The Wrong Boy

by lonibal

Summary:

Harry Evans, secret older brother to the Boy Who Lived, wakes up in another world

Chapter 1: Incarnate

Notes:

I suggest reading The Evans Boy before reading this as there are references to things that happen in Part II that may be construed as spoilers. The story takes place between TEB: Halcyon Days Chapter 75 and 76.

I did consider not posting this until I finished writing TEB, but I didn't. It's not going to be anywhere near as long, I have no idea how often I'll update, and it'll have relatively short chapters. I think, I don't know, I've only written this one so far.

Harry Evans, former Head Boy, incumbent Slytherin gobstones captain, Death Eater, and secret half-brother to the Boy Who Lived, was enjoying another gorgeous day in Azkaban. The gruel was grueling, the dementors were dementoring, and droplets of water orbited him in an endless, predictably wet game. Lucius Malfoy was whimpering his mother’s name in his sleep. Harry yawned, and continued singing softly to himself to pass the time. 

“Take me… to your world, I want to know if… I belong there instead of here…”

Prismatic light danced across his eyelid. This was not unusual, given the regular pain he was subjected to courtesy of a certain Dark Lord, but Harry opened his eye in the event something was happening.

Harry was mildly surprised to find himself in the center of a glowing runic circle. He yawned again and sat up, squinting his eye to decipher the flashing runes. There seemed to be four major runes binding the circle at the cardinal points. It was useful to know where south was for his upcoming escape, but the large raido gave him pause. Mannaz to the east, dagaz to the west, and most disturbingly sowilo to the north. Journey, man, day, sun. Sowilo looked like a rudimentary lightning bolt, and while his brother Monty’s scar was much more intricate, Harry did associate that particular rune with him. 

Most troubling was that Harry had never seen anything quite like this, not even during his spree in Dumbledore’s office with the Time-Turner. And he felt something exceedingly ominous happening. He tried to get to his feet, but found himself stuck fast to the ground. He had been too busy examining the perimeter of the circle to see what was happening right beneath him. He looked between his legs and saw part of a massive eihwaz. It glowed with a menacing red light, and Harry felt his pulse spike. 

“Oh, fuck you,” Harry muttered, trying to pull his hands off the stone. “Is someone trying to summon me? You can’t summon a person, you bloody idiots, it’s a violation of—”

Harry’s words were lost in a blinding burst of light as every rune shone with uncanny magical force. Ghostly echoes of the runes rose up, floating uneasily in the air. They began to spin, the light blurring in nauseating streaks. Harry grimaced, unable to decipher more of the runes. He doubted his friends were behind this, it was far too complex. His dad knew him better than to waste time creating such a spell, and wasn’t exactly well-versed in runes. The Dark Lord wouldn’t bother, and Monty was…

He gritted his teeth against the sensation of being torn apart. It was worse than the lurch of the Knight Bus, the visceral hook of a portkey, the dizzying whirl of the floo, the infinite squeeze of apparition. He felt as though he were being deconstructed, everything that was or could be Harry Evans reduced to its basest parts. There was a process in potions, sublimation, to convert a solid object to gas instantaneously, but this was far from sublime.

In that moment between states, when Harry still retained consciousness, he experienced an incandescent fury impossible to articulate, so intense he doubted his body could contain it. If he died, nothing would prevent him from returning as a ghost. He wanted to see his friends again, buy them one last round. Hold Lady Madeleine, let her try lobster for once. Hug his dad, tell him how important he was, that he was allowed to be happy. Tell his brother the truth, all of it. Kiss Percy, finally work up the nerve to…

Harry held onto that determination as his cell in Azkaban, his body, his self faded from existence. Only darkness remained, and it consumed everything. 

 

---

 

“Did it work?”

Harry stayed completely still, taking the slow breaths of one deeply asleep. Instead of the cold stone floor of Azkaban, he was on slightly less cold dirt. The downside was that it was damp, a rock was stabbing into his side, and someone had just fucking summoned him. Accio Harry Evans. He had been occluding constantly since his incarceration, and to this he credited his calm in the face of this new and improved form of adversity. 

True, he was very upset, but he would hold off of killing his abductors until the circumstances were unveiled. 

“I think he’s waking up.”

Harry almost snorted. His entire body was one massive bruise. Whatever they had done was no ordinary form of transportation, insofar as magical transportation was ordinary. He had traveled through space and time. It didn’t strain credulity to postulate dimensional travel was possible. 

“Mum, he doesn’t look like him at all!”

Dismissing the how as something he could not immediately answer, and something which would require extensive analysis of the runic array—he doubted runes in and of themselves were capable of such a thing—Harry concerned himself with why. Who would summon him, to another dimension no less? What was their motive?

“What is he wearing?”

Harry kept his face smooth, but his mind was reeling. He recognized some of the voices. One was so buried in his memory he had almost forgotten. He felt sick with the implications, and decided perhaps he was better off actually falling asleep. 

They had taken him from his own reality—he was certain of this now, unless necromancy had suddenly gained widespread approval in the few days since his trial—and now he was being confronted with the voices of the dead. It was this particular indignation, this cruelty, that made Harry open his eyes. 

There was an audible gasp, and Harry belatedly remembered that he only had one eye. He closed his right eye, yawned, smiled apologetically, then looked around at the stunned faces of his kidnappers. 

Another person gasped. The red-haired woman. 

“Harry,” she whispered, covering her face. 

Dismissing the people, the first thing Harry noticed was that it was night. The second was that he was in a graveyard. Specifically the graveyard at Godric’s Hollow, where in another place his mother was buried. Here, in this new world, he was sprawled before the gravestone of Harry James Potter, Born 31 July 1980, Died 31 July 1995. He was an apparently beloved brother, son, and friend. A fluttering snitch moved across the granite. A fitting touch, in Harry’s humble opinion. Whoever this Harry Potter bloke was must have been as good a seeker as Monty. 

Harry blinked at the date, then looked back at the people surrounding him. “That’s…”

James Potter, Monty’s—Harry Potter’s?—dad, stared back at him with raised eyebrows. He looked like a grown up Monty. It was extremely weird. He was dead. 

Lily Potter, in another world known as his mum, had tears in her eyes. Her dark red hair was cut into a chic bob. She was also dead.

Remus Lupin had the pallor of a corpse and had lost a dangerous amount of weight, giving him a starved appearance. His hair was a light brown and absent the grey streaks Harry had seen just over a week ago. He lacked the self-inflicted wounds of a werewolf, and his bared teeth revealed viciously sharp fangs. He too was dead. It seemed he was dead in this dimension as well, if he was a vampire. Or undead. Vampires were the fungi of magical creatures.

Sirius Black was next. Harry noted the muggle leather jacket and smirked. Very much aware of the scrutiny he was under, Harry raised his hand. 

“Accio cigarettes,” he muttered, grinning as one of Black’s pockets flapped open and a pack of cigarettes shot out. His smile grew at Black’s, “Oi!” 

Harry hadn’t smoked in days, and he wanted to crawl out of his skin. He removed one cigarette and tossed the pack back. Black caught it with a befuddled expression. With a snap of his fingers, Harry lit his cigarette. 

“How did he do that?” an unfamiliar voice exclaimed. 

“It seems this Potter is capable of basic wandless magic,” someone drawled. 

As he had mastered occlumency, Harry did not whip around. He kept examining the summoners, unconcerned what they thought of his habits. 

“Harry doesn’t… didn’t smoke,” Lupin said. 

Dumbledore was next, wisely standing between Sirius Black and the one person who presented an imminent danger to him. The headmaster was in pale green robes ill-suited to a graveyard, but his expression was appropriately somber. Dumbledore still had his hands spread, though his wand was not the one which had always bothered Harry. Here, it was a simple ebony wand. Good for transfiguration. Harry distracted himself with wondering what the core was—probably a phoenix feather, unless Dumbledore had a pet unicorn in this dimension—and looked at a bizarre simulacrum of his own father. 

Severus Snape had a fantastic sneer, the sort Harry hadn’t seen much since third year, when his dad was forced into close proximity with James Potter’s son. Between him and Dumbledore, Harry couldn’t say who was examining him more intensely. Snape—he couldn’t think of this stranger as dad—scowled at Harry’s lack of reaction. 

“Seven people,” Harry mused, his voice hoarse. He had been singing to his fellow inmates often. For their own entertainment, out of the goodness of his own heart. “How meaningful.”

“He doesn’t sound like Harry at all,” Black complained. “And he stole my fags!” 

“I stole one,” Harry corrected, turning around to see the last person. He couldn't think of anyone who would be relevant as the seventh part of this ritual, other than his own brother. With a great feeling of trepidation, his gaze landed on what looked like a funhouse reflection of Monty. 

This boy was strikingly similar to Monty, if all of his coloring had been inverted, if he had been raised by people who cared for him. The teenager was around seventeen or eighteen, had messy red hair the same shade as Lily Potter’s, and had the hazel eyes of James Potter. He was taller than Monty, heavier, healthier, and carried himself with a confidence Harry had worked hard to steadily develop in his little brother. The boy held himself like the world owed him something, and like he was entitled to it. He looked like a miniature James Potter. 

“Snape must fucking loathe you,” Harry said, chuckling around his cigarette. He took another drag, fascinated by the subtle changes he had noticed. So he had a brother in this world too. Rather, Harry Potter had a brother, and wasn’t that a strange thought?

The boy gave him a scandalized look. “What happened to your eye?”

“Sam,” his mum—Lily Potter, or Mrs. Potter, Harry needed a name for her—said admonishingly. His own mum hadn’t lived long enough to admonish him. He’d accumulate as many memories of this version as he could, maybe bottle them for Monty as a Christmas present. 

The thought of his brother soured Harry’s curiosity.

“Bellatrix Lestrange happened,” Harry said. “Don’t worry, I took my pound of flesh. Literally.”

If anything, this unnerved the boy more. 

Dumbledore cleared his throat. Harry winked at the kid—Sam, as in Samuel?—which he knew came off as more of a blink, then turned to face Dumbledore. 

“My dear boy,” Dumbledore began. 

“Yeah?” Harry said. He took another drag, then began scanning the ground. He hoped there was some trace of the runic circle, ritual, whatever the fuck they had done. He had to reverse engineer it and get back to his own dimension. As interesting as it would be to explore a new world, he was rather busy being in Azkaban and plotting to save his brother’s life. 

“As you have undoubtedly noticed,” Dumbledore said, “you have been summoned from another world, into the moment of our greatest need.”

“Right now?” Harry said, looking at him again. The runes had vanished, which was just as well. If seven people were needed to summon him, it stood to reason he would need seven to send him back, and the git behind it all was speaking to him as one would speak to a misbehaving cat.

“What day is it?” Harry asked, hoping it wasn’t—

“Halloween,” Snape provided, crushing all of Harry’s hopes and dreams. It was a meaningful day to him personally, to his brother, and obviously had significant import to these people if they chose it for their reality-breaking ritual. 

Harry wasn’t an idiot. He had read the name on the gravestone. 

“We have lost the Harry Potter of our world,” Dumbledore continued, drawing Harry’s attention again. “And have reached through the worlds to seek one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord.”

“Voldemort?” Harry asked. He experienced a small existential crisis when his dark mark did not burn. Did dark marks not exist here?

The gathering collectively flinched, and Snape grabbed his forearm. 

“Do not speak his name!” Snape said harshly. 

Harry took another drag from his stolen cigarette. “The power to vanquish the Dark Lord, eh?”

Dumbledore’s eyes lit up. “Does that sound familiar to you, Harry?”

“You’re reciting a prophecy verbatim,” Harry said, carefully getting to his feet. Sitting while everyone else was standing was awkward. “Obviously it’s familiar.” 

He didn’t have his wand, which was a real wrench. He could always nick Black’s, but he’d already deprived the man of a cigarette. Mrs. Potter seemed emotionally compromised, and the Sam kid was just that, a kid. Both of their wands would likely work for him. Harry knew next to nothing about James Potter, but deemed himself a decent match for Lupin and Black. Dumbledore and Snape would be a pain, but there was no shame in running. Running where was the question, and whether he wanted to when these people were his best bet for getting back to his cell.

“He doesn’t,” James began. He swallowed. “He doesn’t look exactly like him.”

“He is from a different universe, Potter,” Snape said impatiently. “There are bound to be differences. This was explained to you. Extensively.”

“Severus, that is enough,” Dumbledore said. Snape crossed his arms and redirected his sneer at Harry. “Young man, are you indeed Harry Potter?”

Harry didn’t have to think about it. He was Harry, and if his mum’s plan had worked out, he might have been Harry Potter. 

“Yeah,” Harry said. It struck him that these people could have summoned his little brother instead. He wouldn’t have even known, locked in Azkaban as he was. The thought reigniting his anger.

“He’s telling the truth,” Lupin said, his voice silky. Seductive. Harry was certain that this Lupin was a vampire. Maybe a werewolf turned vampire. 

“Then perhaps,” Snape said, drawing his wand, “Potter can explain why he is wearing prisoner’s robes from Azkaban.”

“Azkaban?” Harry said incredulously, looking down at his grey robes. “What are you on about? I was in St. Mungo’s!”

Harry knew he could blame every incongruity on being from a different dimension. How would they even know?

“We should not linger here,” Dumbledore said, putting his own wand away in a startling show of trust. “We can continue our discussion in safer environs.”

“You mean headquarters?” Mr. Potter asked, looking away from Harry for the first time since he had pretended to wake up.

“Why were you in St. Mungo’s?” Mrs. Potter asked.

“Dueling Bellatrix Lestrange,” Harry said slowly. “I’ve just lost my eye, like I said.” He glanced at Black. “Does she not exist here? Bellatrix Cygna Black?”

“She does,” Dumbledore said soothingly. “But she is known as Bellatrix Black.”

“Weird,” Harry said, finishing his cigarette. He flicked the butt into the night, and it unobtrusively vanished. The seven people around him stared at it as if Harry had just performed a miracle. Dumbledore gave him a considering look, then took a small step forward.

“If I may,” Dumbledore said, holding out his arm. “I shall apparate us to the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, located at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London.”

Harry kept his face smooth as the Fidelius charm settled over him. Presumably the myriad Boys Who Lived or whoever Dumbledore meant to summon would already know that information. Harry doubted it was consistent among realities, but he would take any opportunity to convince these people he was who they wanted. If they were willing to snatch various iterations of his little brother from other worlds, there was no telling what they were capable of. Harry understood their desperation; if the only way to save his brother was an inter-dimensional summoning, he would do it, to hell with the consequences. 

“What year is it?” Harry asked, placing his hand on Dumbledore’s proffered elbow. After all the work put into their little ritual, Harry doubted he would be killed via side-along apparition. 

“Nineteen ninety-seven,” Dumbledore said, before once again stealing Harry away. 

 

 

 

Notes:

The song is Another Sunday by I Mother Earth

Chapter 2: Jason

Summary:

Neigh

Still reeling from the disappointment of Dumbledore’s vigilantes not being called the Guild of the Unicorn, Harry politely accepted a cup of tea and examined his surroundings. 

Dumbledore had apparated him to a magnificently decrepit townhouse. Harry barely had time to register the menacing silver serpent on the door before he was hustled inside. As he was led down a dusty corridor, past a set of moldering velvet curtains that fluttered threateningly at him, and down a set of narrow steps into the cavernous kitchen, Harry wondered whether this was the same headquarters as in his own world. There were bound to be differences, but Harry hoped his brother was residing somewhere that had been cleaned in the last century. 

The kitchen was as impressively large and ramshackle as the rest of the house. It looked positively ancient, all rough stone walls, iron pots and pans dangling from the sooty ceiling, a large fire coughing out sparks and smoke, a weathered table scratched and pockmarked with centuries of meals, spells, potions gone wrong.

Harry sipped at his tea, brushed off how rude it was to dose him with Calming Draught without his consent—at least it wasn’t Veritaserum—and imagined his little brother having meals in the same space with Sirius Black and Remus Lupin, the Black house-elf Kreacher lurching around and muttering invectives. It was the closest thing to a real family Monty had, and now Lupin was dead. 

Harry had actively chosen to not inform anyone that Lupin had been captured. So had his dad, but his dad hadn’t been the one to choose Luna’s life over Lupin’s. The thought darkened Harry’s already foul mood. There were so many things, so many terrible things he was hiding from his brother, and Harry knew he would do worse before the war was over. There would be a reckoning. 

“Harry?”

Harry looked up from his tea and surveyed the others at the table. The breadth of emotion splayed out was overwhelming. Hope, fear, suspicion. Lily—Mrs. Potter was too formal—gave him a watery smile. Harry had no idea how to respond to that. James had his arm around her shoulders, but his eyes were also shiny with tears. Next to them, their son Sam stared at Harry intently. It took Harry a moment to realize the kid was looking at his missing eye. Remus—Harry decided the late Harry Potter would not be calling his loved ones by their surnames—was unnaturally still, but his fangs had yet to make a reappearance. Next to him, Sirius was frowning, looking from Harry, to Lily, to Harry, to James. Snape had his hands folded and was watching Harry with piercing black eyes, a faint sneer marring his face. Harry uncharitably thought he looked a bit greasier than his actual dad. Dumbledore was watching him with a grandfatherly smile, the sort meant to put someone at ease.

Harry was the polar opposite of at ease.

“Why were you at St. Mungo’s?” Dumbledore asked. 

“I’ve already answered that,” Harry told him, setting down his cup of tea. “I dueled Bellatrix Lestrange and was injured.” He held up his right hand, showing off the blackened stump of his little finger. The red-head Potter kid, Sam, curdled like spoiled milk. “The healers weren’t quite done.”

One thing that heartened Harry, something the summoning ritual seemed to have confirmed, was that he had the power to kill the Dark Lord. Harry knew he had the will, and a plan that wouldn’t end with a dead brother, but worried the prophecy would require some final blow from Monty. Certainly others had the power to vanquish the Dark Lord—he counted at least three present in the kitchen—but the prophecy in his world had promised nothing. Power wasn’t enough. 

Lily’s tears began pouring freely at the sight of his missing finger. Harry wished she would stop crying. His strongest memories of his mother were of her crying. On the steps of Spinner’s Circle. In a cursed mirror. And now here, in a basement kitchen, in another dimension, captivated by an alternate version of her son. A potential son, Harry supposed, given he was no blood relation of James Potter’s. 

“Where’s your scar?” Sam demanded, looking pointedly at his forehead.

“Which one?” Harry asked, raising an eyebrow. He picked up his tea and took another sip. “Take your pick.” 

“I believe,” Dumbledore said, drawing Harry’s attention, “that Sam is referring to the scar Lord Voldemort gave you.”

“Again,” Harry said blithely, “take your bloody pick.” He reached out a hand to Sirius and wiggled his fingers. Sirius gave him a flat look, then sighed and took out his cigarettes. 

“He must have got the habit from you, Sirius,” Lily said tearfully. “I always knew you were a bad influence.”

“Do you have to smoke?” James asked as Harry lit another cigarette. He considered keeping the pack for himself, but gamely tossed it back to Sirius.

“Have to?” Harry asked, glancing at the heavy pot dangling above his head. “No. Want to? Yes.” He took a drag, then looked at James. “You lot stole me from my world. My friends, my family, my boyfriend, my fucking cat. I'm injured, I haven’t got a wand, there’s a war on, and I’ve just bloody well woken up on my own grave.”

“Boyfriend?” Lily asked, wiping her eyes.

“Cat?” Sam asked, looking baffled.

Harry took another drag, then pointed his cigarette at Dumbledore. Snape narrowed his eyes, but Harry ignored him. 

“Tell me how to get home,” Harry said. Dumbledore regarded him wearily. Harry pressed on. “I understand that you need someone to vanquish Voldemort—”

“Do not speak his name,” Snape snarled.

“You’re not my dad,” Harry shot back, suppressing the urge to grin at how enraged this version of his dad was.

“You need someone to vanquish Tom Marvolo Riddle,” Harry said after a tense moment, rolling his eye, “but I’ve got my own Dark Lord to deal with. I’m not going to save your world at the expense of my own.”

The table fell silent. The only sound was the crackling of the fire, and the flick of a golden lighter as Sirius lit his own cigarette. Remus watched him with a black gaze more unnerving than Snape’s. If Remus became a problem, Harry would introduce him to one of the uses for unicorn blood.

“Am I to understand you have not defeated Lord Voldemort in your own reality?” Dumbledore asked, watching Harry through a pair of square bifocal lenses. “The war is ongoing?”

Harry leaned back in his chair and sighed. “It would be more accurate to say it’s incipient, but that’s been the case since the last time I found myself bound to a gravestone.”

“Incipient,” Snape repeated mockingly. “I’m surprised a Potter is capable of uttering such a word, much less using it correctly.”

“Well, fuck you too,” Harry said without rancor. He rubbed his face, then looked at Dumbledore again. “So? Can you get me back to my dimension?”

Dumbledore watched him for a moment. Everyone was watching him, and it occurred to Harry that they already knew. Dumbledore would not have allowed them to participate in such a ritual without making them fully aware of the consequences, or so Harry hoped. His own world’s Dumbledore had let Monty suffer in ignorance for years. He had not even told Monty why he was not allowed to be with his godfather and the Order of the Phoenix, or why he was made to learn occlumency. Perhaps this Dumbledore was more principled in some ways, but Harry’s presence in another reality suggested the man was fundamentally the same.

“We can send you back,” Dumbledore finally admitted, leaning forward slightly. “However—”

“And here’s where the strings come in,” Harry muttered, picking up his tea. The lavender and mint made his heart ache for home. His dad made it better. His brother made it better.

“—you may only return when the purpose for which you were summoned is fulfilled,” Dumbledore finished. “It will complete the ritual, and mend the rift between worlds.”

Harry frowned into his tea, turning over the headmaster's words. May. No guarantee. Harry had no idea if Dumbledore was the headmaster of Hogwarts. Maybe Dumbledore was the Light Lord and Harry was surrounded by light wizard cultists. Light magic wasn’t a concept in his world—and he had his reservations about classing any magic as dark—but Harry was prepared for all manner of oddities in this new world, not the least of which was his own presence.

“Is one of your middle names Brian?” Harry asked out of pure curiosity.

“Jason,” Dumbledore said with a faint smile.

Harry snorted tea through his nose, then started laughing. If it took sacrificing each one of them on the altar of the dead Harry Potter’s tomb, Harry would do it.

“Are you hungry?” Lily asked, leaning towards him. She had sat across from Harry, and it was a trial not to stare at her. “You must be ravenous! I know what the food is like at St. Mungo’s.” 

“Better than Azkaban,” Harry said, smiling wryly at Snape. If it increased the man’s suspicion, Harry didn’t care. These people were barely real to him as it was. Half were dead in his world, and one didn’t exist at all. 

Food began appearing on the table without prompting. Harry was hungry. After days of flavorless gruel and lukewarm water he was prepared to eat anything. He knew there were more questions to come, and he had plenty of his own, but he allowed himself to enjoy the simple meal spread before him. It gave Harry the excuse not to talk, gave him time to construct a more robust web of lies. 

Though this world’s Boy Who Lived died, the Dark Lord had not been defeated. Despite his simmering rage, the absurdity of his circumstances, Harry felt vindicated. His brother didn’t have to die, and he would do everything in his power to keep Monty alive. In this world, and the next. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 3: Skrewt

Summary:

Have you heard the gobspel?

Harry had fallen asleep in stranger places, and any bed was better than the floor of a prison cell. He was initially surprised at how trusting his abductors were, until he recalled he was bound to them by ritual. Returning home was contingent upon fulfilling his purpose, which was repulsive but something Harry could live with. He had little choice in the matter. They had seen to that.

The room he had been escorted to was unremarkably gloomy. The number of serpents in the house, including one on the bedroom door, strongly suggested the Black family tended to sort Slytherin. Since he was pretending to have been in the house before, and generally being cool and collected, Harry showed no reaction to anything.

It was a big room, vertically. The ceiling was lost in said gloom, possibly hosting whatever dark denizens had fled the Order of the Phoenix. 

There were two beds, both made. A room for twins, perhaps. A old wardrobe dominated one corner, and Harry watched it for a while in the event it began shaking. He didn’t think the Order would intentionally put him in a room with a boggart, but he had a fairly low opinion of them.

Over one bed hung an empty picture frame. A portrait spy, presumably. Harry didn’t relish the idea, but as he was pretending to be someone with nothing to hide, objecting to it would draw unwanted scrutiny. 

“What do you think?”

Harry didn’t flinch, which in retrospect was a mistake. Remus Lupin stood in the open doorway, cloaked in darkness or something. 

“More comfortable than a hospital bed,” Harry said, sitting on one of the mattresses. Little puffs of dust rose up around him. He moved to the other, cleaner, bed. “Unoccupied?”

“Yes,” Remus said shortly. His voice was completely without affect, and he looked famously bored. 

“Right,” Harry said, looking around again. At a sudden fluttering of wings Harry instinctively threw his arm out. Appearing like a ghost in the dead of night, a white owl flew from the top of the wardrobe and landed on Harry’s head. 

“Hedwig?” Harry asked, reaching up to relocate the owl to his arm.

The snowy owl clacked her beak. She looked almost exactly like his brother’s owl, except she was missing a startling number of feathers, so many that Harry could see her skin. 

“What on earth happened to you?” Harry said, gently stroking her head. Other-Hedwig closed her eyes and leaned into his hand. 

“She is grieving,” Remus said tonelessly. Harry looked at him. “I believe she was hunting when Harry passed.”

Harry narrowed his eye. “What do you mean by passed?”

Remus evaporated in a haze of black smoke. Harry stared at the doorway as the smoke dissipated, then looked back at Hedwig. 

“I don’t think I can take you back with me,” he quietly told her. He felt terribly sad. Would this happen to Lady Madeleine? Would she hurt herself in distress? Waste away?

Hedwig hooted sleepily, and did not stir. It was very late for a snowy owl to be awake. Harry carefully settled her on the headboard. 

Harry sighed at his inmate robes, hoped they didn’t tattoo prisoners in this universe, dithered over which scar would most believably be the result of a failed Killing Curse, then laid down. 

