the first week of school, and he had a family name to recommend him.

(For all that he did not buy into the pureblood supremacy horse-shit, he would be naïve to think being a Potter was irrelevant in the world they lived in.)

Tom had had none of that.

It made the way he browsed the Black library—slowly, thoroughly, looking for all the world like he belonged there, and simultaneously looking as though he himself couldn’t quite believe it—all the more endearing.

Kind of in the same way that Theo’s bewilderment at being wrapped in Harry’s scarf was endearing. Or how Ron’s brilliant grin at being given a good chess opponent was endearing, or Hermione’s outraged rants about Rita Skeeter, or Luna’s cryptic and vaguely unsettling-but-well-meaning remarks, or Blaise’s insistence that yes, Harry, I know several really good lawyers, please for the love of Merlin, let me put you in contact with one of them just in case.

Well fuck, Harry thought, blinking at the sudden realization. Maybe Tom kind of actually is my friend. At the very least, Harry was treating him like one.

A snide, sharp, asshole of a friend who Harry couldn’t trust farther than he could throw him, but a friend still.

You’re just now realizing this? the déjà vu brain drawled, somehow both amused and long-suffering. Harry, the moment you decided not to take him down into the Chamber and stab him through with a basilisk fang, you basically adopted him.

You do become attached far too easily, the horcrux brain said, a familiar refrain at this point. But it wasn’t chiding. There was the same amused exasperation from him as there had been from the déjà vu brain.

“No,” Tom all but gasped from across the room. From anyone else at any other time, it might have been quiet enough to go unnoticed. But the house was empty, the library silent, and Tom was nothing short of awe-struck. “A hand-written journal on Byzantine ritual circles? From 437 A.D.? Incredible.”

Cute, the lizard brain hissed.

Harry shook his head. Tom would be kept busy for a while, and Sirius wasn’t due back from his therapy appointment for at least another hour. Which meant this was the perfect opportunity.

It was time to find the Locket.

 

 

 

Notes:

I'M BACK!!! Did you miss me?

It took me a while, but I've plotted out this story in detail and have a pretty solid idea of how it'll go--although since what I'm posting as chapter 1 was originally supposed to only be *half* of chapter 1 according to my outline, there may be more than 10 chapters by the end. I really thought I'd have trouble coming up with plotlines for PoA since I kind of eliminated the canon storyline by the end of Tip of Your Tongue, but as it turns out, there is *plenty* happening in this book.

I still can't promise you all a regular update schedule or that I'll write fast, but know that I *am* working on it <3 I hope writing will continue to go smoothly for me and that I can continue to share this story with you all without too many long breaks in between!

If you're enjoying, please leave comments/kudos <3 I try to reply to as many as I can, and I always, always enjoy reading your thoughts and ideas!

Thanks again to every person who has stuck with me through this series, and thank you all for being so patient as I figure things out <3 I love you all!

---

IMPORTANT NOTE FOR THOSE CONCERNED ABOUT THE RELATIONSHIP TAGS:

Because you all don't live inside my brain, I thought it might be helpful to offer some clarifications. Apparently the tags are still unclear to some people, so let me remedy that. Harry & Tom are the end-game couple for the series, but they're not getting together for quite a while yet--as in definitely not book 3 or 4, and possibly not until the end of book 5 or even somewhere in book 6. I haven't thought quite that far ahead yet, and don't know for sure how that will pan out.

The M/M tag in this story is for Sirius/Remus, because they are going to appear as a couple at some point in this story, and because their relationship is an ongoing subplot throughout this book. The Gen tag, which is still notably present, is for Harry & co. Because romance isn't the focus of this story, and the only way it's really going to manifest among the main characters at this point is in the form of childish crushes. The Mature rating of this story continues to be for excessive language, violence, thoughts of homicide, dark topics, etc. There is not smut here.

Also important, and I want you all to REMEMBER THIS, so I don't have to answer 100 questions about this in later chapters. There is no version of Voldemort|Tom that is currently at all romantically/sexually interested in Harry. Voldemort as Tomas Sayre sees Harry as a bright boy who is so much like himself and has so much potential, and who can possibly be shaped and molded into a useful weapon. He sees Harry as a curiosity, something to be observed and entertained by, and something he covets in the sense that he wants to steal Harry away from the light & Dumbledore, and possessive only in the sense that he wants Harry as his apprentice, someone who belongs to him and therefore their greatness reflects well on him. He is manipulative, and even arguably grooming Harry since his intent is to sway Harry to his side through building trust and a sense of camaraderie, but their relationship is one of a mentor/mentee.

Diary Tom is also not attracted to Harry. He doesn't see Harry so much as a weapon, but he does think of Harry as a resource. Someone who can provide him things--like company after being alone for 50 years, and the Black library, and so on. He also finds Harry to be a curiosity to be observed, and someone who both entertains and intrigues him. Diary Tom is also possessive of Harry in the way that every version of Tom hoards shiny things, and because Diary Tom knows Harry is a horcrux, he believes them to be the same type of special, which is why he's more wiling to see Harry as someone who could potentially one day get close to his level. But again, it's not romantic/sexual at this point, and I'm not writing any of their scenes together with that intent.

Even if Harry has a crush on any version of Tom|Voldemort at this point, it's certainly not reciprocated. Hope that helps clarify some things for this upcoming story <3