The more he learned of this reality, the more questions he had. He needed new clothes, a wand, information on the Dark Lord. He wanted to know why Harry Potter was dead, why it had taken two years for Dumbledore to conclude that summoning someone from another dimension was their only hope, why it was him and not the proper Boy Who Lived. Whether they had heard the gospel of gobstones. The gobspel. He was still working on the name. 

Harry’s many questions would keep until morning, Trusting no one would try killing him in his sleep, Harry closed his eye and tried to be grateful for going to sleep in a comfortable bed with a full stomach. 

He snorted to himself and rolled over. Ritual sacrifice was not off the table. These fuckers had taken him away from everything important, everything he loved. They could try to repay that, but Harry doubted they would appreciate the price he would exact. 

 

---

 

“It’s the Day of the Dead,” Harry said by way of greeting. He had fallen asleep counting the days, and deduced Halloween had fallen on a Friday. It explained why people who presumably had jobs and classes to be getting to had all been available that night, and why they were present in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place the morning after. 

“La Toussaint?” Harry asked the sea of blank faces.

Dumbledore and Snape were conspicuously absent, but all the other major players were seated at the kitchen table. Being underground, the daylight failed to penetrate the kitchen, and it was as grim as it had been at night. 

“All Saints’ Day?” Harry tried again, looking at Lily. Her eyes were the same shade as Monty’s. Older witches and wizards were universally compelled to make the comparison, and even Harry could remember it. Aside from her deep red hair, Lily’s eyes were her most striking feature. 

Lily’s eyes widened in comprehension, while Remus watched him unblinkingly. James, Sirius, and Sam were all perplexed, and wearing such identical expressions Harry almost smiled. 

“Is that something you celebrate?” Lily asked tentatively. “We…our…my family was never very religious.”

“Nor mine,” Harry said, boldly taking a seat across from Sam. 

Up close, Sam looked much more like James than Lily. The times Harry had charmed his brother’s hair red made Monty so identical to their mum it was hard to look at him. 

Sam avoided his gaze, turning his attention to the food already spread on the table. Harry didn’t see anything that would kill him, but for all he knew they made bread out of peanuts. 

“Does this bread have peanuts?” he asked, pointing at a stack of toast glistening with butter. He understood that it could be charmed not to turn the bread soggy, but he still preferred buttering his own toast. 

“Why would bread have peanuts in it?” Sam asked. “What kind of question is that?”

“I’m allergic to peanuts,” Harry said, taking a piece of toast and some kippers. He used his right hand to show off his hag bite. “And shellfish. I think I’m mostly not allergic to shellfish anymore, but I don’t want to run into any skrewts while I’m here. Have they been driven to extinction?”

“The fuck’s a skrewt?” Sirius demanded. 

“Language,” Lily said sharply. 

“Leave it, Lils,” James said, wandlessly stirring his tea. “Sam’s old enough.”

“He’s got the mouth of a sailor,” Lily said with a frown. 

Fascinated by this byplay, Harry was not at all prepared for his kippers to turn into a live lobster. He felt his throat begin to tighten and pushed himself away from the table. 

“Shit. Shit!”

Several chairs scraped against the floor.

“Sirius, what did you do?” 

“I thought he was lying!”

It was nowhere near as bad as before his dad went and invented a cure for his shellfish allergy, but his breathing was becoming labored, and his tongue was beginning to swell. 

“Evanesco!”

“Get Madam Pomfrey! James, the floo!”

Footsteps thudded up the stairs.

“What were you thinking?”

Since it was a good opportunity to ham it up, Harry fell out of his chair and scrambled back against a wall. 

“Need…” Harry wheezed, letting his eye flutter shut. 

Someone pulled him into their lap. 

“Breathe, just breathe,” Lily whispered. “Oh, god. James! No, no, not again, not again!”

“He could be faking it!”

“Sirius, for once in your life shut the hell up!”

“Mum?”

“Respiro!”

Harry’s lungs inflated with air. 

“What do people with allergies need? I can’t remember! Insulin? No, not…penicillin? Why can’t I remember? James? James!”

Steps thudded down the stairs again. “She’s here!”

Harry changed hands, and was comforted by the clipped tones of Madam Pomfrey. He had long believed she was the most sensible adult at Hogwarts. 

Harry blearily regarded the people crowded around him. Lily was horribly pale. James looked murderous. Sam looked traumatized. Remus was a vampire. Sirius was horrified. Dumbledore and Snape had come along with Pomfrey since it seemed no one in the house had a job.

It was the most attention Harry had got for a while, and he wasn’t very comfortable with it. 

With an efficiency born of years of keeping magical children from killing themselves, Madam Pomfrey got his throat to stop closing and gagged him with a potion. Harry coughed a few times, then sat up on his own. 

“First of all,” he said, glaring at Sirius, “fuck you.” His voice was hoarse, which Harry hoped added to the man’s guilt. “Second, Tommy boy tried to kill me the same way. Twice.”

Madam Pomfrey picked up his right hand. “What happened here?”

“Got bit off,” Harry mumbled, looking down. 

Madam Pomfrey tutted over him. “This young man needed medical attention days ago!”

“I was receiving medical attention days ago,” Harry said, glancing at Dumbledore. The headmaster had the grace to look ashamed. 

“We will be having words, headmaster,” Madam Pomfrey said darkly. She conjured a stretcher and helped Harry climb onto it. “I will be keeping this boy overnight. What’s your name, dear?”

“Uh…Henry Evans,” Harry said uncertainly, looking at Lily. She swallowed, then nodded. She was crying again. 

“Sirius, we need to have a discussion,” Dumbledore said. “We will meet in my office in one hour. Poppy, I shall escort you and Mr. Evans to the infirmary.”

Madam Pomfrey huffed, then levitated Harry up the stairs. He laid back for the ride, hiding a smile when he realized this Madam Pomfrey was part of the Order of the Phoenix. It seemed Dumbledore was letting all sorts of riffraff in. Where was Professor Burbage?

“Oh, Tommy boy,” Harry sang quietly. “The pipes, the pipes are calling. They’ve probably got a basilisk in them, yeah?”

“Rest your voice, Mr. Evans,” Madam Pomfrey said firmly. 

“It’s called epinephrine,” Harry called out. “Or adrenaline.”

“Mr. Evans!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry said, laying back again. 

The last he saw of Grimmauld Place was a flash of purple fire. 

Percy would have a conniption when he leaned floo powder came in different colors. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 4: Treacle

Summary:

Wacky dimension travel hijinks

When Madam Pomfrey was finished with him, Harry was left with new pink skin over his gruesome hag bite and enough Calming Draught to down an erumpent.

Under the hospital wing matron’s auspices, Harry had confided that he needed slightly more care than the average Hogwarts student. With no wand, no money, and surrounded by enemies, there was no way for Harry to brew his own potions. He could live without the blood-red potion his dad brewed for him every month. He could live without Andromeda’s deft fingers molding his organs into more amenable shapes. This did come at the expense of consuming larger quantities of Calming Draught than he had in recent years. It was annoying, but manageable. Occlumency helped too, but it was far from a cure-all. 

The hospital wing in this world looked identical to the one in his own, pristine floors and bleached linens. Madam Pomfrey was much the same, though he didn’t know the woman well enough to notice any subtle differences, or even major ones in her personal life. She wore the same uniform, sounded the same, and acted the same, at least in the dynamic of school healer and student. 

Harry was eager to see the rest of Hogwarts. Dumbledore had told him to remain in the hospital wing, and left via purple floo. There was no one else in the infirmary, and the windows were all shuttered. He mulled over the facts he knew about this world to see what he could infer. 

Lily and James Potter were alive. 

Harry Potter and Sam Potter were twins. 

Harry Potter was the Boy Who Lived. 

Harry Potter was dead. 

Remus Lupin was a vampire.

Harry—Henry Evans to Madam Pomfrey—bit his lip and played with an empty potions vial. Remus was a vampire, and looked to be in his twenties. It was possible he was a dhampir, a half-vampire, but dhampirs did not require blood to live. Their appearance and habits were predominantly human, though they could consume blood to extend their lives. Moreover, they were often vampire hunters, sometimes specifically bred for that purpose. Remus looked like a full on vampire. He could turn into smoke. 

If Remus was a vampire, one who had been turned after leaving Hogwarts, were James Potter, Sirius Black, and Peter Pettigrew still animagi?

Where the fuck was Pettigrew?

Harry rubbed his eyes. Madam Pomfrey had given him a patch for his right eye, which Harry was grateful for. Remembering to keep his right eye closed was a pain, and not doing so seemed to repulse people. It had certainly unsettled Sam, and upset Lily.

That he wasn’t a clone of their Harry seemed to be more troubling to James and Sirius. Neither Dumbledore nor Snape seemed to mind, and Snape had presented the perfect explanation. Harry was from another dimension. For all they knew James Potter had straight black hair and black eyes. If they didn’t buy that, Harry could claim it was an aesthetic choice.

He and Monty had nearly the same hair color. The messy curls were too much to deal with during a war, so he used a straightening potion. His eye color was…a potions accident. He didn’t wear glasses because of…another potion. 

Harry grinned at the empty vial in his hand. His dad was the Potions Master. James Potter was from a long line of potioneers. In another universe, there was no telling what he could have invented. A potion for every occasion.

He had to be careful around Dumbledore and Snape, and Remus if he somehow had the ability to smell deceit, but the others would have to accept whatever he told them about his own world. There was no way to disprove it, and after Sirius’ little stunt—accusing Harry of lying about something he was patently not lying about—he doubted his integrity would be called into question in the near future. His excuses practically invented themselves. 

A tray appeared on his side table, laden with food. Pork chops, roast potatoes, even a treacle tart. Harry recognized them as foods Monty liked. Harry never liked pork, and his disgust for the meat had intensified after cauterizing his own wound. His burning flesh smelled too much like roast pork. Even seeing pork chops innocuously on a plate made his stomach turn.

Treacle tart was his brother’s favorite. Harry would have preferred lamb and sticky toffee pudding. Another difference between himself and the Harry of this world. 

Harry ate the potatoes. When he ate the treacle tart, he made a promise to himself. He would make it home, and he would share a treacle tart with his brother. 

 

---

 

After a restful night in the hospital wing, part of which Harry spent wondering if it would be in character to roam the school without permission and serve the dual purpose of sating his curiosity, Harry awoke to the unwelcome visage of Albus Dumbledore. 

“Good morning, Harry,” Dumbledore said warmly.

Harry disliked the headmaster referring to him by his given name. Within the confines of Hogwarts, it implied a closeness and familiarity they never had. He loathed that Dumbledore knew Monty was his brother, and while this Dumbledore had nothing to do with the other, Harry Potter was dead. There was little doubt in Harry’s mind that Dumbledore was involved in some capacity. 

“It’s morning, I’ll give you that,” Harry said, covering a yawn. “So, is Sirius back in Azkaban?”

Dumbledore looked nonplussed. “Why would he be sent to Azkaban?”

“Attempted murder,” Harry suggested. “If Voldemort hasn’t taken over Azkaban. Did the dementors rebel here?”

“I am afraid they did,” Dumbledore said gravely. “While Azkaban is still under Ministry control, Sirius will not be sent there. The incident yesterday morning was not reported to the aurors.”

“Why not?” Harry asked. “He tried to kill me.”

“Sirius is your godfather,” Dumbledore said patiently, “and I have spoken with him at length. He understands that what he did is unacceptable, and there will be no repeat incident.”

Harry raised himself up on an elbow. “One correction, sir. Sirius Black is not my godfather. He may have been to your Harry Potter, but I've never met the man until the day before yesterday. He’s a stranger to me. You all are.”

Dumbledore watched him for a moment, then nodded. “I imagine you have many questions for us.”

“That’s putting it lightly,” Harry muttered. “I don’t want my only information to be filtered through you, or the Order. I could have protected myself yesterday if I had a wand. Mine was left in another universe.”

“We rather hoped you would be holding your wand when summoned,” Dumbledore said, sounding regretful.

“What if I'd been on the loo?” Harry said. “There’s no way you could have predicted that, is there? Or what if I’d been fighting Voldemort?”

Dumbledore held up a hand. Harry wanted to slap it away, or perhaps chop it off, but he fell silent.

“I have considered these scenarios and more,” Dumbledore said softly.

“You’ve considered me taking a shit?”

Dumbledore sighed. “I assure you, had our need not been pressing we would have never performed such magic. I would never have contemplated it at all had there been another option. I have been to the Department of Mysteries. I have walked through the Hall of Prophecy. There is still a flicker of light. There is still hope.”

Harry didn’t doubt it. Returning to his own world was contingent on getting rid of Voldemort. Of course he’d fucking do it. 

 

---

 

Lunch at Grimmauld Place was hilariously more awkward than breakfast the day before. While none of his food sporadically turned into a crustacean, it was clear Sirius was in the doghouse. Metaphorically, as Harry doubted the man bothered to become an animagus without the motivation of a fit werewolf boy. 

“So, Harry,” Lily said from across the table. Sam had been shuffled to sit between James and Sirius. Remus was absent, possibly in a coffin. Dumbledore was at the head of the table, odd considering it wasn’t his house, and Snape was leering at Sirius. 

“Yeah?” Harry asked, looking up from his treacle tart. Sirius had just made a joke about there being peanuts in it, which no one had laughed at. It hadn’t put Harry off his appetite, but he had begun poking at the treacle tart with a concerned expression, if only to fuel the tension. 

“You said you have a boyfriend?” Lily said. “What’s his name?”

“Percy,” Harry said, smiling faintly. The Department of Mysteries would have to recruit him after this little jaunt. Harry could not recall any other successful cases of dimension travel. They’d be chomping at the bit. 

The adults at the table looked even more uncomfortable, which Harry congratulated himself on. Then he saw Sam’s troubled expression. 

“What’s the matter?” Harry asked. His instincts told him to look at Snape, but he looked between Lily and James. 

James cleared his throat. “Do you mean Percy Weasley?”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Percy Prewett.”

James sighed, then looked at Lily. 

“We’re close friends with the Weasleys,” Lily said, smiling sadly. “Sam practically grew up with them.”

Harry nodded, though that she specifically mentioned Sam and not the other Harry bothered him. 

“They had a son,” Lily continued. “Percy. He, well…” Her words faltered, and she looked lost. 

“Percy Weasley died in childhood of a very rare magical disease,” Snape said bluntly. 

Harry schooled his reaction. Percy…this world’s Percy was dead. He wanted to be furious with the Weasleys, and he was, but losing a child was—

“Had the disease been treated properly,” Snape said, “it is likely the child would have survived.”

“Severus,” Dumbledore said warningly. 

“Molly and Arthur have suffered enough without you constantly reminding them,” James said heatedly. 

“They neglected a child and he died,” Snape said.

Lily let out a strangled sob, then stood and ran from the kitchen. James shot Snape a hateful look and chased after her. 

“I hate you,” Sam said acidly, also rising from the table. “All you ever do is make mum cry.”

“She does it to herself,” Snape said to Sam’s back as he disappeared up the stairs. 

Sirius drew his wand. “You piece of shit.” 

Snape smiled nastily and crossed his arms. 

“Do you have any idea—” Sirius seethed.

“That is enough,” Dumbledore said sharply. In a gentler tone, he said, “Sirius, you should see to Sam.”

“This is my house,” Sirius said darkly, even as he moved to obey.

Dumbledore waited until he was out of sight to speak again. “I believe Lily wished to assure you your boyfriend was alive in this world, but I am sorry to say he has never existed at all.”

Harry bowed his head. He still had the treacle tart in front of him. Percy was dead here. He hadn’t lived long enough to look after himself. 

“There are bound to be differences,” Harry said sadly. “Isn’t that what you said, Professor Snape? There are similarities, but it’s not one-to-one.”

“Indeed,” Snape said. He folded his arms and stared at the chair Lily had been sitting in. 

Harry sighed, then asked, “Is Professor Burbage around?” He looked at Dumbledore, and felt sick at the man’s bereaved expression. 

“Professor Burbage was murdered by Lord Voldemort several months ago,” Dumbledore said quietly. “Were you by chance close with her in your world?”

“A bit,” Harry said, looking down again. Harry Potter. Percy Weasley. Charity Burbage. How many others had this world killed? “She was the best Muggle Studies teacher in Hogwarts history.” 

Dumbledore murmured an agreement, while Snape didn’t respond.

He didn’t know what was worse. That Professor Burbage was dead, or that Severus Snape didn’t care. 

Harry picked up his fork and went back to eating. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 5: Priceless

“Fourth time’s the charm,” Harry said, looking around the long kitchen table. They had made it all the way through dinner without anyone storming out or attempting murder via lobster.

Harry wished he had snuck out of the hospital wing when he had the chance. He had been provided a set of plain black robes, not unlike what a Hogwarts student might wear. They were far more comfortable than the scratchy grey Azkaban robes, and someone had thought to provide undergarments as well, but it was robes. 

He rubbed the stump of his little finger, smiling at the group of wizards—and one token witch—so desperate to defeat the Dark Lord that they had torn a hole through space, time, and reality, irrevocably trapping Harry in another world, another time, until he completed the task for which he had been summoned. The details eluded him, but Harry wasn't above guilting certain members of this rarefied group into giving him what he wanted. He had done worse things to better people.

“I propose an exchange of information,” Harry said, meeting Dumbledore’s eyes. “What happened to Harry Potter?”

Silence met Harry’s question. Dumbledore watched him placidly, which wasn’t any sort of response. Harry glanced at Snape, but the man was staring at Lily. Sam had his eyes downcast, folding into himself. While Snape only had eyes for Lily, Sirius sat rigidly in his seat, staring at James. Remus sipped at a goblet brimming with a thick, dark red liquid. Harry didn’t think it was pumpkin juice.

“Harry,” Sam said abruptly, “our Harry, had a scar.”

Harry put a hand over his face. It was like pulling teeth. 

James cleared his throat. “It was on his forehead, shaped like sowilo.”

“From when Voldemort tried to kill him?” Harry guessed, completely at random. His brother’s scar looked like a branch of lightning. Different scars. Did it mean anything?

“He tried to kill both of them,” Lily said firmly.

Harry raised an eyebrow at her tone, then looked at Sam. It was strange seeing James Potter’s features on a redhead, but Harry endured.

“Where’s your scar, then?” Harry asked, gesturing at Sam. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

Sam gave him a dirty look, then pushed up his messy fringe. It looked like there was a dent over his eyebrow, lighter than the rest of his skin. Most of it was hidden by Sam’s glasses.

“Well?” Sam said impatiently, letting his hair fall down again. “Let’s see it, then!”

Harry had spent some time mulling over his set of scars, and which would be most believable. He knew he was taking a risk, but he had been talking his way out of the Dark Lord killing him for months, and it wasn’t that much of an arse pull. It was plausible. 

Reaching for the collar of his robes, Harry pulled it back to reveal his prison tattoo. Everyone fixated on his neck with the same intensity he saw people stare at his brother’s forehead. 

“My mum used blood magic to tie my life to hers,” Harry said, keeping his expression neutral as the others reacted. 

It had an element of truth, given what he knew of his mother’s pregnancy. Moreover, he had personally done something similar when healing Monty’s scars from Umbridge’s black quill. And his scar pain, which Harry hadn’t felt a twinge of since being taken. That, more than anything, made Harry feel how wrong everything was.

“She died for you,” Lily said, tears filling her eyes. 

“Yeah,” Harry said, releasing his collar. 

“Hagalaz,” Dumbledore said. “And eihaz. What of the numbers?”

“That’s between me and my mum,” Harry said, reaching towards Sirius. “Accio—”

Sirius scowled, removed his cigarettes from his pocket, and tossed them at Harry. Harry took one out, then snapped his fingers to light it. It was his easiest trick in the book, but they all gaped at him like he was the second coming. 

“You are quite sanguine about this,” Remus observed. 

Harry blinked a few times, then cracked a smile. This Remus was a vertebrate. Harry took a drag, and exhaled slowly. 

“I’ve lived with the weight of my mum’s sacrifice my entire life,” he said, his eye darting to Lily. “I’m used to it.”

“Not that,” Remus said. He took another sip from his goblet, then languidly licked his lips. “Being stolen from another world.”

Harry leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling. “It’s not the first time I’ve been bound by a magical contract without my consent.”

The table went silent again. The prisoners of Azkaban were more forthcoming. True, they were insane, but at least they could hold a conversation.

Harry sat back up. “The Triwizard Tournament?”

Anger flashed across Sam’s face. He hastily stood, his chair flying back into a wall, and left the kitchen. Harry watched him go, taking a long drag from his cigarette. He looked back at the adults. “I’m guessing you had that too?”

“Yes,” Dumbledore said simply. “Harry’s name was entered as a fourth champion. There was discord among their yearmates—”

“Discord?” Sirius scoffed, pulling out a second pack of cigarettes. Harry looked at the one between his fingers, wondered if it was duplicated, decided it didn’t matter, and kept smoking. “Harry couldn’t sleep in his own dormitory!”

“That isn’t Sam’s fault,” James protested. 

“Bullshit it isn’t,” Sirius said, jabbing his cigarette at him. “Sam was jealous it wasn’t him. That it was never—”

“Which house are you in?” Lily asked loudly, a sickly smile on her face. 

This person, this version of his mum, lacked something. Maybe years of being married to James Potter had turned her funny. Harry wanted to know how funny.

Harry smirked, then took another drag from his cigarette. “Slytherin.”

The looks on their faces were absolutely priceless.

 

---

 

Harry stared at the broken wand.

Eleven inches. Phoenix feather. Holly. 

It was his brother’s wand. He would recognize it anywhere. 

Harry reached for one of the pieces. When no one shouted a warning, he picked up a splinter of wood. All that remained of the phoenix feather were thin black tendrils burned into the wood, some streaks of ash. 

They were in the kitchen again, just Harry, James, and Lily. Harry had yet to see the other parts of Grimmauld Place, rotating between the kitchen, the bedroom with two beds, and a bathroom. He had asked for a wand, and this was what they had given him. The shattered remains.

“How did this happen?” Harry asked, looking up at Lily and James. 

James clenched his hands together, his expression dark as a thundercloud. “Dursley.”

Lily took a shaky breath. “My brother-in-law—”

“You aren’t related to those people,” James said angrily, and Lily’s mouth snapped shut. A shiver ran down Harry’s spine.

“Uncle Vernon?” Harry asked.

“He is not your uncle!” James said, slamming his hands on the table. Harry leaned back and widened his eye. 

The kitchen lapsed into silence again. James was breathing heavily, and Lily laid a hand on his arm while they all waited for him to calm down. Harry set down the splinter of wood he held and picked up a larger piece. The wand hadn’t been snapped, it had been pulverized. Monty might have accidentally blown Vernon Dursley up if the man touched his wand. What was different here?

Harry’s only clue about the wand was that Vernon Dursley had somehow got his hands on it. It was a terrible loss, but the kid could have got another wand. Why hadn’t he?

Harry couldn’t quite wrap his head around the situation. Given he had been summoned to defeat the Dark Lord, Harry thought a wand would be put in his hand and he’d be dropped in front of the bastard. 

“Why was he anywhere near the Dursleys?” Harry asked innocently, masterfully controlling his anger before he set the two people opposite him on fire. “I know why I had to grow up with them, since Voldemort killed mum and dad—”

Lily gasped, and James looked dumbstruck. 

“You mean,” Lily said shakily, reaching a hand out towards him, “James too?”

Harry didn’t recoil, though the woman was beginning to repulse him. She looked like his mum, she sounded like his mum, but she was not his mum. 

“Was that…recently?” James asked.

“It was when I was a baby,” Harry said. “That’s why they called me the Boy Who Lived. I lived. They didn’t. You already know mum sacrificed her life for me.”

James leaned back in his seat and stared at a wall. Lily put her face in her hands. Harry quietly sighed. It was getting to the point where he would either take one of their wands or go to Ollivander’s himself. It wasn’t like anyone would recognize him. No alternate version of him existed in this world. 

“I’m…sorry for your loss,” James said, rallying. “It’s a bit of a shock learning the you in another dimension is dead.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “You reckon?”

James looked stricken, which was fair given his son was dead. Lily sniffed, wiped her eyes, and sat up again. She took one of James’ hands and gave Harry a watery smile. 

“We still need to get you a wand,” she said, not looking at the shattered wand they had presented to him. “Perhaps you and Sirius can go to Diagon Alley—”

“I’d rather go with Remus,” Harry said drily. “He’s less likely to kill me.”

The silence stretched uncomfortably. 

“Sirius is sorry,” James finally said. “We’re all a little on edge.”

“I know Dumbledore’s already told you,” Lily said gently, “but so much depends on you, Harry.”

Harry wondered if this world’s Harry had topped himself, unable to handle the burden of being the Boy Who Lived. He felt a frisson of worry for his brother. He knew at least two people were convinced Monty was the only one who could defeat the Dark Lord, and one who likely believed that meant Monty had to die. 

“I still need a wand,” Harry said, pushing away from the table. “Do you lot plan on keeping me locked up indefinitely? If not, I’m going to Ollivander’s.”

“What, right now?” James asked.

“Yeah,” Harry said, walking towards the staircase. He paused at the doorway and looked back at Lily and James. “Unless he’s dead too?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 6: Pine

Summary:

I only want to see you laughing in the purple floo

Dumbledore was too recognizable, Sam was a kid, Lily was a mudblood, James was a blood traitor, Sirius was a dick, and Remus wasn’t a daywalker. That left one option for his escort to Diagon Alley, and Harry nearly pissed himself at seeing who walked through the door. 

“Tertius Severus,” Harry said to the inferior version of his dad. 

Snape gave him a look of such utter loathing that Harry almost cracked. 

“You will address me as either professor or sir,” Snape seethed at him.

“Alright, Severus,” Harry said, smiling at the man. 

Snape continued glaring at him. 

“How very much like your father you are,” he said in a dangerous, low tone. 

Harry’s smile grew. 

“I was under the impression you wished to acquire a wand,” Snape said, his eyes flashing with malevolence. “You would do well to accord me the respect appropriate to my station.”

“You mean nothing to me,” Harry said, walking towards the fireplace. “And shouldn’t it be the other way round? You’re one of the twats who went along with the summoning ritual. It’s in your best interest to cater to me.” He paused in front of the fire. “Where’s the floo powder?”

Harry glanced over his shoulder. Snape looked positively rabid. 

“Are you an occlumens or aren’t you?” Harry asked. “Get your shit together, mate.”

Snape vibrated with fury. Harry cocked his head. He’d never seen his dad so visibly upset. It seemed fatherhood had changed the man for the better. This Snape looked like he’d as soon as drown his son as hug him. To be fair, his dad didn’t like being touched, with the notable exception of Professor Burbage, may she rest in peace. But his dad tolerated it for the sake of, you know, being his dad. 

“Floo powder,” Snape said tightly, visibly mastering his anger and doing a poor job of it.

“What is wrong with you people?” Harry asked. “I can’t get a straight answer from any of you. Get on with it, man.”

Snape strode past Harry and aggressively pointed at a hideous silver casket on the mantel. 

“Great,” Harry said, flipping it open. It contained a pile of purple powder. “I’m taking this home with me.”

“You will do no such thing!” 

Harry ignored him, took a pinch of powder, and flicked it into the flames. He tried to walk into the fireplace, but Snape physically blocked him. 

“I will go first,” Snape said, stepping into the purple fire. “Diagon Alley!”

Harry watched him spin away. He considered not going, just to fuck with the greasy git, but he did want a wand. 

Harry repeated the procedure, and called out Diagon Alley like a good boy. He did like the purple better than the green. Purple was Percy’s favorite color. 

He stepped out when he spotted Snape’s black robes and found himself in a side street of Knockturn Alley. He flicked ash from his robes—he really needed some muggle clothes, perhaps stolen from Sirius—and looked around. 

“So, how did he die?” he asked, blinking innocently at Snape.

Snape ignored him and began striding towards the main thoroughfare. 

“It is fortunate you bear little resemblance to your sire,” Snape said, glaring at a hag hobbling towards them. 

“Don’t call him my sire,” Harry said, making a face of disgust. “Call him the man who cuckolded you.”

Snape stopped walking, but Harry kept on, smiling politely at the hag. The old woman flinched and scuttled away. 

“Weird,” Harry said, shaking his head. “Reckon Ollivander’s in the same place?”

Snape didn’t respond. Smirking to himself, Harry walked on, trying not to be distracted by the small differences between this Knockturn Alley and the one in his world. The buildings looked the same, and it was populated by various magical undesirables. There were more people out during the day, which was interesting and spoke to the Dark Lord’s increased influence. They could afford to be bold. 

What struck Harry was he didn’t see a single werewolf. 

Harry stopped at the end of Knockturn Alley and looked back. 

“Either lycanthropy doesn’t exist here, or they’ve all signed up with the Half-Blood Ponce,” he said. He smirked at Snape, who was finally acting like a master occlumens and less like a snotty schoolboy. “Has he got a canine unit?”

Snape gave him a blank look. 

“It’s a simple yes or no question,” Harry said. “Are werewolves working with Volde—?”    

“Do not speak his name!”

“Nut up,” Harry said dismissively. “It’s just a name.”

Snape advanced on him. Harry watched him curiously.

“You will not use his name in my presence,” Snape said threateningly, baring his yellowed teeth.

Harry gave him a flat look. “Voldemort.”

He sidestepped an attempted grab from Snape and continued down the street. “I could have come on my own, if that house-elf didn’t block the floo. Blame him.”

“I will be reporting this to the headmaster,” Snape snarled, retreating into the shadows like a goon.

“I’m sure it will make his day,” Harry said absently, looking around at the shops. 

Diagon Alley looked familiar, and there were plenty of people out. Harry didn’t know what he expected. The Dark Lord didn’t want to destroy the magical world. He wanted to control it. 

The shape of Gringotts was the same, but it was made out of a rather boring grey marble instead. He spotted the faded sign of Ollivander’s and made a beeline for it. The sign read, Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC., and the display had a dusty wand on a dustier green cushion. 

Harry hadn’t been in Ollivander’s since he was eleven, but it wasn’t an experience he would ever forget. If the old man suspected who he was, well, it didn’t matter. Harry opened the door and didn’t bother holding it open for Snape. The man was lurking somewhere, plotting to attack from the shadows or whatever.

“Good afternoon.”

“Eleven inches, pine, phoenix feather,” Harry said to the elderly wandmaker. 

Ollivander regarded him with pale, unblinking eyes, then a small smile formed on his face. 

“Very well, mister…”

Harry raised an eyebrow. Ollivander looked at him expectantly. Harry looked back. They stood there for a while, looking at each other. 

“Have you ever touched a little boy on the forehead?” Harry asked.

Ollivander’s smile faltered. “I beg your pardon?”

“You understood me perfectly well,” Harry said, raising his hand. “Accio my wand.”

A box shot out from the middle of a teetering stack and slapped into Harry’s hand. 

Ollivander swallowed nervously. 

“The wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Ollivander,” Harry said with a grin, opening the box. The expression froze on his face.

The wand was made out of pine, but it wasn’t his. 

Ollivander cleared his throat. “Pine and unicorn hair—”

“Thirteen inches,” Harry finished, picking up the wand. It was cool in his hand. Austere. “This is…”

“Your wand, Mr. Evans,” Ollivander said. 

Harry looked up at him, traced the perfectly straight grains of the wand. There was only one spell he wanted to cast. 

“Expecto patronum,” he whispered. 

They watched a silver goose soar around the small shop until it faded away. 

“You know too much,” Harry said quietly. “It’s going to get you killed one day.”

Ollivander gave him a wan smile. “I am the sole remaining British wandmaker, Mr. Evans. I assure you, I am quite secure.”

Harry doubted that, but he paid the seven galleons Lily had given him and left the store with Percy’s wand. 

 

---

 

The Fidelius on Grimmauld Place extended to the sidewalk. It was safe for Harry to sit on the porch and smoke. 

Unicorn hair was an odd choice for him. It was a popular misconception that it was the weakest core, and that unicorn hair thus made for weak wands. Harry didn’t know how that rumor had begun, but suspected it was due to how common unicorn hair was. It was easier to acquire than phoenix feathers and dragon heartstrings. 

Harry lit a cigarette then leaned back on the porch. The wand was meant for a boy who had died in this world. Maybe the wand would never have chosen anyone if Harry hadn’t shown up. 

There was a tired hoo, and Hedwig fluttered down to land next to him. Harry was afraid to touch her, lest more feathers fall out, but carefully scratched around her eyes. 

The front door creaked open, and Harry tipped his head back to see Dumbledore standing there. His robes were light blue with clouds drifting across them. 

“I thought I would find you out here, Harry,” Dumbledore said.

“You found me, Albus,” Harry said. This whole calling adults by their first names business was exciting. “Where’re your argonauts? Still got the golden fleece pulled over their eyes?”

Dumbledore chuckled, then slowly lowered himself to sit on the other side of Hedwig. Hedwig turned her head away from him and shuffled closer to Harry. 

“Severus says you have offended him,” Dumbledore said lightly. “And that you are reckless and arrogant.”

“Sounds like him,” Harry said, taking another drag. 

“The Severus in your world is your head of house, I take it?”

“Was,” Harry corrected. “I’ve already graduated Hogwarts.” He snorted, then hung his head. 

Harry missed his dad. He missed everyone, but seeing someone who looked so similar but was obviously, painfully, tragically not was difficult. 

“I don’t think he knew what to do with me,” Harry said absently. 

Dumbledore was silent for a long moment. Then he asked, “Do you find your new wand acceptable?”

Harry shrugged, taking out the wand again. It was hard to think of it as his. “It’s a good wand.” He sighed, then looked at Dumbledore. “What happened to him?”

Dumbledore lowered his eyes, and a single tear trickled down his face. 

“Very well,” Dumbledore said quietly. “I shall tell you the story of Samuel Potter, the Boy Who Lived. Or so I believed.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 7: Rain

They relocated to the kitchen, where Harry’s other kidnappers awaited them. They were clustered at one end of the table. The Potters, Lily, James, and Sam. Sirius, smoking. Remus, sucking on a blood lolly. Snape had his head propped on folded hands, and was watching Harry with dark, hooded eyes. Dumbledore sat at the head of the table again, the summer sky of his robes gracelessly cheerful in the gloomy environs. 

There was no food, no tea, no abandoned scrolls nor surly house-elves. It was only them.

Harry sat next to Snape. 

“What,” Snape said tightly, “do you think you are doing?”

“In my world,” Harry said, “Professor Snape got me a cat.”

Lily’s eyes began watering, turning them the murky green of a scummy pond. 

Harry loved his mother. He loved her, he honored her sacrifice, he carried it with him everywhere. In his very soul. But he didn’t place her on a pedestal. She wasn’t perfect. She made mistakes. 

“Did,” Lily began. She wiped her eyes. “Did Severus take you to Diagon Alley?”

“He did,” Harry said, smiling faintly. 

Harry almost regretted bringing it up, since he wanted to—needed to—know what happened to Harry Potter. Even so, he couldn’t help his amusement at their reactions. James and Sam were identically appalled, Lily mystified, Sirius broke his cigarette, Remus sucked thoughtfully on his blood lolly, Dumbledore looked deeply moved, and Snape…

Snape was baffled. 

Harry bit the inside of his cheek. He was tempted to say, He’s like a father to me, but that was straying too close to the truth. 

“Hagrid,” Lily said shakily. “Hagrid took Harry. Our Harry. He bought his owl.” Her lip quivered. “We never did pay him back for that, James.”

“Maddie was a birthday present too,” Harry said. 

“Maddie?” Remus asked, his lips stained red with artificial blood. 

“Madeleine, Princess of Mercia,” Harry said. “Lady Madeleine. The Mad Lady. Mads.” He glanced at Snape. “He even picked her out for me.” 

Snape bristled at the implication that he was even remotely human, but Dumbledore silenced him with a look. 

Thinking about his cat was bringing up everything else he had been trying to ignore. He missed her. He missed everyone. He was so far from home, and while he was determined to kill this world’s Dark Lord and return, there was no guarantee. The hopelessness would smother him if he lingered on it, so Harry tucked it all away and focused on the issue at hand. 

“You know about me,” Harry said, rubbing the side of his neck to draw attention to his prisoner tattoo, a mark he, in a sense, received due to the Dark Lord. “My mum died. Years later I get an owl with a letter saying I’m a wizard. I’ve been fighting Voldemort ever since.” 

Snape violently flinched, as did Sam. 

Harry sighed, then looked at Dumbledore. “She’s still alive here. How did it happen?”

The table was silent for a long moment. Harry watched Dumbledore. He wasn’t above legilimizing one of them for the truth—Sam would be the easiest target—but he wanted to hear them say it. 

“You know of the prophecy,” Dumbledore finally said. “I only speak of it now as everyone present is aware of its existence. There are suspicions…”

Harry looked at Lily. Really looked at her. She was older than his mum would ever be, but still young. Her hair was short, but the same dark red he remembered. She had a wedding ring. She held James’ hand.

Lily steeled herself, then spoke.

“All we knew was that You-Know-Who was after us,” she said, looking at James. “We went into hiding. I was pregnant at the time, but we tried to keep it secret.” 

“Then Sam and Harry were born,” James said, smiling sadly. “Twin boys. We didn’t expect that.”

“I was so happy,” Lily said quietly. “Even with the war and…everything. That was the happiest moment of my life.”

Sam shifted awkwardly, and Lily put an arm around him, drawing her son close.

“Who was born first?” Harry asked. 

James swallowed. “Harry,” he said. “Harry, then Sam.”

“What does that matter?” Sirius demanded. 

Remus pulled out the blood lolly with a wet pop. “Sirius, he’s allowed to ask questions.”

“So am I!”

“I was curious,” Harry told Sirius, pulling out a cigarette and absently lighting it. Legilimency would have been faster. “Continue.”

“Do you have a brother?” Sam asked, giving him a hard look. 

Harry raised an eyebrow. “I’m my mum and dad’s only child. But my mum also kept her pregnancy secret.” He took a drag, wondering if this Lily had gone to the same extremes. 

“My mother and father knew,” Lily said. She took a shaky breath. “We…after the boys were born… We made it to their first birthday.” She smiled to herself. “Sirius got them both toy brooms. Do you remember that, James? They kept knocking everything over!”

“And that horrible vase your sister sent you,” James added, smiling fondly. “We thought we were safe.” He looked at Harry. “You see, it wasn’t certain You-Know-Who was after us. He was after everyone, but we were—we are—in the Order. We’re on the front line. Then Dumbledore sends us an owl…”

Dumbledore nodded. “There was an uncertainty,” he said. “The prophecy spoke of a boy born as the seventh month dies, to parents who had defied Voldemort three times. It could have applied to two children born. Three,” he amended. “At the time, I believed it was three. Sam Potter, Harry Potter, and Neville Longbottom.”

Harry snorted, then took another drag from his cigarette. He doubted Neville would have been left on the doorstep of some muggle relatives. Augusta Longbottom would never have tolerated it. Harry’s grandmother wouldn’t have either, if she had known. If she had even suspected. Petunia Dursley raising her dead sister’s magical son? Out of the question. 

“As the seventh month dies,” Dumbledore repeated.

“I held on as long as I could,” Lily whispered, squeezing her eyes shut. “It was nearly midnight, and…”

“Harry was born at the stroke of midnight,” Remus said, filling in the blank. “Sam a minute later.”

“Thirty-one minutes later,” Lily said, her voice raw with unshed tears. “I counted.”

“We celebrate their birthdays on the same day,” James said, rallying. “I say they were born on the same day.”

“Yes,” Snape said drily. “We were all under that impression. Have you even the slightest conception what your duplicity—”

“Who’s telling this story?” Harry asked, cutting over him. Snape shot him a nasty look, but shut up. “So, Voldemort thought the prophecy applied to one of your kids?”

The table was quiet again, then Dumbledore said, “I did not say Lord Voldemort was aware of the prophecy.”

“He was in my world,” Harry said, meeting Dumbledore’s eyes. “And I know how he heard it. Part of it.”

Dumbledore met his gaze levelly, then nodded. 

“Like Lily said,” James said, “we were already in hiding, moving from safe house to safe house. But once we knew he was after us specifically, we had to take stronger measures.”

“The Fidelius Charm,” Harry said. 

James nodded. “It was our best chance.”

“According to him,” Harry said, pointing his cigarette at Dumbledore.

“Yes,” Dumbledore admitted. “I did not perform the spell, though I did offer to be the Secret-Keeper.”

“I did it,” Lily said, finally looking at him again. “I was going to make myself the Secret-Keeper, but…”

James took a breath, and exhaled noisily. “It was a difficult pregnancy. Lily was in labor for nearly twenty hours. I thought I was…” He bowed his head. “I thought I was going to lose her. And after… I knew raising a baby was going to be a challenge, but two of them?”

“They never slept at the same time,” Lily said, kissing the top of her living son’s head. “As soon as I put one of you down, the other would start crying… I felt like such a failure. As a mother. As a wife. As a witch. My friends were dying, and I was hanging on by a thread…” She let go of James and Sam and put her face in her hands. “I just wanted one night. One night.”

Harry watched her for a moment, then asked James, “Who was the Secret-Keeper?”

James looked too furious to speak, but he bit out, “Peter Pettigrew.”

“So he’s a traitor here too,” Harry said, taking another drag from his cigarette. He looked at Sirius. “Reckon that was your idea?”

“It’s not Sirius’ fault,” Remus said in a cold voice. “No one suspected it was Peter.” His eyes flashed. “No one.”

“Everyone believed it was Sirius,” Dumbledore chimed in. “Even myself. But, as Remus has said, no one suspected Peter.”

“Where is he?” Harry asked. “Is he still alive?”

Remus shook his head. “No one has seen him since that night.”

“Is that what happened in your world?” Sam asked. “You seem interested in all the differences, so…”

“Yeah,” Harry said, leaning back in his chair. “Except he faked his own death and Sirius landed in Azkaban for twelve years.”

The table went dead silent. 

“Twelve…” Sirius spluttered. “Twelve years?”

Harry nodded. “He’s out now, though. I captured Pettigrew. Had a trial and everything.” He smirked to himself. “Now that mangy rat’s the one rotting in Azkaban.” Harry shook his head, then looked at Lily and James again. “What happened next?”

“I want to hear more about me being in Azkaban for twelve years?” Sirius said, disbelieving. “How the fuck did that happen?”

Harry kicked his legs up. “I’ll tell you later, if you’re a good boy.”

James looked revolted. “Don’t…don’t call him that. That’s…”

“Depraved?” Harry suggested, looking Sirius up and down. He was handsome, but he was more like an uncle to Harry than anything. His type leaned more…bureaucratic.

Lily gave a weak laugh. “You’re so different from him, but sometimes…” She swallowed, then said. “You’re right. I don’t want to get distracted. It’s just so hard to look back and see all the mistakes I made.”

“We made,” Dumbledore quietly amended. 

Lily clasped her hands together. Harry politely ignored that she was shaking. 

“It was Halloween,” she said. “Nineteen eighty-one. Sam and Harry…they were dressed like fawns. It was James’ idea.” She wiped a tear away. “They were so adorable. I still have the pictures.”

“Mum,” Sam muttered. 

“We weren’t exactly expecting trick-or-treaters,” James said. “Lily had put the house under Fidelius a week earlier.”

“I wanted to go to an Order meeting,” Lily said. 

“We wanted to go,” James said. “We hadn’t seen anyone in what felt like months. Sirius and Remus were doing missions for the Order. And Peter was too, but we all know he was full of—”

“Marlene died that summer,” Lily said. “All our friends were dying, and I felt so…” She balled her hands into fists. “I felt so useless. I was going mad in that house. Time was running out. He was winning.”

“We thought it was safe,” James said. “As safe as it could be. It wasn’t safe to send owls anymore. We didn’t even get the Daily Prophet delivered. We were just sitting there, waiting.”

“My parents were let in on the secret,” Lily said, wiping her eyes. “Dad...my father was dead by that point. A Death Eater attack. Mum was all alone. I was scared out of my mind for her, alone in that house.”

Harry fished out another cigarette. 

“Mum was so happy to see her grandsons again,” Lily continued. “Thrilled to babysit for us. She didn’t know half of what was going on.”

James suddenly slammed his fist on the table. “We should have known! We should have known something was wrong when Peter wasn’t there!”

“Wasn’t where?” Harry asked calmly. He knew, with a terrible certainty, where this story was going. 

“At the meeting,” James snarled. “That cowardly—”

“So he told Voldemort the secret,” Harry said, forcing his own hands not to shake. “Voldemort went to Godric’s Hollow and tried to kill your sons.”

Lily hesitated, then said, “We don’t know exactly what happened. It wasn’t a long meeting. There were still kids out trick-or-treating when we got back home. You wouldn’t have thought anything had happened.” She took a breath. “Until we saw the house.”

“It looked like it had been bombed,” James said. “At least, that’s how Lily describes it. We thought they were dead, but we heard…”

“We heard crying,” Lily said, bracing herself. “It took forever to get to them. I was worried the entire house would collapse, and I knew, I knew one of my children was dead. I only heard one of them crying.”

James swallowed. “Sam. It was Sam.”

Sam gritted his teeth together and stared at the table. 

“Do you remember?” Harry asked, knowing he was being callous. 

“No,” Sam said bitterly. “But Harry does. Did.”

“We found my mum’s body in front of the crib,” Lily said. “I’ll spare you the details. We found her body. Sam was awake, but he was crying and bleeding. Harry was…I thought he was dead. He was so still, so quiet…”

“Sam was a mess,” James said. “We thought we were going to lose him too, but we got the bleeding to stop. Harry…we didn’t notice the scar until later.”

“There wasn’t any sign of You-Know-Who,” Lily said. “He was just…gone.”

“Vanquished?” Harry suggested. He turned to Dumbledore. “So how did you know which one he tried to kill? Did you legilimize toddlers?”

“No,” Dumbledore said, looking faintly surprised. “I would not do such a thing. But magic leaves traces, and powerful magic was performed that Halloween.”

Harry frowned. “But gran was a muggle.”

“Gran?” Snape asked, peering at him. 

“Yeah, gran,” Harry said, rolling his eye. “Don’t play stupid. My grandmother, Rose Evans. She died of lung cancer in my world.” He sighed, then took a drag from his cigarette. 

“Did you know her?” Lily asked, her eyes darting to the cigarette.

“I know she’s dead,” Harry said flatly. He looked at Dumbledore again. “Go on. How did you know?”

Dumbledore gave him a searching look. For a moment, Harry regretted referring to his gran at all, but he could just say Petunia Dursley had reconnected with her, or some other bullshit. Hell, he could say the Dursleys moved to Birmingham for Vernon’s work. It was near enough to Cokeworth. 

Harry’s eye widened with sudden understanding. “Priori Incantatem. Voldemort left his wand behind. Pettigrew scarpered, so there was no one to hide it for him.”

“Indeed,” Dumbledore said. “I knew the Killing Curse had been cast twice that evening, but there was only one death.” He paused, then asked, “Are you familiar with the theory that muggleborns are descended from squibs?”

Harry choked on his cigarette. When he finished coughing, he asked, “You’re saying gran was a squib?”

“The power of her sacrifice, an act of the purest love,” Dumbledore said, “protected the lives of her grandsons. That protection still lingered over the boys.”

Harry nodded, though he felt sick. If the families of muggleborns were welcomed into the magical world, would his gran still be alive?

“That doesn’t answer my other question,” Harry said. He would think about his grandmother later. “How did you know which one Voldemort—”

“Stop speaking his name!” Snape snapped at him. 

Harry shook his head and ashed his cigarette in Snape’s general direction. “Dumbledore says his name.”

“Are you comparing yourself to Albus Dumbledore?” Snape asked contemptuously. “Dumbledore is an extremely powerful wizard. You, however, are…”

“I’m not the one summoning teenage wizards from other dimensions to fight a war for me,” Harry said. “I’ve already got a plan to get my Dark Lord sorted, one that doesn’t involve throwing sacrifices at the noseless cunt.”

“Noseless?” Remus asked. 

“He looks like a snake,” Harry said absently. He addressed Dumbledore again, and slowly said, “How did you know which one was the Boy Who Lived?”

Dumbledore had a grave look. “The answer, my dear boy, is I simply did not know. I had my suspicions, but those came later.”

“What suspicions?” Harry asked. “The scar on his forehead?”

“They both had scars,” Lily said. She was holding James’ hand again. Sam was now looking at a wall, his brows drawn in anger. “No, what Dumbledore means is their magic.”

“What magic?” Harry asked. 

“Accidental magic,” Lily said. “What we thought was accidental magic. They had both been doing it, Sam and Harry, but Harry just…stopped.”

“So you thought he was a squib and chucked him?” Harry asked. 

“No!” Lily protested, shocked by the accusation. 

“Then fucking tell me,” Harry said. 

“Why should we?” Sam demanded. “Why do you need to know anything? It’s none of your business! You’re not related to any of us!”

“Except by the fucking ritual you were part of,” Harry said. “Did you forget that?”

Sam began turning a blotchy red. 

“Perhaps Sam can be excused,” Remus said neutrally. “None of what happened was his decision, or his choice.” Next to him, Sirius scoffed. 

“If he’s staying,” Sam declared, pointing at Harry. “I’m staying.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Harry muttered to himself. 

It took a few minutes to get everyone settled down again. When tea began appearing on the table, Harry wished he had asked for a written statement instead. Or a history book. 

“So,” Lily said once they were back on track. “Harry, my son, stopped doing any accidental magic. Sam… Sam’s grew stronger.”

“Grew worse,” James added. 

Harry listened intently. He knew his little brother had done some impressive accidental magic when he was still with the Dursleys. Apparating to a school roof? Apparition was beyond most adult witches and wizards, and a primary school kid doing it was unheard of. He suspected the bit of soul attached to Monty’s had something to do with him being a parselmouth. Had it affected his magic in other ways?

“We didn’t know what was happening,” Lily said. “At that age, it’s usually floating, summoning toys, making a blanket more snug, turning things different colors. Harmless things. Baby things.”

“We thought it was having seen You-Know-Who,” James said. “And watching his grandmother die. He was… his magic was violent. Throwing things, breaking windows, starting fires.” James gave his son an apologetic look. “Dangerous. He was dangerous to us, and to Harry…”

“We separated them,” Lily finished. “It wasn’t safe for Harry to be around Sam anymore. First different cribs, then when Sam had a tantrum and broke the cribs, different rooms.”

“It was bad,” James admitted. “We thought…we didn’t know what to think. We thought maybe it was something You-Know-Who had done, that the Killing Curse backfiring had done something to Sam’s magic. To Harry’s magic.”

“We thought he might be possessed,” Lily whispered. “That… that Voldemort had possessed our baby boy.”

“You never told me that,” Sirius said, looking between Lily and James. 

“We were still in danger,” James said. “The Death Eaters found Alice and Frank and tortured them into insanity. Then Remus was turned…”

“I was terrified,” Lily said, closing her eyes. “We had no idea what had happened to our sons. Voldemort was gone, but things were getting worse.”

“Lily and James reached out to me,” Dumbledore said. “I assured them that neither boy was possessed, though I kept a closer eye on both than I might have. There were undoubtedly repercussions from surviving the Killing Curse, though how those would manifest was unknown to me. However, there was one thing I was certain of.”

“What?” Harry asked. 

“That Voldemort too had survived,” Dumbledore said grimly. 

“How’s that?” Harry asked. 

“Severus,” Dumbledore said. 

Snape sneered at them all, but began unbuttoning his left cuff. After a moment, his forearm was exposed. 

The dark mark was a snake and skull, though these were the only elements Harry’s own dark mark shared. The skull was larger, and the snake was weaving in and out of the eye sockets, part of its body caught in the skull’s jaws. The entire mark was a bright, acid green.

“I almost got a skateboard with that on it,” Harry said, leaning in to get a closer look. The similarities were uncanny.

Snape yanked his arm away and scowled at Harry. 

“Someone’s got a mard on,” Harry said, sitting back.

Lily snorted, then covered her mouth. “I haven’t heard that in ages.”

Harry smiled at her, then faced Dumbledore again. “So that’s how you knew?”

“Indeed,” Dumbledore said. “Severus’ dark mark had not faded. Voldemort had survived. Though I could not say how, or in what capacity, I knew both Sam and Harry were in danger. Voldemort’s supporters were still active. The torture of Alice and Frank Longbottom, the attack on Remus—”

“Yeah, he’s a vampire,” Harry said. “The one in my world was a werewolf.”

There was a beat of silence. 

“Was?” Sirius asked brokenly. 

“Don’t tell me,” James said. “Remus too?”

Harry swallowed. It could have been Luna. He reminded himself of that. It could have been her. 

“Bellatrix killed him,” he said. “A few days ago. He died…” He trailed off, wanting them to form their own conclusions. The truth of what had been done to Remus Lupin was…it was horrifying. And he knew, he knew Lupin had been captured, and he had done nothing. 

“He died protecting you,” Lily said, looking heartbroken. “You’ve lost your eye, and your Remus, and now we’ve brought you here, and…”

James put his arms around her, and Lily cried into his robes. Sirius was shaking his head in disbelief, while Remus looked thirsty. 

“A werewolf,” he mused. “Was he born a werewolf?”

“No,” Harry said. He lit a third cigarette, resigning himself to chain smoking through this. “Sam’s magic was acting up, and other me’s magic wasn’t. So?”

“So we thought Harry might have been made a squib,” Remus said. He licked his fangs. “That was one theory, from what I was told at the time. I was no longer permitted around either boy. We—Sirius and I—were still searching for Peter, and other Death Eaters who had evaded Ministry capture. I was alone when I was accosted by a group of vampires. They had sided with You-Know-Who during the war, and the Ministry and Wizengamot were cracking down on dark creatures.”

“Vampires are classified as Beings,” Harry said. 

Remus stared at him unnervingly.

“You’ve got a garlic allergy,” Harry added. 

Remus kept staring at him, his eyes haunted by the shadows of immortality, the eons that spanned before him, tainted by the blood of the innocent.

Harry wrinkled his nose. “So you thought he was a squib?”

“It was a possibility,” Dumbledore said. “That he had shown early signs of magic, and no longer did, was alarming.”

“Alarming,” Lily repeated, pulling away from James. “I was scared to death for him! You-Know—Voldemort wasn’t really gone, the Death Eaters were still attacking anything that moved, our sons were still targets, Sam’s magic was out of control, and Harry… Harry would have these nightmares. Night terrors. He would wake up screaming. Sam wasn’t getting any sleep. No one was getting any sleep…”

“There was one other thing from that fateful night,” Dumbledore said softly. “Both boys had been marked. As you know, Harry’s scar bore some resemblance to the rune sowilo, while Sam’s scar bears a startling resemblance to eihaz.” 

“Does it?” Harry asked, narrowing his eye. Sam’s fringe and glasses were in the way, so he couldn’t see much. 

“The rune for yew,” Dumbledore went on. “Voldemort’s wand is made out of yew. It had also fallen in the place he stood, and it was pointed at Sam.”

“How could you know that?” Harry asked.

James made a noise. 

“You told him that?” Harry asked. 

“Yes,” James said, sounding defeated.

“James and Lily were gracious enough to show me their memories from that evening,” Dumbledore said.

“The wand could have rolled,” Harry said. “Someone could have kicked it.”

“By itself, it was little to go on,” Dumbledore agreed. “But this, Sam’s increasingly volatile magic for a child his age, that the prophecy proclaimed there was one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord, the risk to both children, and to Harry given his apparent inability to defend himself, or indeed perform any magic…” 

Dumbledore stopped talking, and another tear ran down his withered cheek. 

“The Fidelius had failed,” he said, sounding incredibly old. “Voldemort was defeated, but not gone. His followers were angry and desperate. But there was a protection I could give. The strongest shield, one Voldemort could not have anticipated. One, just one, of the boys could be kept safe. Untouchable.”

Dumbledore bowed his head.

“I just wanted my children to be safe,” Lily whispered, tears coursing down her face. James had begun crying too. So had Sirius and Sam. It was awful. “My babies…”

Harry ran a hand through his hair. “Bend of blot.”

Dumbledore raised his head again. “You know of it?”

“The Bond of Blood,” Harry said, taking another drag. “Of course I fucking know. The bastard used my blood to resurrect himself.”

Lily cried out, in sadness, in rage, and something fascinating happened. There was a deafening boom, and it began to rain. 

Harry was soaked within seconds. His cigarette sizzled out, and Harry completely forgot about it. He looked at the ceiling, and was amazed to see dark grey clouds had formed among the hanging pots and pans. 

His dad broke furniture, Monty made things explode, he set things on fire. His mum’s accidental magic was…a storm. 

“Holy shit,” Harry breathed. “Does this mean story time’s over?”

“It’s not a story,” Remus said from right behind him. 

Belatedly, Harry realized everyone else had left the kitchen while he was grinning like an idiot at an indoor rain cloud. His arm was seized, and he was bodily hauled out of his chair. 

“It’s our lives,” Remus said, pushing him towards the door. 

“He was sent to live with the Dursleys,” Harry said, pausing at the foot of the stairs. He could hear the portrait of Sirius’ mother raising hell. 

“Yes,” Remus said. “Harry was sent to live with Lily’s sister, where his grandmother’s blood dwelt.”

“Why couldn’t he cast the spell on Lily?” Harry asked. 

Remus turned into a cloud of black smoke, drifted up the stairs, and reappeared at the top completely dry.

“The decision had already been made to separate the boys,” Remus said. “Lily and James thought they could give one of their son’s a chance at a normal life. At a future. It broke their hearts, but they did what they thought was best at the time. Those who knew Lily and James had two sons believed Harry had died. We didn’t correct that assumption.”

Harry leaned against the wall. It all sounded horribly familiar. Like something his mum would do under different circumstances, in a different world. After all, Harry had been hidden in the muggle world too. No one knew he existed. 

I have to keep both of you safe.

As he walked up the stairs, wringing out his borrowed robes, Harry wondered how true that was. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 8: Toilet

“Hopefully the meeting will reconvene,” Harry said, completely drying his robes with a wordless charm. “Weather permitting.”

Remus hadn’t been in the foyer, presumably crawling back into his coffin for a power nap, so Harry had meandered upstairs and into a drawing room. It had been a richly appointed room, once upon a time. Large windows overlooked the dreary street outside, a full-frontal view of the rubbish blowing around. The curtains had seen better days. A fire crackled morosely in a grand fireplace. The majority of his kidnappers were seated around this, perched in exhausted armchairs. They had their heads together, muttering. Only Sirius and Sam were missing. Lily gave him a watery smile, so Harry turned away to look at the immense tapestry taking up one wall. 

“Toujours pur,” Harry read, walking up to it. “More like toujours fou.”

James turned around in his chair to watch him. “Do you speak French?”

“Not really,” Harry said, frowning at all the burn marks. The Black family didn’t fuck around. “I can pronounce it, I can read it if you give me a dictionary. That’s true of most languages, though.”

“And parseltongue?”

Harry looked away from the tapestry to meet Dumbledore’s eyes. 

“Rip,” he hissed in his best parselmouth accent. He hadn’t tried speaking it in years, but he remembered well enough. He had heard it in his brother’s memories. From the Dark Lord. “Tear. Kill.” Dumbledore’s eyes widened with each word. “You mean that sort of thing? Snakes aren’t the best conversationalists.”

The others were visibly shaken. Harry had a low opinion of anyone scared of parseltongue. His little brother was a really nice kid, when the world wasn’t out to get him. Being a parselmouth didn’t make anyone evil. 

“I made one of these,” Harry said, glancing at the tapestry. “It’s not nearly as nice. I just used parchment.”

“You made a family tree?” Lily asked, recovering from her exposure to hissing. 

“A Potter family tree,” Harry said, smiling fondly at her. “All the way back to Linfred.”

“You have time to waste on such pursuits?” Snape asked. “Frivolous.”

Harry inclined his head. “Snivellus.”

“How dare—”

James burst out into laughter. It made him look years younger. Lily smiled apologetically to Snape, who looked positively murderous. 

“I need to piss like a racehorse,” Harry said, scratching his head. James looked even more amused. Lily clearly wanted to admonish him, but held back.

“Both Sirius and Sam have gone,” she said. “You might have to use the one on your floor.”

“Alright,” Harry said, heading for the door. “Are we meeting in here, or back in the kitchen?”

“The kitchen, I think,” Dumbledore said. “It has the strongest enchantments in the house.”

Harry raised an eyebrow but didn’t reply. He knew from his dad that the Order had meetings in a kitchen, meetings from which Monty and his friends had been excluded to varying degrees of success. Harry was curious whether the enchantments had to do with potential eavesdroppers or served some other purpose, but like hell was he going to ask Dumbledore. He could analyze the room himself. 

Disturbing sounds emanated from the first bathroom Harry encountered, so he continued to the next floor. Whatever battle Sirius was fighting in there was something he wanted no part of. 

Harry assumed Lily, James, and Sam had rooms on the second floor. It was the cleanest area in the house, other than the kitchen, and felt warmer. The oil lamps glowed with a steady light, the carpet didn’t try to eat him, and there were no portraits at all. Harry’s guess was confirmed when Sam, his little brother’s red-headed doppelganger, emerged from a bathroom.  

“What are you doing up here?” Sam asked, pulling the door shut behind him. 

Harry really did need the loo, but not badly enough to miss an opportunity. 

“Nothing you’ll remember,” he said, reaching into his robes for his new wand. 

Sam gave him a startled look, then his expression hardened. 

It was strange using what should have been Percy’s wand, but the wand felt almost eager to help him. It reminded him of Percy, and it made his heart hurt.

“The hell does—” Sam began. 

“Legilimens.”

Harry was not a practiced enough legilimens to do it wordlessly, or without eye contact, but Sam had absolutely no defenses. It was a bit disturbing how easily Harry could navigate the boy’s memories. Harry pushed past what was currently on Sam’s mind—he did not care about Sam Potter’s bathroom habits—to see what Sam knew about Harry Potter. 

 

 

A family of three eating dinner, laughing with each other. 

“Mum, where’s Harry?”

“He’s having fun with your aunt and cousin!”

Quidditch in a sprawling back garden. Quidditch at the Burrow. 

“You fit right in!”

Trips to Diagon Alley, to Hogsmeade, France, the 1990 Quidditch World Cup in Quebec. 

Birthdays, Halloweens, Christmases. 

Book signings and autographs. 

The Boy Who Lived. 

Conversations behind locked doors. Parents fighting. Dumbledore visiting. Sirius yelling. His mum crying. 

Sam never stopped asking about his brother, but as years passed he asked less often. It made his parents sad. It made him sad. 

 

 

Harry knew they would soon be missed, so he ignored his disgust and forged ahead. One argument he heard for keeping Monty in the muggle world was so that the fame didn’t get to his head. He didn’t think the fame had got to Sam’s head, but that wasn’t to say there wasn’t an impact at all. 

 

 

An owl from Hogwarts. The excitement of going to Hogwarts, of perhaps meeting his brother if he wasn’t a squib after all. 

Everyone saying his name at the train station. All his friends there, talking, laughing. His parents and Sirius looking around expectantly, hopefully. Searching the crowd. Nothing on the train, or the boats, until they were all crammed into a room with ghosts. A scrawny black-haired boy with broken glasses. 

“He sort of looks like your dad.”

Waiting in line.

“Dursley, Harry!”

“Gryffindor!”

 

 

Harry pulled out of Sam’s mind, feeling dirty. Sam’s eyes rolled into the back of his head and he slumped to the floor. Harry took out his pack of cigarettes and tapped one out. Lighting it, Harry considered his situation. He’d have to meddle with Sam’s mind a bit more to cover his tracks, and send him back downstairs with none the wiser. He really needed the toilet. 

That the Potters hadn’t exactly been a happy family since abandoning one of their sons in the muggle world was cold comfort. They had still done it. 

Harry took a drag from his cigarette, quickly dealt with Sam’s unconscious form, and finally entered the bathroom. As he relieved himself, Harry pondered the ultimate question.

What had gone so catastrophically wrong that the kid ended up with the name Harry Dursley?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 9: Suck

Harry finished his cigarette in the bathroom, dropped it into the toilet, and headed back downstairs. Thus far, he had learned next to nothing about the Dark Lord of this bizarro world. Even if Lily, Dumbledore, and the others hadn’t known which of the Potter twins was the true Boy Who Lived, Harry wagered the Dark Lord knew. Maybe he had planned to kill both. 

Taking his time to get back to the kitchen proved to be a mistake, or perhaps the best thing that had ever happened to him. On the first floor, Harry was treated to the sight of Sirius exiting the bathroom, followed by Remus. 

Harry paused at the foot of the stairs, taking it in. Sirius pale and sweaty, tugging a sleeve down. Remus watching him with a dark, lusty gaze, licking blood from his lips. 

“I always wondered if there was something between you two,” Harry said. 

Sirius jumped and reached for his wand, while Remus spun around and lowered into a crouch, baring his fangs. 

“Steady on,” Harry said, raising his hands placatingly. “If my boyfriend was a vampire, I’d—”

“We’re not dating,” Remus said flatly. 

“—let him suck—”

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Sirius demanded. 

“Can’t get a word in edgewise,” Harry said, lowering his hands. “I live here, you goit.”

“Since when?”

Harry checked his watch, but sadly it was not on his wrist. The aurors had confiscated it. “Since about two days ago,” he said. “When you participated in a ritual to summon a replacement.”

“You consider this your home?” Remus asked, piercing Harry with his opaque black eyes. His pallid skid had a slight flush from the blood of the slighty-less-innocent. 

“It’s a place I’m staying,” Harry said, slowly approaching them. 

“And you’ve stayed here before?” Remus pressed. 

Harry came to a stop in front of the two men who were allegedly not dating. “The summer before fifth year, after Vernon strangled…” Harry took a breath, then looked to the side. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

There was a loud crack. Harry jerked his head up and saw that Sirius had punched a hole in the wall. 

“You may have to,” Remus said in the ensuing silence. He took out his wand and began repairing the wall, while Sirius shook off his injured hand. “You should get to the kitchen. We’ll be a few minutes.”

“Right,” Harry said, stepping around them. He had been very, very close to murdering Vernon Dursley in his own world. If the man had done anything to Harry Potter—Harry Dursley?—it was unlikely Vernon had survived it. Breaking the kid’s wand was bad enough. 

“He is not your uncle!”

It sounded like Vernon was still alive. A pity.

His little brother’s mistreatment could not be blamed entirely on Vernon. Petunia had done her fair share. If anything, Petunia had influenced Vernon with her hatred, fear, and jealousy, and the both of them had encouraged Dudley. Harry didn’t know yet if it had been the same in this world—Harry Dursley?—but the personalities of his kidnappers were close enough to the ones in his world that it seemed likely. 

Harry peeked into the drawing room and saw it was empty. He imagined someone would have come to investigate the noise, or maybe Sirius punching walls was unremarkable. Remus seemed unaffected by it, but that could have been a vampire thing. Or a Remus Lupin thing. 

There was a strange symmetry in it. In Harry’s reality, Sirius Black had spent three years learning to be an animagus, starting from when he was twelve, all to help his werewolf friend. That he was acting as a mobile blood bank in this reality wasn’t much of a surprise. Sirius was intensely dedicated to his friends. 

Once again, Harry wished Sirius had been a bit more devoted to his godson. 

 

---

 

“Why are you in Slytherin?”

“So we’re having this conversation,” Harry said, dropping into a chair. He lit another cigarette, ignoring the concerned look Lily gave him. If he needed to smoke to make it through a day, he was going to fucking smoke. 

“Well?” Sam pressed. 

Someone had dried out the kitchen and laid out a tea service. The house-elf, Kreacher, Harry assumed. Harry hadn’t seen much of him. Monty was fond of Kreacher, and Kreacher in turn favored Monty. Harry trusted that, if Monty got into a bad situation, if it came down to it, Kreacher could help him. 

Harry took a cup of tea and a biscuit. It was a ginger newt. Monty’s favorite. The biscuit wagged its bready tail at him. 

“I admit, I am also curious as to how that came to be,” Snape said, lacing his fingers together. Harry thought it looked cooler when his dad did that. 

“Does it matter?” Lily asked, looking around the table. “People put too much stock in houses.”

“It’s not a well-constructed question,” Harry said, setting the biscuit down. Ginger was alright, but he preferred caraway. “Why? Because the Sorting Hat put me in Slytherin.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Sam said, annoyed. “What about you made the Sorting Hat put you there?”

“What house was your brother in?” Harry asked blithely. 

“Gryffindor,” Sam said. “Like me. Like mum, and dad—”

“—and Sirius,” Harry said, taking over. “And Remus, and Dumbledore, and anyone worth knowing, yeah?” Harry folded his arms on the table. “May as well call it the Guild of Gryffindors.”

James opened his mouth to object, but Lily spoke first. 

“Severus was in Slytherin,” she said, gesturing to her old friend as if he were on sale at an auction. “He’s the Head of Slytherin!”

“An exception, not the rule,” Harry said, looking at Dumbledore. “You can say houses don’t matter all you want, but the fact is they do matter to a lot of people. It’s called bias.” He looked at Sam again. “The same bias that made you ask me why a hat I put on when I was eleven sorted me into Slytherin.”

Sam began turning red. He really did fit right in with the Weasleys. 

“What was your experience in Slytherin?” Dumbledore asked. “I imagine it could not have been easy, being the Boy Who Lived.”

“It was great,” Harry said, smiling. “I met some of the best friends I’ll ever have.”

Sam gave him a scandalized look. “Malfoy?”

Harry snorted. “No.”

“Was your boyfriend also in Slytherin?” Lily asked. 

“He was in Gryffindor,” Harry said, his smile growing. “Prefect, Head Boy, twelve N.E.W.T.s, junior assistant to the Minister for Magic…”

“Sounds like a swot,” James said, though not meanly.

“Yeah, he is,” Harry said dreamily. 

“Junior assistant to the Minister?” Lily asked. “How old is he?”

Harry rubbed his nose. “He was two years ahead of me in school.”

“Who were your friends?” Snape asked.

Harry thought over all the Slytherins in his brother’s year. Most of them, and most of his friends, had families associated with the Dark Lord, including actual Death Eaters. 

“Tracey Davis,” he said. No one reacted to her name, which made sense. Tracey was a halfblood; her muggle father and witch mother had stayed out of the war. “And Vincent Crabbe.” 

Harry took a drag, waiting a moment for the reaction. 

“Crabbe?” Sam asked, scandalized.

“His father’s a Death Eater,” James said.

“Yeah, I’ve met him,” Harry said drily. “It’s not Vince’s fault who his dad is.”

“Crabbe?” Sam repeated.

“I’m sure he’s a nice boy,” Lily said uncertainly. “They met when they were eleven…”

“We were on the gobstones team together,” Harry said. 

The table fell silent. Harry took a sip from his tea, wishing it was coffee instead.

“Gobstones?” James asked in a strangled voice. “You didn’t play quidditch?”

Harry could have spat out his tea, but he gamely swallowed. 

“Quidditch?” he asked calmly, setting the cup down. “You think I would play quidditch?”

“Harry is—was—a brilliant seeker,” James said, looking torn between pride and grief. “I’ve never seen a more natural flier.” Next to him, Sam looked strangely angry. 

“I was the captain of the Slytherin gobstones team,” Harry said. “Unofficially starting at the end of fourth year.”

“And officially?” Snape asked, looking far too interested. 

“The same time I was made a prefect,” Harry told him, amused by Snape’s incredulity. “I was also Head Boy.”

Lily’s eyes got watery again. Harry imagined she was thinking of how her son would never be the captain of anything, or a prefect, or Head Boy. James looked similarly stricken, whereas Sam looked like he was going to be sick. 

“You sound like a very accomplished young man,” Dumbledore said. 

“It’s normal,” Harry said, ashing onto the floor. “I knew my mum had been Head Girl, so I was just following in her footsteps.”

“And not your father?” Snape asked, his eyes narrowing. Harry smirked at him.

“Ah, it seems Remus and Sirius are joining us again,” Dumbledore said.

Harry leaned back in his chair and looked at them upside down. Both Remus and Sirius looked peaky. 

“Let me guess where this is going,” Harry said, sitting upright. “You left him with the Dursleys. He grew up not knowing about magic at all. The Dursleys hated him for having it. He was told his parents had died in a car crash. He slept in a cupboard under the stairs.”

The silence was telling. The guilt was suffocating. Bad enough in his world that Dumbledore had left his little brother with the Dursleys, that McGonagall and Hagrid knew and had done nothing, that his dad hadn’t cared enough to ensure his brother was safe, that Remus Lupin was too much of a fucking coward—

Harry looked around the room. “Well? Are you going to tell me I’m wrong?” He took another drag from his cigarette, and waited for the next idiot to speak. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 10: Cracks

“You’re not wrong,” Lily said. She closed her eyes, gripping her cup of tea so tightly Harry was worried it would crack. “But you’re not entirely right.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, looking between her and James.

“My sister,” Lily began. She took a breath, then opened her eyes again. “She hates magic. It scares her. It always has, since we were children. She always ran off to tell our mum when I did any magic.”

Harry glanced at Snape, but the man was too focused on Lily to notice. Dumbledore did, though. Had Lily and Snape not been childhood friends in this world? Was it common knowledge? Was it something kept from the kids?

“I spoke to her,” Lily said. “I asked her to protect my son, and explained why. I explained everything.” Lily’s expression turned bitter. “She blamed me for the death of our parents. You see, if I hadn’t been a witch, dad’s factory would never have been attacked. If I hadn’t been a witch, Voldemort would never have targeted us.” Lily pushed her hair back angrily. “Tuney blamed me, she blamed magic. I hadn’t seen her for almost two years by then. She broke off all contact. She wanted nothing to do with the magical world, and wanted to forget it existed.”

“You could have given her that,” Harry said.

Lily gave him a shocked look. “Obliviate my own sister?”

“Yeah,” he said.

Lily was too appalled to speak.

James shook his head. “That would have been wrong. Not only ethically, but ignorance would not have kept her safe.”

“The Bond of Blood would not have worked,” Dumbledore said quietly. 

Harry shrugged. He knew the Dursleys had largely been kept under control with threats, but a little tampering with their minds would have made his brother’s life better. Fake love would have been better than none at all. At the very least, a real bedroom and regular meals. 

“So she hates magic,” Harry said. “I already know that. What’s your point?”

Lily’s mouth thinned. “The point,” she said, showing some temper, “is that Petunia agreed to adopt my son, but she wanted nothing else to do with me. She said she was doing it for him.” She squeezed her teacup. “I told her Harry hadn’t done any magic since the attack. That he might not have magic anymore.” The cup cracked. “And I told her to let us know if Harry showed any signs of magic.”

The temperature in the room dropped. Harry glanced at the ceiling, but there wasn’t a cloud in sight. 

“No one checked on him?” Harry asked. 

“There was a watcher,” Dumbledore said, his face downcast. “Arabella Figg. A neighbor. She never witnessed any accidental magic.”

“I trusted her,” Lily said angrily. “I trusted her with my son!”

James tried putting an arm around her, but she slapped it away. 

“It was deemed too dangerous to stay in regular contact,” Dumbledore said. “Owls can be traced, same with the floo. There are ways of detecting magic around children, and muggles. The Ministry was still infiltrated by Death Eaters, any number of whom may have tracked down Harry and finished Lord Voldemort’s task.”

“And you thought Mrs. Figg was the woman for the job?” Harry asked. “The squib kneazle breeder?”

“Crups, actually,” Remus said. 

“Great, even better,” Harry said sarcastically. 

“The intention was to hide Harry in the muggle world,” Dumbledore said calmly. “He was adopted by his aunt, who even consented to giving him the same surname to further distance him from magic.”

“That bastard said he would stamp the nonsense out of my son,” James growled. 

“I was always against this,” Sirius said harshly. “I could have taken him. Remus and I—”

“Not now, Sirius!”

“He started doing accidental magic?” Harry asked loudly. He rubbed his forehead. “Kreacher, could I get some coffee?”

A series of bangs emanated from the scullery. 

“We don’t know exactly when,” Remus said, placing a hand on Sirius’ shoulder. “But we do know Harry’s incidences of accidental magic increased in frequency when he began primary school.”

“Changing teachers’ hair colors, apparating on roofs, that sort of thing?” Harry asked. Remus nodded. “And Mrs. Figg saw none of this is what you’re telling me?”

“Much of it was behind closed doors,” Dumbledore said. “As were the punishments.”

The word affected everyone. Guilt, shame, anger. Sam shrank into himself and looked confused. Like he had never heard of a child being hurt by their relatives before. It was inconceivable in his world. Snape was wrapped in silence, and showed no reaction. Harry could tell that was a facade. His dad knew better than most what a man like Vernon Dursley was capable of when he was angry. Sirius too, judging from his murderous expression.

Harry saw that Lily and James felt the worst of all. It had been their son, and ultimately their choice. He was willing to believe they made the decision they thought was best for their kid—he couldn’t imagine how hard it would be to give up a child you loved—but it had failed in the worst way. 

“Nothing a good beating wouldn’t fix, eh?” Harry said. 

The silence stretched, and then Sam went off. 

“Fuck you!” Sam shouted. “You have no idea what mum and dad went through! You have no idea what it was like!”

“Don’t I?” Harry asked acidly. “Who the fuck do you think I am?”

“An arsehole!”

Harry did feel particularly arsey at the moment, so he pushed away from the table, stood, and lifted up his robes. 

“What the hell are you—” Sirius started.

Lily put a hand over her mouth. “Oh, god.”

It was a bit awkward standing around in his pants with his robes hiked up—he really needed to get muggle clothes—but Harry managed to expose the long, ropey scar across his stomach. It was from a kelpie, but they didn’t need to know that.

“I was nearly eviscerated,” Harry said, dropping his robes. “That’s what happens when you burn the eggs in the Dursley household.” He braced his hands on the table and stared at Sam. “You have no idea what I’ve been through, so you can shut the fuck up.”

Harry sat back down. A cup of black coffee appeared in front of him. “Cheers.”

“I don’t,” James began. “I don’t think it was that bad for our Harry.”

“How would you know?” Harry shot back. “Reckon you never twigged anything was amiss until letters went out to Mr. H Dursley, The Cupboard under the Stairs.” Harry angrily lit another cigarette. “Did you tell him anything then? Or did you just send Hagrid to take him to Diagon Alley and went on pretending?”

Snape finally spoke. “That is precisely what happened,” he said, giving James and Lily a hateful look. “That is, until the end of his first year.”

“The Philosopher's Stone?” Harry asked. “Quirrell tried to kill me for that. Didn’t end well for him.”

“No,” Dumbledore said quietly. “Though I am saddened to hear poor Quirinus met a similar fate in your world.” He bowed his head. “No, Lord Voldemort sought the Golden Apple.”

Harry had no idea what that was. A history book would have been useful. He sipped his coffee, appreciating how dark and bitter it was. It did remind him of his dad, which was sad. This Dark Lord needed to die for Harry to see his dad again, and while he knew something like that couldn’t be accomplished over a weekend, these people seemed…lost. 

“Was that a tattoo I saw?” Sirius asked abruptly. “What was it? Lilies?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, taking a drag from his cigarette. He did not look at Lily. “It’s for my mum.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 11: Apples

Summary:

Don't fall far from the tree

Harry leaned back in his chair and ran his fingers through his hair. The story of the Boy Who Lived was in many ways a story about the Dark Lord. Monty’s entire life had been shaped by the Dark Lord. Their society as a whole had been. It was no different here, in a world with a boy named Harry Potter. Rather, Harry Dursley, though his grave said otherwise. 

“Does the Philosopher’s Stone exist here?” Harry asked.

“To my knowledge,” Dumbledore said, “which is quite extensive, given my work in alchemy, no one has successfully created a Philosopher’s Stone. If anyone has, they have done a remarkable job in keeping it a secret.”

Harry nodded to himself. “You aren’t mates with Nicolas Flamel?”

“He passed away several hundred years before I was born,” Dumbledore said with a trace of amusement. “I am old, but not that old.”

Harry took a thoughtful drag from his cigarette.

“What’s the Philosopher's Stone?” Sam asked. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“It’s a mythical object,” Remus began. 

“It’s not a myth,” Harry interrupted. Remus gave him a skeptical look. “I’ve held it before.”

Both Dumbledore and Snape gave him looks of interest. Harry smirked back.

“What is it?” Sam asked irritably. 

“It’s a stone,” Harry said, “A crystal. It looks like it’s made out of blood. It can transmute any metal into gold.”

“What’s so special about that?” Sam asked. “I can transfigure—”

Harry sighed. “It’s not simple transfiguration,” he said. 

“Simple?” Sirius muttered. 

“It changes the very nature of the metal,” Harry continued. “But that’s not the important bit. The Philosopher’s Stone is also used to create the Elixir of Life, which was why Voldemort—my Voldemort—wanted it. Don’t ask me how it works,” he added before Sam asked another question. “I’m not an alchemist. I only know what it does, at least according to Nicolas Flamel. He’s been alive for over six hundred years in my world. Him and his wife.”

Harry picked up his coffee, thoughtlessly reheating it. 

“That’s not possible,” Sam said. 

“It is in my world,” Harry replied with a grin. 

“It seems,” Dumbledore said, forestalling any other questions, “that your Lord Voldemort also sought immortality.”

Harry nodded. “Is that what this Golden Apple does?”

Dumbledore stroked his beard. “Akin to the Philosopher’s Stone, it is a thing of legend. The Golden Apple tastes of the sweetest honey, and will never deplete. A bite of the apple will sate any hunger. Eternal life, and eternal youth. Some believe it is where a phoenix gets his flames.” Dumbledore smiled. “Indeed, it was through Fawkes that I came into possession of the Golden Apple. I believe he stole it.”

“And you kept it at a school?” Harry asked witheringly.

“Deep in the heart of the Dark Forest,” Dumbledore began in grand tones.

“The fuck’s the Dark Forest?” Harry asked. 

“It’s the forest that surrounds Hogwarts, you crass child,” Snape said testily. 

“Oh, that. We call it the Forbidden Forest.”

“Deep in the heart of the Dark Forest,” Dumbledore repeated, “a sapling of pure silver grows.”

“Did Fawkes eat the Golden Apple then shit its seeds in the middle of the forest?” 

“Watch your tongue!”

“I don’t think you want to see what I’ve done with my tongue.”

“Alright,” Lily said loudly, placing her hands on the table, her eyes flashing with anger. “That’s enough! Severus, stop needling him! Harry…” She choked up. “We need to talk about Harry.”

The kitchen fell silent. Someone shifted in their chair. 

“Sorry,” Harry said, closing his eye. “Honestly, it’s hard to hear about someone being an orphan even when their parents are alive.” He opened his eye again and looked at Dumbledore. “One last question regarding the apple.”

“Anything,” Dumbledore said. 

“Did you hide it in a mirror?”

“A pool,” Dumbledore said. “Only one with pure intentions could see past his reflection. My counterpart concealed the Philosopher’s Stone within a mirror?”

“The Mirror of Erised,” Harry said. 

Dumbledore’s eyebrows rose. “You have looked into it?”

“Mirror of what?” James asked. Lily hushed him.

“Twice,” Harry said, frowning at the memory. 

“What did you see?” Dumbledore pressed. 

Harry gave him a flat look. “My dead mum crying. Satisfied?”

Dumbledore pulled back from his tone, chastened. “My apologies.”

“My dad was there too,” Harry added. Both James Potter and his actual dad had been reflected in the Mirror of Erised. Harry hadn’t understood what that meant until much later. He rubbed his face; he felt a headache coming on. “It doesn’t matter.” He looked at Lily and James. “You left your son with the Dursleys. When he got his letter you sent Hagrid?”

Sirius laughed harshly. “It’s worse than that.”

“Sirius,” Remus said warningly. 

Harry leaned back in his chair. “Go on, then. How’s it worse?”

Sirius smiled bitterly. “After Harry Dursley was sorted into Gryffindor, this one,” he said, jabbing a finger at Sam, “didn’t say a thing.”

“We told him not to!” James snapped, while at the same time Sam said, “They told me not to!” 

Lily wrapped her arms around herself. “We should have checked. We should have known his name was still down at Hogwarts…”

“Once again,” Snape said with a mocking sneer, “you put your faith in the wrong person.”

“She is my sister!”

“She’s a shrew.”

“Shut up,” Harry said coldly. Lily’s mouth snapped shut, while Snape gave him a hateful look. Feeling sick, Harry turned to Sam. “You didn’t tell him you were brothers?”

Sam looked as bad as Harry felt. “No. It was… mum and dad said it was better that he didn’t know. That V…Voldemort wouldn’t target him.” His face crumbled. “People kept saying we looked alike. I didn’t… I couldn’t… I was… I was scared to even be friends with him. He had a muggle name, you know, everyone thought he was a muggleborn like Hermione. That it was a coincidence that… that we look…looked…so similar. So… and everyone knows Vol…Voldemort killed muggleborns. Kills them. He hates them. All the Death Eaters do.” Sam looked up at him, his eyes shining with unshed tears, grief contorting his face. “I thought, I really thought getting close to him would put him in danger.” 

It sounded—Harry hated to admit it—eerily similar to his own justifications. It was safer for Monty to not know they were brothers. There was some truth to it too. If Monty had known, if somehow it had got out to the public, if Voldemort knew, Harry would never have made it out of the graveyard alive. His continued survival depended, in part, on no one knowing. 

Sam pushed up his glasses and angrily brushed away his tears. “Didn’t matter in the end.”

Sirius scoffed, though he looked on the verge of tears himself. “You were singing a different tune when James gave the invisibility cap to him instead of you.”

Harry did not have time to process invisibility cap. The objections were immediate.

“I was not!” Sam shouted.

“He was eleven,” James said bitingly. 

Sirius laughed again, while Remus whispered harshly to him. Sirius brushed him off. “Now you’ve got it all to yourself, Sam. All of it. Just like you wanted.”

“That’s low,” James said darkly. “Even for you.”

“The hell is that supposed to mean, James?”

Harry cleared his throat, and everyone turned to look at him. Sam, James, and Sirius were all furious, though it was tempered by their remorse. Lily was staring at a wall. Remus clearly wanted to bite Sirius and perhaps silence him forever. Dumbledore still looked old and sad. Snape looked…vindicated.

“What do you mean it didn’t matter in the end?” Harry asked.

“What he means,” Snape said, “is that the Dark Lord lured Potter—”

“Dursley.”

“Potter,” Snape said, glaring at him, “and several other students into the Dark Forest. Once the various obstacles the other professors and I created had disabled his companions, Potter faced Quirrell and the Dark Lord alone. Whereupon the Dark Lord referred to him as Harry Potter, and revealed that it was Harry Potter who survived the Killing Curse.”

“Companions?” Harry asked. 

A wistful look crossed Lily’s face as she spoke. “Hermione Granger and Neville Longbottom,” she said. “Harry’s best friends. They met on the train.”

Harry sat back in his chair. “So Voldemort was the one who told him the truth,” he said. “That’s bleak.” He looked at Lily and James, a terrible thought forming. “Don’t tell me you sent him back to the Dursleys after that?”

Once again, their silence was damning. 

“Harry had to return to them,” Dumbledore said quietly. “At least once a year, to the place his grandmother’s blood dwells. He had to call it home to maintain the charm.”

Harry glanced at his coffee. It was getting cool again. He doubted he could stomach it.

“I think I need something stronger.” 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 12: Hearts

With a wet pop Sirius uncorked a bottle reminiscent of a glacier and containing an icy blue liquid. He poured Harry a generous measure and pushed the glass towards him.

“Is this poisoned?” Harry asked, picking up his glass and scrutinizing its contents. Delicate crystals of frost began growing around his fingers. “Looks like Veritaserum.”

“It’s not poisoned,” Remus said, smiling in a predatory way. Harry smiled back; he had manners.

“Icegin,” Sirius said, thumping down into his seat. “That’ll put hairs on your chest.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, then shrugged and threw the liquor back.

“He uses it to clean the rust off his moped’s engine,” James confided.  

“Shit,” Harry gasped. It felt like he was freezing from the inside out. It was invigorating. His breath came out in a frigid mist. “We’ve got firewhiskey.” He coughed a few times, and put a hand on his chest. “Holy shit, that’s bloody cold.”

“Firewhiskey?” Lily asked, shaking her head when Sirius tried to give her a glass. 

“Tastes a bit like cinnamon,” Harry said, shivering. “Mostly fire. It actually looks like fire, and smokes too. Warms you up.” He breathed out, and a smile played on his lips. He pushed his glass towards Sirius. “Hit me. Make it a double.”

“That was a double,” Sirius said, obligingly pouring him more of the icegin. 

“Can I have some?” Sam asked. 

“No,” both James and Lily said. 

“You’ve probably had enough,” Lily said to Harry, eyeing his glass. 

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Harry said. “You abdicated your role as a parent, and I don’t need another mum.” He set his glass down. He wasn’t much of a drinker. “My mum made the ultimate sacrifice, but she also took the easy way out.”

Lily’s expression hardened. “What do you mean?”

He meant that he thought this Lily had also made the easiest decision. Maybe it would have been hard to raise the two kids together, even dangerous, but the way they treated their son was exactly like what had been done with Monty. Out of sight, out of mind.

Harry didn’t think Dumbledore was callous or indifferent to Monty’s life, but the fact was that no matter his intentions or feelings, Dumbledore had contributed to the Boy Who Lived mythos, had put Monty in danger, and, Harry feared, planned for Monty to die. Another sacrifice in the tradition of Lily Evans, dying for the greater good. 

“Mum chose to die,” Harry said quietly. The liquor was having an immediate effect, softening all the rough edges. “I’m choosing to live.”

Lily’s face fell, and Harry looked away. He hadn’t meant to remind her of her dead son, but he had done it anyway. Intentions didn’t matter. 

“This whole bit with the Golden Apple,” he said, addressing Dumbledore. He focused on the rectangular spectacles. Little differences. “I know how my Voldemort made himself immortal, and I’ve got a rough idea of how to deal with that.”

“A rough idea?” Snape repeated disparagingly. 

“Yeah,” Harry said, smirking at him. “It needs some time to maturate.” He lit a cigarette, still feeling cold from the icegin. 

Icegin. 

“Is this actually my life?” he implored the universe.

“May I ask what your Voldemort did?” Dumbledore said gently.

“You may,” Harry said, exhaling smoke. “No one in this room is capable of replicating it.” He could, but they didn’t need to know that. “It’s extremely dark.” He sat up, glancing at Sam. “I don’t mean hexes and curses. Not even Unforgivables—you’ve got those here, yeah?”

Sam gave him a stiff nod. “The Killing Curse. The Imperius Curse. The Cruciatus Curse.”

“So, that’s the same,” Harry said. He took a sip of his drink and shivered again. Firewhiskey was like liquified courage. Fiery passion. This icegin was having the opposite effect. It was cooling. Numbing. In a strange way, it settled him. Harry cleared his throat, then looked at Dumbledore again. “Do you know what a horcrux is?”

Dumbledore’s eyes widened, and the color drained from his aged face. 

“Are you having a heart attack?” Harry asked. 

“No, my dear boy,” Dumbledore said, recovering his composure. “I was merely surprised.”

“Merely,” Harry snorted. “Did he make them here?”

Dumbledore was silent for a long moment, then shook his head. “I have considered it, but there are other paths to immortality, or something like it.”

“What’s a horcrux?” James asked, giving Harry a worried look. 

“You mutilate your soul and store it in an object,” Harry said bluntly. “That’s something else I’m not going to explain.” He took another sip, and sighed. “I feel like I’m drinking Ice Mice, except they’re all drunk. There is a drunk mouse party in my mouth and everyone is passing out.”

Harry enjoyed the fact that he could get everyone in the room to shut up. Even Snape looked appalled, and Harry knew it took quite a lot to ruffle his dad. 

“He tore apart his own soul?” Sirius said, aghast. 

“Is it really that surprising?” Harry said. He reached up to adjust his eyepatch. “You scurvy cur.”

“What?”

“There is no depth to which Voldemort won’t sink,” Harry said, looking around the table. “He doesn’t venerate the soul. It’s all magic to him. And even magic is a tool to him, something to use, something which endows him with power.” He paused, took another drag from his cigarette. “That’s what he wants, that is what he believes he is. Power.”

Dumbledore was nodding along. “Yes, I could not have put it better myself. Tom has, above all, sought power. There is no good or evil, no right or wrong, in the mind of Tom Riddle. To commit such a heinous act…”

Harry huffed. “He created his first horcrux at sixteen.” He paused, then added, “if I’ve got my facts right. I put over a year of research into it.”

Dumbledore pulled back. “It took you only a year to discover that?”

“It was a long year,” Harry said, thinking about the months he had spent in a time loop. “But that’s in my world. My problem,” he said, giving Dumbledore a hard look. “Which I need to get back to solving.”

Dumbledore smiled at him. “I must say, your commitment to defeating Voldemort is inspiring.”

Harry shrugged. It was a commitment to saving his brother’s life. Voldemort dying was incidental. “What’s the story here?”

Dumbledore’s smile fell. “A different one, though no less harrowing.”

“He doesn’t have a heart,” Sam interjected.

Harry leaned forward. “You mean literally? An actual heartless bastard?”

Dumbledore stroked his beard. “Sometime before he attacked your counterpart, through dark magicks I do not wish to give voice to here, Voldemort extracted and concealed his own heart. The body he wears now is little more than a puppet.”

“A golem,” Harry said. “Or a homunculus.”

Dumbledore inclined his head.

“Poisonous toadstools don’t change their spots,” Harry said.

Sam started, and gave him a strange look. “I’ve heard Ron say that before.”

“Who?” Harry asked. 

“Ron Weasley,” Sam said. He grimaced. “Oh, right. You were in Slytherin.”

Harry grinned. “Put me on trial in front of the Wizengamot and they would convict.”

“It is an imperfect immortality,” Dumbledore said. “As all forms are. The body ages, while the heart lives on.” He sighed wearily. “The heart and the soul. The ritual Lord Voldemort used is, I believe, one created by Mopsus the Augur.” Dumbledore solemnly lowered his head. 

Snape crossed his arms. “A segue, Dumbledore?” he said drily.

“It is relevant to the boys’ second year, Severus,” Dumbledore said evenly. “Loathe as I know you are to discuss it.”

Harry finished his icegin—he would need to take a bottle back with him—and looked around the table. 

“You sent him back to the Dursleys,” Harry said to Lily. “Did you talk to him at all after Voldemort tried to kill him?”

“Of course I did,” Lily said emphatically. “I loved him. I love him.” 

James put his hand over hers. “We stayed with him in the hospital wing. We tried to explain. Harry never… he never told us what they were like. He had his owl. Hedwig. You’ve met her. We promised to write, we wanted to see him.” James’ voice broke, and he gripped Lily’s hand until his knuckles turned white.

“He never got the letters,” Sam said angrily. 

“You wrote to him too?” Harry asked. 

Sam rubbed his arm. “I thought we could talk about quidditch or something.”

“Unbelievable,” Harry muttered, leaning back in his chair. His cigarette had gone out, so he relit it. It was that, or shooting curses all over the place. “Was a house-elf stealing the post?”

Sam bit his lip, then nodded.

“Mopsus was also the creator of the ouroboros,” Dumbledore interrupted. “A creature which terrorized Hogwarts while Sam and Harry were in their second year.”

Harry stared at Dumbledore for a moment, then put his head in his hands. 

“The what?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 13: Glass

“Perhaps we should break for lunch,” Remus suggested, giving Sirius’ neck a lascivious look. “Give everyone a chance to gather their thoughts.”

Harry huffed in amusement. The icegin had taken the edge off his restlessness; trying to abbreviate his own time at Hogwarts would be a ridiculous request. 

Dumbledore pushed himself up. “If you will excuse me, I must use the bathroom.”

“Yeah, why not,” Harry said, leaning back in his chair. He felt like lying on the floor, but he didn’t know where it had been and this wasn’t his dad’s house. 

“Did he still go by Harry Dursley?” he asked the ceiling.

“He did, for a while.” Harry glanced at Sirius. “Voldemort knew who Harry really was,” Sirius explained, “but the Death Eaters didn’t.”

“Save this one,” Harry said, nodding to Snape. 

Snape narrowed his eyes. “Yes. I am, as always, the exception.”

Harry smirked, then took a drag from his cigarette. “What I don’t get is why you’re here.” He pointed at Lily. “She’s still alive, so what’s in it for you?”

Snape’s expression soured, and Harry could practically feel the tension in the room rise. It had to be bad for everyone’s health. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sam asked, looking at his parents. 

Harry raised an eyebrow. “You don’t know?”

“Know what?” Sam demanded. “That Snape’s a spy?”

Harry shook his head in amusement, then looked at Lily. “What’s your favorite band?”

Lily, who had gone stiff, jerked her head in surprise. “My what?”

“Your favorite band,” Harry repeated. 

“Oh,” Lily said, shaking her head lightly. “Fleetwood Mac. Why do you ask?”

“Curious,” Harry said, his heart giving a painful thud. He eyed his nearly empty glass. “What’s your favorite song of theirs?”

Lily brushed hair behind her ear. “Never Going Back Again.”

“That’s ominous,” Harry muttered. He swallowed, then said, “I like that one too. You don’t know what it means to win,” he sang softly. “Come down and see me again…”

“You have a nice voice,” Lily said. Sam gave her a mulish look. “Did your…” She cleared her throat. “What was your mum’s favorite?”

Harry smiled to himself. “Second Hand News.” His smile grew. “Professor Snape told me.”

“How would he know something like that?” Sam asked angrily. 

“Sam,” Remus said gently, “you know we all went to school together.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Sam asked. “Snape was in Slytherin!”

“Professor Snape,” Remus corrected. 

There was a loud scrape as Sirius pushed himself away from the table. “I’m going to talk to Kreacher about lunch,” he said gruffly, to no one in particular. “I think we’ve still got some lamb’s blood.”

They all watched him leave the kitchen and enter another room—the scullery—taking the bottle of icegin with him. 

Sam looked between Remus and his parents. “What’s wrong with him?”

“You know Sirius’ brother and sister were in Slytherin,” James said, sounding tired.

“Sister?” Harry asked. 

“Denebola,” Lily said, glancing at the door Sirius had gone through. “She…passed away during the war.”

“How?” Harry asked. “Was she killed by Voldemort?”

“No,” Snape said. “By aurors. She was a Death Eater, as was his brother Regulus.”

“They were twins,” Lily said quietly. James pulled her into a hug. Sam gave them a concerned look, but didn’t appear surprised by the information. Maybe he had even gone to the funeral, or visited their graves.

“Jesus,” Harry breathed. “He only had a brother in my world. Still named Regulus, still a Death Eater. He went missing. We think Voldemort killed him, that’s…that’s why I asked.”

“Why did Sirius get upset?” Sam asked. No one answered him. “I didn’t bring them up.”

Harry finished his drink and shivered. Despite the large fire, the kitchen felt colder. Darker. He blamed it on the weird liquor.

“Where would Voldemort keep his own heart?” he mused, running a finger around the rim of his glass. It made a soft ringing sound, like a chime. 

“That’s what we’ve been asking ourselves for two years,” James said, releasing his wife. “We’ve been searching for it, gathering information on his past, what we know about his Death Eaters,” he added, looking at Snape. Snape’s lips twitched. “We have to locate it first, then contend with any protections Voldemort put around it.”

Harry nodded absently, an idea forming. A small smile grew on his face. Snape had yet to justify his presence here, and his involvement in Harry’s abduction.

“Once I had a love and it was a gas,” Harry sang lightly. “Soon turned out had a heart of glass.”

“That sounds familiar,” Lily said thoughtfully. “Is that a muggle song?”

Harry took a drag from his cigarette and grinned at her. “Once I had a love and it was divine,” he went on. “Soon found out I was losing my mind.”

“Why are you singing?” Sam asked. 

“Be nice,” Lily said. “If Harry wants to sing, he can sing.”

“It’s annoying,” Sam said. “I don’t think Harry even listened to music.”

“Helps pass the time when you’re confined,” Harry told them. “In bed,” he added, for Snape’s benefit. “Once I had a love and it was a gas. Soon turned out to be a pain in the ass…”

Snape’s face became more and more remote. Harry leaned forward. He knew his dad, and while his dad was tolerant of him, this Severus Snape wasn’t his dad. He hadn’t been chained to the memory of his dead first love. She was still alive, still married to James Potter, still the mother of his children.

“You got what you wanted,” Harry said to him, fascinated. “And you hate it.”

Snape’s eyes flashed. “You know nothing.”

Harry laughed. “I know enough.” He glanced at Lily. “What I’m wondering is if they know.”

Snape bared his teeth—Harry’s dad didn’t have perfect teeth, but he at least knew how to brush—and reached into his robes.

“No magic at the table,” Remus said hastily. “Sirius? Sirius! Get back in here!”

“Mum?” Sam asked. “What’s he talking about?”

“Are you threatening my…” James said through gritted teeth. “Are you threatening Harry? Snape, I swear—”

“I’ll explain later,” Lily hissed, gripping her husband’s arm. “Harry, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“You want to duel me?” Harry asked eagerly, reaching for his own wand. “Let’s fucking go. Fair warning, I’ve fought the Loch Ness Monster.”

“While I am certain that is a gripping tale,” Dumbledore said, reentering the room. “I must ask you not to challenge my Potions Master to a duel.”

Sirius burst out of the scullery. “What’s going on?”

Harry ignored them, focused on Snape. “Is Eileen Prince still alive?”

Snape’s hateful expression froze. “How dare you…”

“Who?” Sam asked. 

“Severus’ mother,” Lily said. “Harry, how do you know that name?”

“She was the captain of the Hogwarts gobstones team,” Harry said. “And the Slytherin gobstones team. One of the best players in the school’s history. We’ve got an altar to her in our training room.”

Dumbledore took his seat next to Snape. “Eileen was a brilliant gobstones player. Severus, lower your wand.”

Snape sneered, but begrudgingly complied. Harry would have to get the man alone. Had he invented different spells here? None at all?

He slowly put his own wand away. “Captain Prince is my personal hero. I’d love to get her autograph.”

“I’m afraid,” Snape said acidly, “you would have to exhume her for that dubious honor.”

Harry winced, then looked down. “Sorry, sir. I… Sorry.” He sighed. “You do get a laugh out of it in my world. Mostly because she would’ve hated it.”

Dumbledore was giving Harry an intense look. Harry pretended not to notice. Bringing up his other grandmother had been stupid. He blamed the lack of firewhiskey.

Strangely, his words made Snape relax. “Yes,” he said, with marginally less hostility. “I imagine she would.”

“How do you know who his mum is?” Sam asked. 

“Yeah, I’d like to know that too,” Sirius said, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.

Harry waved a hand between Lily and Snape. “They grew up together.”

Sam looked stunned. “Pull the other one,” he stuttered.

Harry rubbed his face. It seemed the habit of telling his brother fuck all was alive and well in this world. 

“Is that true?” Sam asked his mother. 

“Yes,” Lily admitted. “We’ve been… we were friends as children.”

“And in Hogwarts,” James said. He picked up his glass and took a stiff drink.

Harry went still. Sam wasn’t his brother. He wasn’t even the Boy Who Lived. 

He scrunched up his face. “I think I hate it here.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Dumbledore said amicably. Plates began appearing on the table. “Ah, it seems lunch is ready.”

“Great,” Harry said flatly. “Shepherd’s pie, my favorite. Made with real shepherds.”

“Wouldn’t put it past Kreacher,” Sirius muttered. 

“We can continue our discussion as we eat,” Dumbledore said. 

“How accommodating,” Harry said under his breath, picking up his fork. “What’s an ouroboros, then? A snake?”

Sam scoffed. “If a snake rolls around and spits milk at people, then yeah, it’s a snake.”

“That was a lindwyrm,” Snape said testily. “Your failure to distinguish the two—”

“Severus,” Dumbledore said. 

“He was twelve!” James burst out. “Twelve!”

Remus sipped his goblet of blood, watching them with hooded eyes. Sirius poured himself another drink. 

“Again,” Harry said, dropping his fork. “A what?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 14: Snakes

“When the Founders raised the first stones of Hogwarts,” Dumbledore began. 

Harry wanted to slam his head against the table. 

“Each gave the school a protection uniquely theirs,” Dumbledore continued. “Gryffindor, his suits of armor. Hufflepuff, the house-elves. Ravenclaw, the Dark Forest and the Black Lake. And Slytherin, the Ouroboros.”

“That’s great that their names are the same,” Harry said. “At least their surnames. I don’t think I could handle it if Salazar was named…Saul or something.”

Dumbledore smiled. “He is still Salazar Slytherin in this world.”

Harry heaved a sigh of relief. “So what’s the snake do?”

Snape sneered. He did a lot of that. “The Ouroboros is no mere snake. It is an ancient serpent possessed of unfathomable magic. Whatever it holds within its coils is inviolable.”

“Right,” Harry said. “The basilisk we had was around forty, fifty feet long I think? How big is this snake?”

“It encircles the grounds of Hogwarts,” Dumbledore said. “Slumbering deep within the earth.”

“Wow,” Harry said. “That’s a big fucking snake.”

James laughed, then immediately stopped at a look from Lily. 

Dumbledore chuckled. “Indeed, it is quite big. As one might imagine, to stir such a creature would have an equally big impact.”

“Someone tried to wake it up?” Harry asked. “Was it Snake Master Tom?”

“What?” Sam said. 

Harry shrugged. “Half of you shit yourselves when I say Voldemort, so what else am I supposed to call him?”

Lily leaned forward and smiled. It made Harry uncomfortable. “You can call him whatever you want.”

“Dark Lord?” Harry suggested, grinning at Snape. Snape stared back. “Are you trying to legilimize me? Good luck. I’ve got a thick skull.”

Dumbledore gave him a thoughtful look. “Are you an occlumens?”

Harry tapped his head. “With Voldemort trying to get in here? I have to be. It’s survival.” 

Snape scoffed. 

Harry perked up. “You want a legilimency duel? Let’s go, right now.”

“Stop trying to duel Severus,” Lily said, covering her eyes. “He and…my Harry were always at odds.”

Harry rolled his eye and slumped in his chair. “Suck the joy out of everything, why don’t you. Emotional…” He glanced at Lupin. “I was going to say dementors, but they already go after emotions.” 

Lupin licked his fangs.

“I don’t think I’m your type,” Harry said. “Blood type. Get it?”

“Alright, I’m putting my foot down,” Lily said. “Harry, no more alcohol.”

He blew a raspberry at her, laughed at her wounded expression, then sat up straight. “Alright. Big magic snake protects school. Someone tries to wake it up to stop protecting the school. Was it perchance a diary slipped in among the books of a first-year girl?”

Everyone at the table gave him a funny look. 

“That sounds,” Lupin said, “convoluted.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Harry said. “It was Luscious Lucius Malfoy’s idea.”

Sirius gagged, and James visibly recoiled. Even Snape looked sickened by the moniker.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Sirius asked. 

Harry laughed again. “Where to start?”

“No more drinking!” Lily said, hiding her face in her hands. 

Harry cleared his throat. “Okay, okay, I’m good. I’m serious. I am ready to proceed. I was petrified by the basilisk in my school, by the way. I left a message before it got me. My mates were able to decode it. Professor Snape and Professor Burbage took it down with a combination of roosters and a legendary axe.” He flailed his hands. “This isn’t about me. Who woke up the big snake?”

Dumbledore took all of this in stride. “An artifact did enter the school. One of Slytherin’s, which gives the bearer the ability to speak parseltongue. It was, I believe, a betrothal gift to those entering the family.”

Harry nodded along. “Jewelry?”

“A locket,” Dumbledore said. “Which was indeed given to a first-year student.”

Harry gave him a flat look. “How is that less convoluted?”

“It was not intended for her to wear,” Dumbledore said. “But for another.”

“Who was the student?” Harry asked, though he already suspected. 

“Ginny Weasley,” the headmaster said. 

Harry looked at Sam. “Let me guess, she fancies you?”

Sam glowered at him. “She’s my girlfriend.”

“Well, I hate that,” Harry said. “Maybe she’s different in this world, but in mine she was really obsessed with the whole Boy Who Lived thing. She toned it down a bit, once she understood I would never give her the time of day.”

The table grew awkward again. 

“Oh, god,” Harry said. “She’s the same here?”

James cleared his throat. “Ginny has had a crush on Sam since they were very small.”

“That’s fucking weird,” he said. “Also, Sam’s not even the Boy Who Lived.” He narrowed his eye. “Unless she still thinks you are? Which is so, so much worse.”

Sam half rose from his seat. “What about you and your…your boyfriend?”

“We spent a lot of time in the library together,” Harry said, smiling to himself. “He never really bought into the Boy Who Lived mythos. He’s more interested in things that are concrete and actionable. You know, securing equal rights for all magical beings, historical revisionism, drafting legislation.”

Sam gave him a mystified look. “What?”

“Are you politically illiterate?” Harry asked. “Do you not know how our, or, I guess, your government works?”

“I know how it works!”

“Prove it. Name every single Ministry employee.”

“Boys, knock it off,” Lupin said. “Sirius, get rid of that bottle. Lily’s right. Harry is from a different dimension. Who knows what effect our alcohol has on him.”

“A deleterious one,” Snape said. 

“I think it’s funny,” Sirius said. 

“Who did she give the locket to?” Harry asked, looking at the fuming Sam. “Him?”

“Yes,” Dumbledore said. “It was a birthday gift, I believe.” 

“Giant locket with a snake on it?” Harry asked. “Why not. Where did Ginny get it from?”

“It was from her aunt,” Sirius said. 

“Muriel?” Harry asked incredulously. 

Sirius looked confused for a moment, then shook his head. “No, her aunt. Bellatrix Black.”

Harry stared at him, took out another cigarette, and lit it. “Bellatrix Black is not Mrs. Weasley’s sister.”

“She’s not,” Sirius agreed. “Merlin, that would be a nightmare. “Bella’s the daughter of Arthur’s mother’s uncle’s grandson.” 

Harry took a drag, nodding. “Yeah, makes total sense. Can I have another drink?”

“No!”

 

 

 

 

Notes:

Alright, I cannot write anymore today. That's it.

Chapter 15: Worms

Summary:

What's a wormdo?

Harry was given a large glass of water, and he grabbed it with both hands to drink.

“Ah,” he said, smacking lips. “What a refreshing libation.”

“Is he okay?” Sam asked, eyeing him warily. 

“Far from it,” Harry said. He took another sip. “Can we get a Ribena or something?”

Only Lily, Remus, and Snape had any idea what that was. Remus was a vampire and could not go to the shop in daylight—it was bad for his complexion. Snape was a git and had never done anything nice for anyone ever. Lily did not want him to leave her sight, or vice versa. 

“Or a butterbeer?” Harry asked.

James cleared his throat. “And what’s a butterbeer?”

“No,” Harry said, lowering his gigantic glass of water. “No, I don’t believe it. And you think there’s something wrong with me? What kind of sick, twisted reality is this?” He looked accusingly at James. “You’re having me on. Tell me this is a joke.”

James looked uncomfortable. Harry narrowed his eye. Monty got that shifty look about him sometimes. 

“We have something called mallowmalt,” James offered. 

“Does it taste like Maltesers?” Harry asked tonelessly. “Their only saving grace is that they’re gobstone-shaped.”

“Marshmallows,” Lily said apologetically. 

Harry sighed, then drank more of his water. 

“The Ouroboros,” Dumbledore said. 

Harry gave him a dull look. “Ginny gave Sam the parsel-locket and he woke it up?”

“Not quite,” Dumbledore said. “No, something else answered Sam’s call.”

“Merely possessing the locket does not imbue one with the power to awaken the Ouroboros,” Snape said. “The ancient protector of Hogwarts only answers to a true descendent of Slytherin.”

“Which he,” Harry said, waving at Sam, “is not.” He glanced at Lily. “Right? Unless we’re descended from a squib Slytherin line.”

“We are not,” Lily said.

Harry waved his hand again. “Hold on. Why did you put it on in the first place?”

“I didn’t,” Sam said irritably. “She put it on me!”

Harry stared at him. “And you’re dating her?”

“She was eleven!”

“Did she at least write you an apology letter?” Harry asked. “She had to write one to me and the other kid who was petrified, and Mr. Filch since Mrs. Norris got petrified. And she had to go to St. Mungo’s, and she was banned from playing quidditch.”

“The girl should have been expelled,” Snape said. 

Harry grinned at him. “That’s what my…Professor Snape said. He was fucking fuming, it was glorious.” He took another sip of water. The quantity wasn’t decreasing. He shot a look at Lily, and she smiled at him. 

Sam was clearly on the verge of throwing another wobbler.

“But Ginny was not,” Dumbledore said to Snape. “A decision which I stand by. She was not acting of her own volition, which you know, Severus.”

“Did Ginny not know Bellatrix was a Murder Muncher?” Harry asked. 

“Murder Muncher?” James said. “Oh! I get it.”

Lily began massaging her temples.

“Bella claimed she was under Imperius,” Sirius said distastefully.

“Classic,” Harry said. “Never fails.” He turned to Dumbledore. “So if Sam didn’t wake up the big snake, what happened?”

“Multiple smaller snakes happened,” Dumbledore said. 

“The lindwyrms?” Harry guessed. “The fuck are those?”

“A pestilence,” Snape said, his eyes burning with hatred for all things small. “A blight upon the Dark Forest.”

“It’s an invasive species of magical snake,” Remus said. “There is a small colony in the Dark Forest. From what I recall, Hagrid acquired one while he was in school, and was expelled after the lindwyrm was blamed for the death of another student. Hagrid released the lindwyrm into the Dark Forest to save it from certain death. Later he acquired a mate for it.”

“Not an acromantula?” Harry asked. It was a strange parallel, and he wondered what student had been killed. 

Remus raised his eyebrows. “A colony of acromantula would be much worse.”

“Those bloody things talk,” Sirius said. “I don’t want to have a chat with something trying to turn my insides into goo for it to suck out.”

“And what’s a lindwyrm do?” Harry asked. “Wriggle along the ground?”

“They bite their own tails and roll about,” Remus said. “They’re very fast, and hard to catch.”

“They spit milk and blind people,” Sam said, not looking at anyone. 

“It’s a venom,” Snape corrected. “And it does worse than blind.”

Sam lowered his head. 

“Typically,” Dumbledore said, “the lindwyrms remain deep within the Dark Forest, and Hagrid sometimes harvests their shed skin for potions ingredients. Healing potions. The lindwyrms have saved more lives than they have taken, and I never considered them a threat to the school.”

“Until he accidentally summoned one,” Harry said, nodding to Sam. 

“Multiple students were hospitalized,” Snape said, sneering at Sam. “That creature’s reign of terror lasted the school year. And it wasn’t only one. It was an infestation.”

“Lindwyrms are dark creatures,” Remus, flashing his fangs, “so the injuries were quite severe. The victims were healed, but they will have scars for the rest of their lives, and a habit of biting themselves.”

“Was anyone blinded?” Harry asked.

“Yes,” Dumbledore said quietly. “One student was. Sam, perhaps—”

Sam closed his eyes, then sat upright. “I didn’t know what I was doing. That locket doesn’t just let you speak parseltongue. The more you use it, the stronger the possession is. When I realized what was happening, I tried taking it off but I couldn’t. It was cursed.”

“Was?” Harry asked. 

Sam shook his head. “Harry…my brother, he broke it.”

“How?” Harry asked. 

“All of the victims were muggleborns,” Dumbledore said. Sam grimaced. “And the last student attacked, the one who was blinded, was Ms. Hermione Granger.”

Harry glanced at Sam, then shook his head. “She’s permanently blind?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” Dumbledore said. 

“Fuck,” Harry said, taking out another cigarette. 

“Harry was in the corridor with her when she was attacked,” Dumbledore said. “In his desperation, Harry reached for a sword held by a nearby suit of armor. Extraordinarily, the sword transformed into the sword of Gryffindor and he was able to slay the lindwyrm.”

“What about the locket?” Harry asked. He drank some more water. This was worse than the basilisk. 

“He heard me hissing in my sleep,” Sam said. “He tracked me down, and…I don’t remember. I think he hit me over the head with the sword, then broke the locket.”

“And what about Hermione?” Harry asked. “She was blinded, and that’s it?”

Sam shook his head. 

“We paid for her treatment,” Lily said. “It…took a while to sort the mess. But Bellatrix spent some time in Azkaban.”

“How much time?” Harry asked, putting a hand over his own missing eye.  

“Six months,” James said, not looking at his living son. “Just long enough to help Barty Crouch escape.”

 

 

 

 

Chapter 16: Vows

Barty Crouch. 

Harry’s fingers tightened on his unending glass of water. “Junior or Senior?” he asked. 

“Junior,” Dumbledore said. Harry’s eye snapped to him. “Barty killed his father while aurors were attempting to arrest him following an attack on the Longbottoms.”

“Are they alive?” Harry asked. “Frank and Alice Longbottom?”

“Yes,” Lily said. She closed her eyes and let out a breath. “They are currently in long-term care in St. Mungo’s after prolonged torture under the Cruciatus Curse.”

“So that’s the same,” Harry said, looking into his glass. “And Crouch was one of their torturers?”

“Yes,” Dumbledore said. “He, Bellatrix Black, and Evan Rosier.”

“Not the Lestranges?” Harry asked. 

Dumbledore shook his head. “They were captured following another incident.” He paused, then gave Harry a sad look. “The murders of Fabian and Gideon Prewett.”

Harry put a hand over his face and shook his shoulders. That was the same too, but it was better to leave the impression that this was a surprise. That Percy had been written out of existence in another way. A less horrible way than dying from an untreated chronic illness. The pain he must have been in… 

“I’m so sorry, Harry,” Lily said gently, reaching a hand towards him. 

He cleared his throat and sat up again, hoping he looked haunted. It was easy to do, what with being summoned from another dimension and stolen from everyone he loved. Confronted with a parody of his dead mother and her dead husband and the undead specter of a man whose captivity, torture, and ultimate death he had, if not actively contributed to, turned a blind eye to.

Harry chuckled bitterly at his terrible joke. 

“What’s done is done,” he said, a meaningless statement. Things could be undone, but not this. 

Harry sighed, then focused his thoughts on Barty Crouch again. He loathed Barty Crouch. His torture of Neville’s parents aside, that piece of shit had manipulated Percy, had praised Percy, had been someone Percy respected and looked up to, someone he modeled his own career after. Worse, so much worse, was Barty Crouch’s role in the Dark Lord’s return. In forcing his brother into the Triwizard Tournament, putting Monty’s life at risk, trying to use Monty to resurrect the man who had killed their mother. 

Not a day went by that Harry wasn’t glad it was him who ended up in the graveyard and not Monty. 

“So Crouch escaped from Azkaban with Bellatrix’s help,” he said, looking around the table and settling on Dumbledore. “To get at Sam? Harry? Both?”

“We don’t know,” James said. 

Harry suppressed a groan. Could one person tell this story? “What do you mean you don’t know?”

James shared a look with Sirius. “We assumed that Crouch would attempt to break into Hogwarts to get at the boys.”

“Finish the job,” Sirius said darkly. 

“Right,” James said. “We even had people watching Lily’s sister’s house.”

Harry looked at him disbelievingly. “You sent him back again?”

“It was necessary,” Dumbledore said. “To maintain the protection that Lily’s blood afforded.”

Harry shook his head. The Dumbledore in his world had, after Monty had been strangled by Vernon Dursley and Dudley had his soul sucked out, come around to the fact that no amount of blood protection was worth the continued abuse of his brother. And perhaps realizing that Harry certainly never stood for it and got Monty out of that hellhole as soon as he could.

“I never saw him once that summer,” Sirius said. 

“You were watching the Dursleys’ house?” Harry asked. 

“I was pretending to be one of Figg’s crups,” Sirius said. 

Harry cocked his head. “Are you an animagus?”

Sirius laughed humorlessly. “No, but I’m decent at human transfiguration.”

Harry rubbed his nose. “Alright. So where was Crouch?”

“That’s the thing,” James said. “We have no idea. He never showed up on Privet Drive, he never showed up at Hogwarts. And we would have known. Aurors were stationed in Hogsmeade, and we had dementors guarding the grounds.”

“Did they try to invade a quidditch match by any chance?” he asked, looking at Dumbledore, Snape, and Remus. 

“Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff,” Remus said. 

“It’s so strange, what’s the same and what’s different,” Harry said. 

“That happened to you as well?” Lily asked. 

“Yeah,” Harry said, “except it was Gryffindor and Slytherin.” He smiled sadly, remembering how his brother had won the game while his dad carried him to the hospital wing. Sighing, he asked, “No break-ins at Hogwarts that year? No Defense professors secretly possessed?” He looked at Remus. “A vampire professor?”

“There was no sign of Crouch at all,” Sirius said. “I would know, I was the Defense professor that year.”

Harry stared at him for a moment, then started laughing. “Oh, my god. That’s worse than Lupin.” He looked at Snape, at his sour expression, and laughed harder. “That’s great. That’s fucking brilliant. I can’t think of anyone worse.”

Harry abruptly stopped laughing and looked at Sirius. “Did he know you were his godfather?”

Sirius’ expression closed off. 

“You didn’t keep that from him too, did you?” Harry pressed, his brief amusement vanishing. 

“It’s not Sirius’ fault,” Remus said. 

“Bullshit it’s not,” Harry said heatedly, rising from his seat. “You piece of fucking shit. Do you have any idea what you mean to…what you meant to him?”

“Harry, please,” Lily began. “It’s—”

“I gave the Sirius I know the benefit of the doubt because he was in Azkaban and had lost his fucking mind,” Harry said, glaring at this inferior version of Sirius Black. “What the fuck is your excuse?”

“I took a Vow!” Sirius burst out, slamming his fist on the table, unable to contain his own anger. “I Vowed not to put Harry’s life in harm’s way! I was protecting him!”

Harry looked between Lily, James, and Dumbledore. “You made him promise not to take that kid from the Dursleys, didn’t you? No, not a promise. An Unbreakable Vow.”

They didn’t respond, but their guilty expressions were proof enough.

He pushed himself away from the table. “I can’t be in the same room as you people. This is…beyond fucked up. I’m going to go find Voldemort, kill him, and you can send me back to my own reality.”

“You don’t know what happened to your counterpart,” Dumbledore said. “Or the entire story. Perhaps, if you could indulge us for a while longer, you will come to understand the actions we took.”

Harry scoffed. “I can already guess where this is going. I saw the date on the headstone.”

Dumbledore looked very grave and morose. Harry didn’t care how any of them felt. They weren’t the ones who were dead. 

“Please,” Lily asked, her voice a strained whisper. 

Harry closed his eye. 

She was not his mum. 

She was not his mum. 

She was not his mum. 

He sat back down. 

“What happened with Barty Crouch?” he asked evenly.

Dumbledore took a moment to respond. “As James said, we cannot account for where Barty was after his escape from Azkaban. Aided by Bellatrix, though that was something we did not discover until much later. Too late, perhaps. We can, however, assume that Barty was seeking his master.”

“He escaped to bring Voldemort back?” Harry asked. “I’m guessing he did?”

“Eventually,” Dumbledore said. “During Sam and Harry’s fourth year.”

“The Triwizard Tournament,” Harry said knowingly. 

He knew that it was all building up to this. The drama, the danger, the complete fiasco of the Triwizard Tournament. 

Sam was suspiciously quiet. Snape was scowling. Sirius still looked furious, and Remus was whispering to him, maybe using his vampire powers to ensorcell him. James and Lily looked like the grieving parents they were. And Dumbledore looked like an old man whose last hope was dead, an old man who used magic Harry doubted he fully comprehended to steal a replacement from another world. 

“You implied that you were entered into it yourself?” Dumbledore eventually asked. 

Harry lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. “Yeah,” he said, looking up at the ceiling. “I was.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 17: Match

“I can tell this part,” James offered. “I was there for the whole event.”

Dumbledore inclined his head. “At the time I was at a conference, attending to my Supreme Mugwump duties.”

“What duties are those?” Harry asked. “Sitting around looking gitty?”

“Oh, god,” Lily moaned. “Harry—”

“Show some respect!” Snape barked. 

“Fuck you and eat shit,” Harry said, smiling insouciantly at him. Sam laughed, hastily covering it up with a cough. “How’s that for respect? I’m not going to get on my knees and fellate some self-appointed leader.” He leaned towards Snape, who looked too furious to form words. “You can bend over and take it from Dumbledore all you want. I know daddy didn’t give you the love you needed, but you don’t get to project your insecurities onto me.”

One second Snape was staring at him with frightening malevolence, a depth of loathing Harry had not known his dad was capable of. 

The next, a wand was pressed against his throat. 

Harry paid no mind to the chaos erupting around the table, the shouting, the demands to calm down. He was angry. He was so enraged he scared himself. He wanted to fight someone, and who better than the man who taught him how?

“Do you know which spell took my eye?” Harry asked, smirking into the outraged face of a Severus Snape who had been festering, rotting away for years. Who had never moved on. 

Snape bared his teeth in a feral snarl, trembling with fury. 

“Sectumsempra,” Harry said quietly. 

Snape flinched, as if he had cast the spell. 

There was an explosion, a blinding flash of light, and Snape was slammed back into his own chair. The kitchen went dead silent. Dazed, Harry looked at Dumbledore. For the first time, the headmaster look angry. 

“That is enough,” Dumbledore said with impressive equanimity. “Severus, if you are unable to control yourself you may return to Hogwarts.” 

Snape was breathing heavily and didn’t respond. It was embarrassing to watch him lose his composure. Snape couldn’t do that around the Dark Lord or other Death Eaters, but he seemed to think it was fine around Dumbledore and the Order. Harry had intentionally antagonized Snape, but he truthfully hadn’t expected such an immediate and violent reaction. 

“Harry.”

“Yeah?” Harry said, looking at Dumbledore again. 

“While I cannot claim to know what you are feeling right now,” Dumbledore said evenly, “I am fully aware that you are cooperating under duress. However, goading Severus into attacking you gets us nowhere.”

“No,” Harry agreed, leaning back in his chair, “but it’s fun.”

Dumbledore looked at him levelly. “Then perhaps we can continue this discussion in my office, with fewer distractions. Though I was not at the Quidditch World Cup, I do know of the events that transpired there.”

Harry was briefly embarrassed for himself. Monty’s dad—no, Harry Potter’s dad—had been about to begin speaking.

A larger part of him didn’t care. He just wanted out of here. 

“Sorry,” Harry said to everyone, sinking into his chair. “There’s a special providence in the fall of a sparrow.”

“What,” Sirius said, “in the fuck does that mean?” 

Harry noted that the others were putting their wands away. Snape had his arms crossed and was glaring at a wall. Harry considered his dad an intelligent man. That this version of his dad had gone along with this scheme was jarring. He wanted to believe his dad wouldn’t go along with killing Monty to rid him, and the world, of the piece of the Dark Lord’s soul. If Dumbledore said it was the only way, would his dad believe him?

“It’s from a play I saw with my boyfriend,” Harry said, crossing his arms too. 

He looked at James, who in turn was still watching Snape with no small amount of hostility. Harry could not begin to unpack that, or any of the relationships here. He didn’t know these people, didn’t care about them, didn’t want to care about them and their stupid lives. 

“James?” Dumbledore prompted. 

James tore his eyes away from Snape and looked at Harry. “Alright. The summer before the boys started their fourth year, we went to the Quidditch World Cup.”

“All of you?” Harry asked. “Little Harry included?”

James hesitated, then said, “No.”

“Why not?” Harry asked neutrally. He was an occlumens. He could control his anger. 

“He didn’t want to go,” Sam said. 

Sirius scoffed. “That’s not true. Harry did want to go. What he didn’t want was to go without Hermione, who is blind, or Neville, whose grandmother refused to take him.”

“We had tickets for the Top Box,” James said, ignoring his son and best friend. “Arthur got them through a work connection.”

“You mean a cover-up,” Harry said. “And one of your son’s being the Boy Who Lived.”

James’ face closed off. 

Lily glanced at her husband, then asked, “Did Britain host the Cup that year? Did you go?”

“Yeah to both,” Harry said. “But I didn’t see the match. I was interning with the Portkey Office.”

“At fourteen?” Lupin asked skeptically. 

Harry shrugged. “There are certain privileges to being me.” He smiled at the memory. “And Percy was working in International Magical Cooperation. I got to see him all summer.”

Lily’s expression softened. 

“It was the biggest event Britain has hosted in decades,” James said. “Everyone wanted to be there. England versus Bulgaria.”

“England?” Harry said. “I thought it was…oh, that must be another thing. In my world it was Ireland and Bulgaria.” He frowned, wondering what had gone differently. “Who won?”

“Bulgaria,” James said. “That’s not so important as what happened afterward.”

“A Death Eater rally?” Harry guessed. “Some muggle torture?”

James closed his eyes. “They took it further than that. A muggle family who owned a campsite were humiliated, tortured, then killed.”

Harry rubbed his face, feeling cold. The Death Eaters had been levitating little kids and spinning them wildly. He remembered the little boy’s head flopping around. His neck could have easily broken. 

“Someone put up a dark mark,” James continued. “That’s when things really got out of control. It was a massive scandal, all over the papers.”

“Children died,” Lily added vehemently. 

“The Ministry was in an uproar,” James said. “People were panicking, thinking that Voldemort had returned. The Ministry dismissed it as a one-off, you know, reliving their glory days, or retaliation for England losing.”

Harry had so many questions. Where was other Harry during all this? Did they at least visit him for his birthday? What had happened between him and Sam during their third year? 

“We thought Crouch might be behind it,” James said, glancing at Dumbledore. 

“No,” Snape said. “The dark mark was already growing darker. That was a separate incident.”

James looked doubtful, but didn’t argue. “None of the Death Eaters were caught, and the Daily Prophet started writing about the Triwizard Tournament.”

“Oh, that’s good,” Harry said blithely. “I thought it’d be called something like the Terwitch Tourney.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 18: Badger

Harry idly tapped the table. The others sat in variously awkward, stony, and morose silence. His sixth year, Monty’s fourth year, had been…bad. It had been bad in his world, and bad in this one given their version of Monty, Harry Potter, had died shortly after. And if what Harry suspected had happened did, it only made him more confident in his choices. 

Sam shifted uncomfortably. Harry knew he was staring at the other boy, but he didn’t care.

Monty, Harry, whatever the hell his name was, had a brother here too. They were twins.

There were an unusual number of twins at Hogwarts. Fred and George Weasley, Parvati and Padma Patil, Hestia and Flora Carrow. All of them, even the Patil girls in different houses, had incredibly close bonds, more so than other siblings Harry had observed. Maybe it had to do with being the same age and growing up together, how twins were treated. It was special. 

Even without being raised alongside Monty, Harry was deeply invested in his happiness and well-being. Monty was the most important person in his life, more important than himself. 

Maybe that was the difference. Harry Potter had never been anyone’s priority. Neither had Monty, not since their mum died, except Harry had taken that upon himself. But Lily Potter was sitting right here. She was still alive. 

“I imagine the mechanics of the Triwizard Tournament are identical,” Dumbledore said. “Champions are chosen from Beauxbatons, Durmstrang, and Hogwarts to compete for Triwizard Cup, the glory of their school, and a thousand galleons.”

Harry shook his head and lit a cigarette. He had received minimal glory, less press than he was undoubtedly getting for being an ostensibly muggleborn Death Eater, but the thousand galleons was a decent cushion against lifelong poverty. His dad wasn’t stingy, and he did get a disbursement from Hogwarts while a student, but if anything happened to his dad that thousand galleons would keep him afloat. He could always fall back to stealing from muggles, or transfiguring leaves into money, but the financial security was nice. 

“If Crouch the Elder is dead,” Harry said, “who set up the tourney? Ludo Bagman?”

“Bagman was part of it,” James said. “But he wasn’t the brains behind it. That was Bertha Jorkins.”

Harry took a drag, masterfully suppressing his reaction to the name. With Barty Crouch Senior dead, and his son in Azkaban, there was no secret for Bertha Jorkins to stumble upon, no one to scramble her mind with a heavy-handed Confundus. Or perhaps someone had got to her and planted the idea. 

Harry swallowed drily. “Is she still alive?”

James gave him a surprised look. “I hope so, I saw her at the Ministry the other day.” 

Harry sighed. Two Legilimens and a vampire who could possibly smell deception. He had to be more careful with his words. 

“She died in my world,” Harry said simply. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Did you use the Goblet of Fire to pick the champions?”

Dumbledore looked interested, which was always a bad sign. He never wanted Dumbledore interested in him, but this was Dumbledore’s show and Harry had been summoned to fill the lead role. It was unavoidable. 

“Who were the champions?” Harry asked, already knowing the answer. 

“Fleur Delacour from Beauxbatons,” Dumbledore said. “Viktor Krum from Durmstrang.”

Harry nodded. So far it made sense. 

“And for Hogwarts,” Dumbledore said, “Cedric Diggory.”

Harry took a sharp breath, his eye widening. “Cedric? Cedric Diggory?”

Lily gave him a concerned look. “Did you know him?”

“Know him?” Harry said incredulously. He gave a short, bitter laugh. “I dated him.”

Everyone stared at him. This was a common enough occurrence at this point that Harry wasn’t overly bothered. Then their reactions registered. Snape grew somber, Sirius closed his eyes, Remus bowed his head, Sam went white as a sheet, Dumbledore had actual tears in his eyes, James looked poleaxed, and Lily began crying again. 

“What?” Harry asked. 

“No wonder he,” Lily began, breaking off with a sob.

“I had no idea,” James said faintly. “None at all.”

“Why would you?” Sirius asked darkly. “When have you ever cared what was going on in Harry’s life?”

“I didn’t know either,” Sam said shakily. “We shared a dormitory—”

“Which you drove him out of!” Sirius shouted. “You and your petty bullshit!”

“Don’t take it out on Sam,” James said dully. He made a pained face. “I can’t believe this. I can’t. I can’t…”

“They said he was having nightmares,” Remus said, his eyes glowing a dark red. “Calling Cedric’s name.”

Lily fell forward onto the table, grabbing her head as she made a horrible, keening sound. Harry leaned away, unnerved. It sounded like his gran after his mum had died.

“We examined the Dursleys’ memories of those few weeks,” Snape said, his voice cutting through Lily’s heart-wrenching cries. Snape’s mouth twisted. “Who’s Cedric? Your boyfriend? Crying for mum and dad to help him—”

“Severus,” Dumbledore said sharply. 

“The fuck is going on?” Harry asked, tearing his gaze from Lily and focusing on Dumbledore and Snape. “Did something happen to Cedric?”

Lily’s crying hitched. 

To his credit, Dumbledore was not one to shy away from giving horrible news. 

“I’m afraid so,” Dumbledore said quietly. “Cedric Diggory was murdered by Lord Voldemort.”

 

---

 

Harry waited until the sink filled with water, then plunged his head in. 

Cedric was dead. 

The cold water was bracing, helped shock him back into focus. In this world, Cedric had been chosen as the Hogwarts Champion, not Harry Potter. That made sense, given Harry Potter had been fourteen at the time. 

If Harry’s friends hadn’t snuck his name in, if Astrid hadn’t lost her head and put Cedric under Imperius, there was no doubt in Harry’s mind that it would have been Monty in that graveyard. 

Harry didn’t like Cedric, didn’t care about him, and rarely thought about Cedric at all these days, but he didn’t want Cedric dead.

No one had said it yet, but he knew, he knew, what happened to fourteen-year-old Harry Potter. The boy they had shoved off onto the Dursleys. The boy they had beaten and abused and neglected and kept sending back. The boy they had forgotten. 

Harry kept his head under the water until his lungs began to burn, then stood up and gasped.

Cedric Diggory was fucking dead. The Dark Lord had killed him. The Dark Lord killed Cedric, and these people thought their Harry had been dating him. 

Harry gripped the sides of the sink, a slimy, vile sensation coiling in his gut.

 

Percy was dead.

Cedric was dead.

He never even existed in this world. 

 

Harry started laughing. 

He laughed, and he laughed, until someone knocked on the bathroom door and asked if he was alright. 

“No,” Harry said hoarsely, brushing away his tears. “No, I’m not.”

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 19: Occamy

When Harry returned to the kitchen, he decided he didn’t want to say anything else until they pointed him in Voldemort’s direction. He just wanted to kill the bastard and go home. Well, back to his cell, but Azkaban was better than this place. At least he knew he would get out. 

“I must apologize again,” Dumbledore said quietly. “It was not my intention to cause you, or whoever else the ritual summoned, any undue suffering.”

Harry shook his head. He didn’t know this world’s Cedric, but the parallels were strong enough that he could guess that Other Cedric was essentially the same. An alright wizard, fundamentally a good person if a bit dim, impressionable, some stupid ideas, some bad ones. And maybe Harry had overreacted, but he cared more about himself than a few seconds of Cedric’s memory.

James cleared his throat. “It wasn’t Voldemort who killed him… who killed Cedric Diggory.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. Cedric was only incidental. Collateral damage. He didn’t have the space to care about an entirely different set of people. 

“It was Barty Crouch,” James explained. “He… performed the ritual that restored Voldemort to his body.”

Harry sagged in his chair. These people weren’t going to let him give them the silent treatment.

“I believe we’re getting ahead of ourselves,” Dumbledore said. “The Triwizard Tournament. Cedric was chosen as the Hogwarts champion, but a fourth name issued from the Goblet of Fire.” Dumbledore paused to look at Harry. “Harry Potter.”

Harry nodded. That’s how it went for Monty. 

“Who was the Hogwarts champion in your world?” Lily asked tentatively. 

Harry shrugged. “Someone from Gryffindor who would have got himself killed if not for me.”

“Your boyfriend?” Sam asked, earning a sharp look from every adult. 

“No,” Harry replied dully. “He was already working for the Ministry.” He smiled faintly. “He helped organize the tournament.” He shook his head. “So, your Harry got entered into the tournament. He was forced to complete. The school ostracized him, and rallied against him. None of you helped him at all.” He rubbed his eyes. “And it ends with him tied to a gravestone, his blood used in a ritual, and the man who…well, not killed his mother. The man who tried to kill him getting a spanking new body.”

“No, people tried to help Harry,” James insisted. “His friends—”

“But not you,” Harry said. “Not his mum. Not his godfather—”

“I owled him every day,” Sirius said heatedly. “I sent him what books I thought would be useful, a new broom when he was going up against the occamy—”

Harry rubbed his face. An occamy. Wonderful. 

“Not his teachers,” Harry said, glancing at Snape, then Dumbledore. “Not his headmaster.” He turned to Sam. “Not even his own brother.”

“What was I going to do?” Sam burst out. “It’s not like I knew any more magic than he did!”

“Maybe not,” Harry said, leaning forward. He pointed at Sirius. “But what’s all this he’s saying about you running him out of the dormitory?”

Sam grimaced. “I didn’t mean—”

“The general consensus was that Potter cheated to enter the tournament,” Snape said contemptuously. “Including among his own housemates. Many of whom were resentful that it was the other Potter, and not their Boy Who Lived, who was a champion.”

“Ron thought he might’ve used the invisibility cap,” Sam muttered, crossing his arms and shrinking into himself. 

Harry mouthed the words invisibility cap. Stupid. So stupid.

“What our guest is saying is true,” Dumbledore said. Harry felt a shiver run down his spine. “It was decided to let events run their course, in what I now see was a misguided effort at uncovering the plot.”

“Effort,” Harry repeated. “What effort? Do you have any proof of it, or is this more bullshit?” Harry put his head in his hands. “You know what? Never mind. Don’t answer that. Finish the damn story so we can get on with things.”

There was a long silence.

“You have no idea how much we regret,” James began. 

Harry slammed his fist on the table. “I don’t give a bloody fuck what you regret,” he snarled. “What does that do for anyone?” He took a breath. “How did this kid die?”

Sirius got up and left the kitchen. They watched him go, and surprisingly Remus didn’t follow. 

“It’s a complicated situation, my boy,” Dumbledore said. “There is much more to it than Harry’s death. There was a moment in the graveyard where Harry and Lord Voldemort’s wands connected—”

“Priori Incantatem,” Harry said. 

Dumbledore’s eyebrows rose. “You experienced a similar phenomenon?”

Harry shrugged. He knew as much about twin wands as had ever been committed to parchment. He had purposefully kept Monty away from Voldemort in part to not lose that slim advantage. 

“An occamy,” Harry said idly. “What else? Did they go into the lake?”

“No,” Dumbldore said. “The forest, to retrieve a friend being held captive by the centaurs. And the Third Task, as is tradition, was a maze—”

Sam cut Dumbledore off, and said something Harry feared. Something he had suspected from the beginning. 

It made him miss his brother.

“Harry killed himself.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 20: Crups

Perhaps they didn’t expect it, and therefore did nothing to prevent it, but Harry was still surprised at how easily he was able to walk out of Grimmauld Place. 

No one even followed him out of the kitchen. The Order of the Phoenix thought of themselves as nice people. As the good ones. They had presumably won the first war against the Dark Lord, and, of course, good must win. 

One could assume that, after hearing that his allegedly alternative self had opted out of life, Harry needed some space. Some time to process the fact that, in another world, he killed himself. 

That his brother killed himself.

Harry needed to make someone pay. 

The front door quietly shut behind Harry, and he found himself on the grim, grey, rubbish-strewn street. They’d been at it for a while, raking him over the coals with their story. He wished they had led with the truth instead of forcing him to earn it. It was a very Dumbledore thing to do, and Harry felt led to an answer rather than outright given it. True, he suspected from pretty much the off, from the gravestone, what had happened. Either the Dark Lord had killed Harry Potter, or Harry Potter had killed himself.

Harry lit a cigarette because he was tired, because he needed to do something, and because it bothered him how easily he could believe his brother would commit suicide. A kid who grew up sleeping in a cupboard. Emotionally, verbally, physically abused. Isolated. Told that he was worthless. Mocked, stalked, harassed. The immense pressure of his dead heroic parents, the scar on his forehead, a prophecy unknown to him that inevitably drew the interest of the two most powerful wizards in Britain. Harry wasn’t willing to say Dumbledore and the Dark Lord were the greatest in the world, or the greatest of all time. There was probably some middle-aged witch in…in Tonga or somewhere who was some secret, unsung genius. Who knew?

He took the steps two at a time, hurrying down to the street. It was dusk, no one was walking around. All the muggles were busy making dinner or watching television or still at work. He didn’t care. He was still wearing borrowed robes, which pissed him off. Everything pissed him off. His brother was dead. Why? What for? Who fucking left him alone after…after seeing the Dark Lord, or Barty Crouch, kill Cedric? After seeing the man who murdered his mother—

Wait, no, that didn’t happen here. She was still alive. Somehow she was alive, but Harry’s brother was dead. 

No, it wasn’t Monty. It was a different boy, in uncannily similar circumstances. Voldemort still tried to kill him, he still lived with the Dursleys, still talented at quidditch, still friends with Hermione Granger and Neville Longbottom. 

Harry Dursley. 

The Dursleys had snapped his wand. Vernon had snapped his wand. 

It was strange that Harry could feel when he was no longer within the ambit of the Fidelius Charm. A point where an outside observer would have seen him appear out of nowhere. Incidentally, far enough from Grimmauld Place and all of its convenient enchantments his brother—Harry Potter—would never enjoy the safety of, to apparate. 

Harry Potter wouldn’t enjoy anything anymore. He was dead. He had been dead for over two years. He had killed himself on his birthday. And Harry, who was starting to believe he was actually quite lucky, could make an educated guess as to what finally pushed little Harry over the edge. 

He had been in the graveyard too. 

Going back to the Dursleys. Wand snapped. Locked in a room. Starved. No letters from his parents, or godfather, or friends. Strange people watching him at all hours. Then, on his birthday, nothing. More nothing.

Nothing was all he ever got.

Harry could imagine being in that room, seeing no way out. In this world, like Harry’s own, it seemed that the Boy Who Lived was no one’s priority. No one cared about Monty enough to wonder where he had disappeared to for a decade. To make sure he was alright. Dumbledore, McGonagall, fucking Hagrid. Even Harry’s dad didn’t care enough to investigate. 

So many people, so many powerful witches and wizards, so many adults who thought of themselves as the good guys, failed Monty on so many fronts. Harry didn’t know why he was so surprised to discover that Monty’s own parents, or some inferior version of them, were also abject failures. All their reasons and excuses and justifications were, in the end, a worthless pile of shit. 

It didn’t matter how good their intentions were. His brother was dead. 

Harry looked back at the house, smirked when he saw the door was still shut and no one had bothered following him, then apparated. 

 

---

 

Harry was utterly unsurprised to find that Privet Drive was exactly the same. Maybe a garden gnome had a different color hat. All the differences between this world and his were at first amusing. Now it was all window dressing. Contemptibly trivial. 

Number Four Privet Drive. Not even that had changed. Harry even recognized the company car in the driveway. He headed across the street, not entirely sure what he intended to do, when a frantic barking started up.

“Mr. Tibbles, that’s enough!”

Harry rubbed his eye as another dog, then another, began barking. He looked down the street and saw an elderly woman struggling with a dozen leashes. A pack of crups.

At a glance, crups were indistinguishable from Jack Russell terriers. They were also notorious for being aggressive towards muggles and squibs, which was probably why Mrs. Figg was having such a hard time controlling them. Crups were a bit of a mad choice for her. 

There was a sleeping draught specifically for crups, maybe they were usually more sedate than this. Or perhaps in this world crups were hostile towards witches and wizards. That would explain why the magical dogs were dragging Mrs. Figg down the streets towards him. And why a squib living in a muggle neighborhood would choose to breed them. 

“Who goes there?” Mrs. Figg demanded when she finally noticed him. 

“None of your fucking business,” Harry said, raising his wand. “Confundo.” 

It was only an old woman and some dogs, and easy enough for Harry to send them on their way. Maybe if he was trapped in this world forever he would get a cruppie to help with the interminable grief of never seeing anyone he loved ever again. But that was a concern for much later. For now, he wanted answers. 

Since he didn’t give a flying fuck about this world, and despised the Dursleys on principle, Harry blasted the front door open. If some other muggle family lived here, he would Obliviate them, fix the door, and try Number Three, but Harry was in luck. There was a shrill scream, and Vernon Dursley charged out of the kitchen and into the foyer. 

“Who the devil are you?” Vernon bellowed.

Harry was not here to fuck around. He flicked his wand, and Vernon slammed head first through a wall. 

“Vernon! What’s happening? I’m calling the police!”

“Go ahead,” Harry said, walking past the new entrance to the Dursleys’ living room. “They’re not going to help you, Aunt Petunia.”

Petunia screamed again. “No! No! He’s dead! The freak’s dead! Vernon? Vernon!”

Harry had only been in the house a few times, but the kitchen was easy enough to find. Petunia and Vernon had been sitting down to dinner. Now Petunia was backed against the wall. She screamed once again when she saw him. 

“I thought you were calling the police?” Harry asked. He looked around, and snorted when he saw the phone was mounted to the wall next to the doorway. Petunia couldn’t reach it now. “That’s a shame. This could have turned into an international incident.”

Petunia drew herself up and gave him a magnificent glare. “Who are you?” she demanded. “What do you want? What did you do to my husband?”

“I’m Harry Evans,” Harry told her. “Your nephew from another dimension.” He pointed his wand at Petunia, and she paled. “And I want to know what happened to my brother.”

Petunia gaped at him. “W…what?”

“This may hurt a bit,” Harry said, staring into Petunia’s insipid, watery eyes. “but you’ll get used to it. Legilimens.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 21: Conversation

“We,” Harry said, smiling at his two captives, “are going to have a conversation.”

Petunia made a distressed, muffled noise. Vernon was still unconscious, bleeding sluggishly from his lacerated head, the debris of a shattered wall scattered around him.

Like Vernon, Harry had a slight headache. Wading through the vile morass of Petunia’s memories was an unpleasant experience. Her mind was brimming with all sorts of bullshit. Gossip about her neighbors, dinner with one of Vernon’s clients, Dudley’s latest incident at Smeltings. It involved a gang of boys, a locker room, a camera, and a Smeltings stick. 

Harry had to focus to ignore that horrible scene, the fact that Dudley’s bullying escalated to such a disturbing level. In Harry’s opinion, it was far worse than anything he had ever done. Dudley belonged in prison more than he did. But the Dursleys had money, Dudley was a good boy with a promising future, it was only boys being boys!

If he got his hands on Dudley, Harry was inclined to rip his mind apart and leave him a gibbering idiot. A similar fate to his counterpart. Maybe Dudley wasn’t the ringleader, maybe it wasn’t his idea, but he was still there. Still involved in what they had done to that boy. Their victim. And if there was one thing Harry despised above all else, it was a bystander.

Like this whimpering woman on the couch. Petunia let Dudley chase Harry Dursley, Harry Potter, the Other Boy, around and beat him up. A woman who starved him, worked him to the bone, locked him in a cupboard. Watched as Vernon knocked him around. 

“You’re part of the problem,” Harry said, taking a seat on a plush armchair. Vernon’s, based on the indentation. Dudley was away at Smeltings, retaining his spot through the power of a substantial donation, while his victim was still in hospital. 

“I fucking hate you,” Harry said lightly. “There aren’t many people I hate in this world—well, actually, in this one I hate all of you. But, essentially, when it comes down to it, anyone who directly harms my brother is someone I hate. So, you, your husband, your son, Voldemort. I even hate Mrs. Figg for watching all of this and doing nothing. Oh, and Peter Pettigrew, but I’ve already killed him.”

Petunia cringed away from him. 

“He was eaten alive by rats,” Harry explained. “Apparently he vanished in this world. No one knows where he is. I don’t think he’s an animagus, since Sirius isn’t, neither is James, but maybe he became one on his own. Doesn’t matter.” 

Petunia continued crying. Harry watched her for a bit, wondering what to do. He’d gone through her memories, bankrupt as they were. When Harry Potter first arrived at Privet Drive, the questionable reasoning from Lily.

It hadn’t been bad to begin with. They gave Harry Potter the Dursley name, vowed to raise him away from magic, without all that freakishness. He hadn’t always been in the cupboard. That came later. When he started making toys float. 

It grew worse from there. Babyish, accidental magic was met with shouting and spankings and not changing his nappy and locking him in the second bedroom, and then the cupboard. Harry had to hand it to the Dursleys; they were committed to stamping out that dangerous nonsense. Vernon’s words. 

Harry had been through Petunia’s memories, but the memories were flashes of scenes, not films with full narration. He didn’t know what her thoughts were at the time, why she had made certain decisions. He could guess, but he had the woman trussed up and silenced in front of him. He could get it straight from the horse’s mouth. 

He bit his lip to stop from laughing. One notable altercation with little Harry revolved around little Harry likening the Dursleys to farm animals. Dudley and Vernon were pigs, which was a cheap shot but little Harry didn’t have much by the way of ammunition and Dudley’s weight was an obvious sore spot to prod at. Petunia was a horse, of course. The number of horse jokes little Harry had come up with was simply astounding. Asking Petunia if she was done brushing her mane, getting an absurd amount of carrots while grocery shopping, asking her if she was stable. 

Harry wished he had met the kid. He was fucking hilarious. 

Harry wished he was still alive. 

His smile faded. He pointed his wand at Petunia. She didn’t know anything about Voldemort. In her desperation to distance herself from magic, she lived in near total ignorance. Harry cared about this world’s Voldemort only to the extent he had to kill him, but he had a decent idea of how to do that.

Harry couldn’t entirely blame Voldemort for Harry Potter’s death. 

Some people said suicide was selfish. For the other boy, it was the only way he saw out of this hellhole. 

If anything, the Order was selfish. They wanted their boy hero alive, but didn’t care enough to help him want to be alive. 

“I’m going to unsilence you,” Harry said. “If you scream, or do anything else stupid, I’ll kill your husband, then I’ll kill your son. Understood?”

Petunia nodded. 

“Good,” Harry said, flicking his wand. 

Petunia gasped, then hunched over. Harry rolled his eye. He hadn’t suffocated her. She was being dramatic. With another dismissive flick, he forced Petunia to sit up straight. 

“Why didn’t you send him back once he showed signs of magic?” he asked. “Keep in mind, every time you don’t answer a question, I remove one of Vernon’s limbs.”

“It wasn’t fair!” Petunia burst out, glaring at him despite her fear. “They did to the boy what they…” She gritted her teeth together. Harry pointed his wand at Vernon. “What they did to me!”

“Your parents didn’t kick you out,” Harry said. “Did they?”

Petunia sneered at him. “It was always Lily. All about Lily! Our daughter, the witch! They were so proud of her! They bought her one of those ratty, mite-infested birds when she became a prefect. What did they get for me? A pen! A pen!”

Harry rubbed his eye. Jealousy. Was that all there was to Petunia Dursley?

“And they threw that boy away because he didn’t have magic either! Who better to raise him than his magicless aunt? They lied! They lied to me! My mother, my father—” Petunia started crying again, her body wracked with sobs. “If it wasn’t for her, if it wasn’t for their precious Lily, they’d still be alive!”

Harry took out his cigarettes, lit one, and leaned back in his chair. Petunia was so out of sorts she didn’t muster a complaint at this. Or maybe Vernon indulged in cigars, it seemed like something the man would do.

Petunia’s feelings were…complicated. Jealousy of her sister. Anger at her sister. Pity, perhaps, for the nephew who had been rejected like she believed she had been rejected. 

“You thought he wasn’t special, like you,” Harry said, turning the idea over in his head. “And it turned out he was special. And you hated that. It must have felt like another betrayal.” He took a drag from his cigarette. “Unfortunately for you, that doesn’t excuse anything. You could have got your revenge on Lily by being better than her. Being a better mum. Instead you’re…” Harry’s lip curled. “You’re this.” 

Harry knew about how Harry Potter had been raised, through Petunia’s eyes. He knew about his things being locked in his trunk, the trunk locked in the cupboard, the boy locked in a room. The Dursleys must have worried what the Potters would do to them, but nothing had ever happened. It emboldened them. There were no consequences for their abuse of Harry Potter.

They were only muggles, what harm could they do?

“I think I hate Dumbledore too,” Harry said absently. “Everyone’s so far up his old, sagging arse.” He sighed heavily. “Alright, time to wake up Vern.” 

He needed to know what happened with the wand. A wand which had very likely saved little Harry’s life in that graveyard. The wands had connected. Priori Incantatem. There wasn’t much written on that rare phenomenon and Harry couldn’t say what, if any, effect it had other than regurgitating past spells. Had it influenced little Harry? 

“You speak like her,” Petunia said quietly. 

“Like my mum?” Harry said. “No shit, I’m from Cokeworth.”

Petunia gave him a stunned look. “But, how? Another…another dimension?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, getting to his feet. He wanted to loom over Vernon, and that was easier to do standing up. “Since the kid you were supposed to protect killed himself to get the fuck away from you, this world lost its designated hero. Dumbledore, Lily, James, Snape, a whole bunch of gits, summoned me here to take up his mantle.” He tried kicking Vernon over, then gave up and used his wand. “Now my brother is completely on his own. Well, not completely, but I’m one of two people who knows what’s going on and the other one is very likely planning on having my brother killed.”

“What?” Petunia said. 

“Never mind,” Harry said, slashing his wand. Vernon grunted, grabbed his bloody head, and awkwardly pushed himself to a seated position. “Vernon, why did you break his wand?”

Vernon blinked a few times, then his face began turning red, veins standing out in his neck. The rapidity with which he became enraged was fascinating. He tried standing, but lost his balance and fell back against Petunia.

“Who the bloody hell are you?” Vernon growled. “One of those freaks?”

“Legilimens,” Harry said, cutting to the chase. 

The Dursleys didn’t know why little Harry killed himself. They hadn’t noticed he was dead until the body started smelling, which was one of the most fucked up aspects of it. The Order members watching the house hadn’t thought not seeing their quarry for a week was a problem. The Dursleys didn’t think him not needing to eat or drink or use the toilet for a week was a problem. They just let him rot. 

The scene was as bad as Harry expected.

At Kings Cross, the Durleys picking other Harry up. Thin, pale, worn, oversized clothes, round glasses, messy black hair, green eyes, cage with a white owl. He looked exactly like Monty. Exactly like him. Except for the scar. It did have more of a runic shape in this world. But everything else… 

That was his brother. 

It wasn’t only other Harry at the station. No, Lily and James and Sirius and Remus were all there to pick up their other son, their favored son. Sam got to go home to his parents, smiling, totally indifferent to the fact his twin had survived a deadly tournament and an encounter with the dark wizard who tried to kill them, while other Harry, who looked on the verge of collapse, had to go to the Dursleys. 

There was a hollow look in other Harry’s eyes when Vernon grabbed his arm and dragged him away. 

That was noticed. James, Lily, Sirius, Remus, they all got the brilliant idea to confront Vernon and Petunia. To threaten them. 

Vernon grew more scared, more angry. 

Witches and wizards were dangerous. 

Wands were weapons. 

There was a weapon in his own home, wielded by a child he hated. 

It was obvious what he had to do. 

As soon as they arrived at Privet Drive, other Harry’s trunk was broken open. He was thrown against a wall. He tried to get his wand out, but he had recently been tortured. Not that Vernon knew, or cared about that. He was fourteen and scrawny. An adult man who was taller, heavier, stronger, and furious was violently shaking him down. 

The wand fell out of his hand. 

Vernon snatched it up. 

It was only a stick. 

The snap filled Vernon with immense satisfaction.

The light faded from other Harry’s eyes. He wasn’t allowed to use magic during the holiday, and now he couldn’t use magic at all. 

 

Harry put a hand over his face. His head was killing him. That was all a month before other Harry killed himself. Other Harry held out for a month. 

Had he been getting visions from Voldemort too?

“I’m not much of an eye for an eye person,” Harry managed to say. “For what I hope are obvious reasons.”

Vernon was sagging against Petunia’s legs, while Petunia screeched and tried to struggle out of her bonds. Having someone smash through your mind wasn’t a pleasant experience, but things would soon get much, much worse for Vernon. 

“He probably didn’t know any wandless magic,” Harry said, lowering his hand. Petunia finally shut up, noticed his wand was still aimed at Vernon. Vernon, for his part, moaned in pain. “What you did effectively crippled him. So, I think it’s only fair that the same is done to you.”

“What?” Petunia asked frantically. “What does that mean? What are you going to do?”

“It means I’m going to snap your husband’s spine like a twig,” Harry said. 

Petunia cried out and began spluttering and begging, apologizing, saying whatever she thought might work on him. Harry had already explained it. He hated them. There was no talking their way out of this. Even if he didn’t fully believe they were real people, they had caused extensive, irreparable harm to the one person he could have cared about in this fucking awful reality. 

Harry took a drag from his cigarette. He didn’t know a specific spell, but he could improvise. The hard part would be not outright killing Vernon. He rotated the man around so Vernon’s back was facing him.

If he knew more about healing, about the human body, he could have been more artful about this. More precise. However, his intention was simple. 

Vernon had shattered Harry’s wand. Harry was going to shatter his spine. 

“Ossifragum.”

Vernon was right. It was satisfying. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 22: Floorboards

Harry left the Dursleys in their living room, moving as though he was in a dream. He always thought that was meant to be more poetic than literal, but his body was heavy, his mind dull with the sludge of Dursleys memories.

The familiarity of Privet Drive was punctuated by all the little differences he kept latching on to.

Vernon was slightly taller, Petunia had a different hairstyle, a baby picture of Dudley and Monty—Harry, Harry, his name was Harry—on the mantle. The handle on the cupboard was on the wrong side, the wallpaper had a different if still inoffensively tasteless floral pattern. Instead of a runner there was hardwood, and each of Harry’s steps thudded against the polished surface. It was a hollow sound, the sound of an empty room. 

Luna was someone he thought of as dreamy. Head in the clouds, away with the fairies. Luna was conspicuously absent from the Order’s narrative. Harry didn’t want to think about it, there was so much he didn’t want to think about, as everyone in this world, when presented with a choice, made the worst one. 

Was it when Monty’s parents died? When Remus got bitten by a werewolf? Had Dumbledore discovered thirteen uses for dragon blood rather than twelve? Had Merlin been sorted into Ravenclaw instead of Slytherin? There was no way to tell, no way to change it. 

All Harry knew was this was a different world, this wasn’t his, he wanted to see his brother, he wanted to go home. And if home was a cell in Azkaban, he’d welcome it with open arms because he knew he could escape that and the only way out of this nightmare was death. 

He walked leadenly up the stairs, the door shutting on Vernon’s pained moans and Petunia’s incoherent screaming. He’d already cast a silencing charm. No one else would hear them. He knew he should go back, cover his tracks, but he kept walking up the stairs. There was something else he needed to see. 

Years ago, when he was fourteen and Monty was twelve, Hedwig had flown to his house. Distressed, losing feathers, she had flown halfway across the country because Monty needed help. His dad had been reluctant to talk about what he found at Privet Drive, but Harry knew most of it. The cupboard. The locked bedroom. Monty hiding his things under a loose floorboard. 

The house was immaculately clean. Petunia was fastidious, even with her nephew dead and unable to do the lion’s share of the work.

It was a funny way of putting it, lion’s share, when Monty was in Gryffindor. House sortings didn’t mean much, but in Monty’s case it was the expected outcome. Brave, courageous, headstrong, a sense of duty and obligation. All the things he tried to tell Monty he didn’t have to do, didn’t have to be. He hadn’t defeated Voldemort, and it wasn’t his responsibility to do it again. But that was what everyone wanted.

Even here, even with him dead, that’s what these people still expected. That’s why they were using him instead. 

Harry came to a stop in front of the door with all the locks on it. It was an absurd number of locks, deadbolts and bars and chains running up and down the door. Monty was a prisoner. Who needed dementors when you had a gaoler in Vernon Dursley?

He didn’t use an unlocking charm. He melted them. 

Molten brass and steel burned through the Dursleys’ pristine fucking hardwood. What a sick ode to a dead boy, leaving the room locked. He kicked the door open because he wanted to kick something, preferably Vernon’s skull in, and he’d be framing a murder instead of an accident. 

A cloud of dust rose from the floor. Harry sneezed. He resented it. Every single little fucking thing made him furious. He’d never been in Monty’s room with the Dursleys, but it was depressingly familiar. Broken toys, torn books, a pile of dirty clothes on the floor, bottles to piss in. The Dursleys had condemned the place after a child in their care had died in it. 

There was nothing personal in this room. Nothing of his brother was in here. Nothing was left. 

“Fuck,” Harry breathed, putting his head in his hands. He couldn’t keep doing this. Harry Potter was not Monty Potter. This was probably what Dumbledore wanted. Surround him with familiar faces, familiar places, make their cause his own and not just some fucking objective he had to achieve for the luxury of returning to the status quo. 

Harry started laughing, soft and bitter, his stomach sour. Where was Voldemort when you needed him? Why hadn’t he killed the Dursleys? Was it some twisted reward for doing the job for him? No, Dumbledore said no one knew Monty…knew Harry Potter was dead. It was a secret. The world needed hope, a light in the dark! No wonder they were so dismayed that he wasn’t an identical copy, that he didn’t fit so neatly into their delusions. He wasn’t their son, or student, or their friend. He was just a fucked up kid from Cokeworth in over his head. 

Harry took a shuddering breath.

“Fuck this,” he said, raising his head. “Fuck everything. Fucking crups. Stupid fucking bloody…” He gritted his teeth. “God fucking damnit.” He couldn’t catch his breath. It was this room. This wretched, empty room.

Harry swallowed, then walked to the bed. The sheets were rumpled. There were brown stains on the pillow. A thin pillow. No blanket. Broken frame. Sagging mattress. Bars on the window. A rusting birdcage. A pile of cans on the floor, some empty, most full. The lids had sharp edges. It must have hurt like hell. 

He got on his hands and knees and squirmed under the bed. Reaching blindly, his fingers found the edge of a loose board. He dug his nails into the wood and pried it open. He didn’t use magic. Didn’t need it. He could hear his brother’s head slamming against the wall, glasses cracked, wand snapped, crushed, utterly destroyed. 

He reached around under the loose floorboard, searching for something, anything to make sense of the world.

His fingers brushed something thin and fragile. Paper. Plain muggle paper. He hadn’t even had parchment. That’s how alienated he was. The savior of the magical world had to resort to fucking paper to write his own epitaph, left the stains of it all over the floor.

Harry wormed his way out from under the bed, coughing as he inhaled more dust, a folded letter in his hand. 

His brother’s suicide note.

Once he stopped coughing, Harry got up and took a seat at the desk. Like everything else in the room, it was broken and in disuse. Including Harry Potter. Including him.

Harry stared at the letter. It was cheap lined paper, torn from a notebook. He could see the raw edge, the shadow of ink, the intention of letters written with a shaky hand.

He lit a cigarette, coughing lightly as the smoke burned his lungs. He set the letter on the desk. 

Harry didn’t know what it was like to want to die. If it was him, he would have melted the bars and jumped out of the window. He would’ve poisoned the Dursleys years ago. He would’ve…he would have wanted to live. If that involved eliminating every threat to his life, that’s what he would have done. That’s what he was doing for Monty. 

What sort of parents expected their child to save them?

“I don’t blame you,” Harry said gently. “But I don’t think… I wish… They could have done this two years ago and you might still be here. Now there’s no way things can get better.”

When his cigarette burned down to the filter, Harry flicked it aside, lit another one, and unfolded the letter.

 

 

 

Chapter 23: Undone

When he finished reading the letter, Harry stared out of the window. He couldn’t see much through the bars. He turned away and read the letter again. 

Harry Potter had the same handwriting as Monty. It was funny, the things that remained consistent across realities. Hilarious.

Harry felt oddly detached from himself, a raw emptiness where his heart ought to have been. He smoothed the letter against the desk. The words didn’t change. It was the same angry, disconnected, heartrending screed. His heart had been rent from him and smeared across this cheap notebook paper.

Harry was very cold. The sort of cold that works its way into you, that settles in, that no amount of blankets or butterbeer or your brother not being dead could fix. Like the sun had gone out, and they all had to learn how to live with the absence of light.

He sat there for a while, in that room filled with broken things. Then Harry stood, grabbed the note from the desk, and left.

Unhurried, Harry walked down the stairs. He imagined Dudley pounding up and down them, a lonely, starving boy shivering in the falling dust below. Ten years in a cupboard. Ten years, and no one cared to know. It happened in his world, it happened in this one, it probably happened in the next. An infinite line of Harry Potters or Monty Potters, or maybe a Heather Potter or Daisy Potter. Infinite Boys and Girls and Kids Who Lived, forever trapped in their cupboards under the stairs.

Petunia was still crying. Vernon was still moaning. Harry stopped at the foot of the stairs. He looked at the note again. He took out his wand. He transfigured his borrowed robes into trousers and a shirt, then folded the note and placed it in a pocket.

When he was ready, when he was convinced he would not kill the Dursleys outright, Harry walked into the living room.

Vernon was on the floor, his face deep red and pinched, small, mean, watery eyes, sweat dripping off his moustache. There was nothing noticeably different, other than the fact he was prone and could only move his eyes. His chest still rose and fell, and Harry congratulated himself on the neat job. Vernon would live, locked in himself. Muggle doctors couldn’t fix him, and no one from the magical world would bother checking on the Dursleys. No one had when Harry Potter was alive, and there was less reason now that he was dead. Mrs. Figg might notice something, but he would deal with that. Nothing in her worthless reports to Dumbledore would change. 

Petunia had collapsed to the floor and was cradling Vernon’s head. Harry didn’t know how long he had been in the second bedroom—the Ministry had confiscated his watch along with everything else—and was interested to see Petunia had not gone for help. It wouldn’t have worked, Harry would have stopped her, but she could have at least tried. 

They all could have at least tried.

“I’m almost done,” Harry said, strolling into the living room. 

Petunia flinched away from Vernon, drawing another pained moan from him, and screamed. 

“I’d ask you if you had any last words,” Harry said once she’d settled down to dry heaving. “But you have nothing worth saying.” He smiled at her alarmed look. “I do want to let you know that your actions have condemned the world to an era of unending darkness. Thanks to you, Voldemort’s got no one to stop him. His prophesied enemy, the Chosen One—that’s what they actually called little Harry—offed himself in your upstairs bedroom.” 

Harry knelt down in front of her, wrinkling his nose at the pungent stench wafting from Vernon. He had shat himself, fitting for a man who forced a child to piss in bottles and cans. 

“But,” Petunia stuttered. “You said…another dimension…”

“Thing is,” Harry said, “I’m not actually the Boy Who Lived in my world. That’s my little brother. And the version of him in this world is dead.” His smile turned brittle. “I have no interest in this world, or what happens to it. Or you.”

Harry stood and took a couple steps away. “In my world, your son got his soul sucked out.” He glanced at Vernon. “It couldn’t have happened to more deserving people.”

“Dudley?” Petunia moaned. “No, not Dudley! Not my son! What have you done with him? Where is he?”

Harry scratched his head. “Nothing. Yet.”

“What do you want?” Petunia cried. “I’ll do it, I’ll do anything! Just not Dudley, not my baby, please…”

“You won’t care about that for much longer,” Harry said, raising his wand. 

Petunia screamed, but it was too late. It had been too late for years. 

“Asinuverte.”

Muddy light washed over Petunia, and her screams were like sirens, a panicked wail, her voice breaking as her body began to change. 

It wasn’t a smooth transformation, occurring all at once. Harry had truncated the incantation, as a middling Transfiguration student might do. Incorrect words and poor pronunciation, the constant banes of Professor McGonagall.

Petunia lurched forward, drawing another helpless whimper from Vernon. She fell on her hands and knees, either coincidence or new instinct. Her head was forced back, and her face elongated. It started with the teeth, which was fascinating. Longer, wider, yellow. Petunia’s screams sounded more and more like brays. Her eyes slid around to the sides of her head, and her ears rose into her shrinking hair, fanning out. Her clothing tore, fur sprouting in its place. Petunia’s shoulders jerked, all her bones on a new scale, and her fingers melted together. Her backside jutted out, knocking Vernon into a wall. 

Minutes passed, and Harry stoically watched every moment. 

When it was over, Petunia the Donkey stood in the middle of her living room. The braying stopped, but soon the donkey would become frustrated or distressed enough to start it up again. 

The donkey tried to move. She stepped on a fallen pillow, then lowered her head to chew on it. 

“If you’re lucky, someone will send you to a sanctuary,” Harry told Petunia the Donkey. “If not, you’ll spend the rest of your miserable life giving rides on the beach.” After a moment’s thought, Harry conjured a harness with PETUNIA on it and slipped it over her nose. “Just so everyone knows whose mum they’re riding.”

Satisfied, Harry left Petunia the Donkey and her immobile husband Vernon in the living room. Someone would eventually find them. 

Harry walked out of the front door and shut it securely behind him. He paused to light a cigarette, then set off down Privet Drive. He needed to clear his head before dealing with Mrs. Figg. After he sorted her, Harry didn’t know what he would do. 

He reached into a pocket, his fingers brushing the note. Wherever the kid was, Harry hoped he got his last laugh. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

---

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I don’t know why I’m writing this. No one’s going to read it. No one cares. No one’s been writing me all holiday. 

 

Hermione and Nev were, but Vernon shot the last owl. 

 

He got a fine, but he said it was worth it. He said he’d shoot Hedwig next.

 

I’m not going to be able to read it. I’ve seen Nearly Headless Nick send letters before, but I don’t want to be a ghost. I don’t want to come back if I have to haunt the Dursleys. 

 

He broke my wand. He broke my wand. HE BROKE MY FUCKING WAND.

 

I can’t do this, I can’t TAKE it anymore. I keep seeing Cedric dying over and over and over again. The spare, kill the other one. 

 

Is that what I am? The spare? Hermione says people used to do that, the heir and the spare. 

 

Nev stopped writing. He was sending me the Daily Prophet. WHAT DID YOU DO TO HIM?

 

I’ve seen the articles, I KNOW WHAT THEY’RE SAYING ABOUT ME. That I’m insane, that I’m a LIAR, that I’m jealous of Sam’s fame, that I’m trying to steal it. 

 

WHY DID YOU TELL THEM? WHY DID YOU SAY ALL OF THAT IN FRONT OF EVERYONE? I DON’T WANT TO BE TO BOY WHO LIVED, I DON’T WANT TO BE HARRY POTTER, I DON’T WANT TO BE ANYTHING AT ALL EVER AGAIN!!!!

 

If anyone reads this, tell Hermione and Nev I said goodbye, and that I want Hermione to have Hedwig. Vernon killed her last owl, so it’s only fair. 

 

He’s going to kill me. He’s going to kill all of us. I can SEE IT IN HIS HEAD. Is that what happened? Did he get Hermione? Where is she? Why would she stop writing to me? WHAT DID YOU DO?

 

There’s people watching me. I know they’re there. I can hear them apparating all the time. I can’t sleep because of the nightmares and the BLOODY APPARITION HAPPENING ALL THE TIME. WHY ARE THEY WATCHING ME?

 

The Dursleys aren’t feeding me. They give me a tin once a day. HEDWIG IS AN OWL, SHE CAN’T EAT BEANS!!

 

I know what’s going on. Even if no one tells me, I know what’s going on. I fucking SEE it all the time. ALL THE TIME. HE IS IN MY HEAD. 

He never used his heart. That’s why it’s gone. He doesn’t need it.

 

I don’t need it. I don’t need this. I DON’T WANT IT. I AM SICK TO DEATH OF IT.

 

 

 

I hate it.

I hate it.

 

 

I hate it.

 

I HATE IT.

 

I HATE IT.

 

I HA TE IT. 

I DON’T CARE I DON’T WANT THIS

There’ll be no one left to take care of Hedwig, but she’s almost dead anyway. 

 

They’re watching me. I know someone’s there. Someone’s always there. I’m locked in this FUCKING ROOM but I’m never alone. No one cared before. No one cares. No one cares at all what happens to me or if I live or die or anything and Cedric’s dead and it’s my fault even though I NEVER WANTED ANY OF THIS.

They never missed me when I was alive. Maybe they’ll miss me now. 

I think it’s going to hurt, but I don’t care. I’ve been hurt plenty of times. No one cared. Voldemort’s going to do worse, and I should have died in the first place so I’m just setting things right. 

I NEVER WANT TO SEE ANY OF YOU EVER AGAIN!

 

I hate all of you. I want the nightmares to stop, but it’s not going to stop. It’s just been getting worse and worse and I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE, I CAN’T, I CAN’T, I CAN’T

 

I threw away the box of Honeydukes. I don’t even like chocolate. You don’t even know that much about me, that I DON’T LIKE CHOCOLATE, I AM NOT SAM

I HOPE HE ENJOYS HIS STUPID FUCKING HAT FUCK YOU I HATE YOU ALL I HATE YOU ALL YOU’RE ALL A BUNCH OF LIARS I HATE YOU I DON’T LOVE ANYONE DUMBLEDORE’S A LIAR HE LIED TO ME AND HE LIED ABOUT VOLDEMORT AND IF ONE OF US HAS TO DIE THEN IT’S GOING TO BE ME BECAUSE I DON’T WANT TO LIVE ANYMORE I AM SICK AND TIRED AND HUNGRY AND EVERYTHING HURTS AND EVERYTHING IS GOING TO KEEP HURTING YOU’RE HORRIBLE PEOPLE WORSE THAN THE DURSLEYS I WISH YOU WEREN’T MY PARENTS I WISH I NEVER KNEW I WISH I NEVER MET YOU I WISH I WAS NEVER BORN AND ITS NEVER GOING TO STOP BECAUSE NO ONE CARES AND NO ONE EVER WILL

 

 

 

Hedwig can fit through the bars now. I’m letting her go while Vernon’s at work. I’m not giving this to her. I’m telling her to never come back to this place. 

 

She’s flying away now. 

 

I wonder if she’ll miss me. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 24: Sloe

A red squirrel looked up at the forbidding gates. Though his squirrel-vision was complete shit at night, he could make out a constellation of dim orange lights, the darkened glass of greenhouses, the hulking shadow of a quidditch stadium. His smell was far more keen, and he wrinkled his nose at the scent of roasting meat. Stoat, perhaps. 

The squirrel leapt at the gates and immediately conked his head on an invisible barrier. Dazed, the squirrel got back to his paws. He tentatively reached for the gates, only to be repelled once more. He twitched his tail, then turned and scurried away. 

Once the squirrel was a safe distance from the castle, he turned back into a teenage boy. Harry brushed himself off, then dug out a cigarette and lit it. It seemed the gates were enchanted against animagi. It had been his last resort to breach the gates without a full on assault. The point was to sneak in, not start a war. 

Harry trudged up the path to Hogsmeade, going over his options. He hadn’t seen the Whomping Willow. In his world, the carnivorous tree was planted to conceal a passage to the Shrieking Shack, in which Remus Lupin would safely transform into a werewolf on full moons. No werewolf, no whomping. That eliminated one known secret passage. Chances were that Filch, whoever he was in this world—Echidna Filch, maybe?—had secured any passages leading out of the school. Breaking into every shop in Hogsmeade would likely result in failure. There was no guarantee the passage into Honeydukes existed, or that Honeydukes itself existed. It was probably called Syrupearls or some shit. 

He stopped walking. No, it was still called Honeydukes. Little Harry had mentioned it in his letter to no one. Little Harry didn’t like chocolate. They hadn’t known him well enough to send him a box of sweets he liked. 

Harry took a drag from his cigarette and continued walking.

He wanted to get into Hogwarts for a few reasons. It was Voldemort’s old stomping grounds, and the man felt entitled to the school. He’d left a number of artifacts behind in Harry’s world. The Lost Diadem of Ravenclaw in the Room of Requirement, which was likely a horcrux. That diary Lucius Malfoy gave to Ginny Weasley, and the associated chamber and basilisk. Actual trophies from his accomplishments as a prefect and as Head Boy. The children of his Death Eaters, and one actual Death Eater. Voldemort’s entire legacy as the last descendant of one of the founders. Hogwarts could contain some clue about where Voldemort’s heart was. Surely the man had a way to stick it back in? He’d need to be able to access it, as with the horcruxes.

Another reason was the library. Harry knew very little about this world, its people, its history. He was curious about it, but his curiosity didn’t matter. What mattered was information on what he was up against. He wanted to go back to his nice, cold cell. He idly rubbed the stump of his little finger, a piece of him left behind in some hag’s gullet. A physical connection to his own world. But, no. If it took someone like Dumbledore two years to come up with the ritual that summoned him here, or two years to find it and get it to work, it would take Harry ages to create his own dimension-travelling magic. It was the sort of magic one devoted a lifetime to. He didn’t have his entire life to waste on it, and based on his very recent experience it wasn’t worth the trouble. 

The other prevailing reason Harry had for stopping by Hogwarts was to meet with Little Harry’s friends, Hermione and Neville. He got the impression they were either being excluded from the Order of the Phoenix, or that they refused to be involved based on principle. 

Back in his own world, Harry could not see himself cooperating with the Order. Largely that was due to Dumbledore’s leadership, but it was also a political issue. The Order was fundamentally establishment, seeking to maintain the status quo by eliminating Voldemort and his extremist ideologies. The Order did not seek to change the magical world, or even the Ministry, but to preserve it, a return to some golden era that never existed. Blood purism predated the founding of Hogwarts. Dumbledore was a lifelong politician. He had spent decades in the Wizengamot and International Confederation of Wizards, and for what? What had he accomplished? Staying the course? Fuck the course, wreck the entire ship and build a new one. 

Harry smiled to himself. He’d be the captain of Percy’s ship any day. 

As he walked into Hogsmeade, Harry considered his options. Going back to Grimmauld Place, back to the Order, filled him with such intense rage that he was a bit frightened of himself. He’d end up doing Voldemort’s job for him. He needed time to quell his more murderous tendencies. Harry had killed Peter Pettigrew for his mother’s death. Pettigrew hadn’t held the wand, but he fucking aimed it. As far as Harry was concerned, the entire Order of the Phoenix was responsible for Little Harry’s suicide. They were more guilty than Pettigrew. Harry didn’t want to see any of those bastards at the moment, except Hedwig. She deserved to know why Little Harry had chosen to end his life. To end his suffering. Harry didn’t blame the kid. 

Seeking out Voldemort was an option. Getting close to him, as Harry was in his own world. His dark mark wouldn’t be hard to explain. It was just another tattoo, a presumptuous one, but an indication of his loyalty. However, he didn’t want to run the risk of getting a different dark mark. That would cause too many problems in his own world.

Harry looked at his dark mark. His completely visible dark mark. 

“God damnit,” he said. Grimacing, he transfigured his trousers and shirt back into robes. He needed to find clothing. Did the house in Cokeworth exist?

Did his home still exist?

Harry gritted his teeth and kept walking. All the shops were closed. It was getting late. He would be missed.

Hogwarts, the Order of the Phoenix, and Voldemort weren’t viable options. That left the Ministry.

Harry stopped outside of the Two Broomsticks and ran a hand through his hair. He blinked, then looked up at the pub’s sign.

Two Broomsticks.

“Fuck’s sake,” he muttered, lighting another cigarette. The Two Broomsticks didn’t sound near as lively as the more sensibly named Three Broomsticks, but given the ongoing war Harry had seen nothing of that made sense.

Belatedly, he remembered he was skint. Harry flexed his fingers. It had been a few years, but there were some things a thief didn’t forget. 

Harry leaned against the side of the pub, listening to movement inside. It was easier in a crowd, lots of people standing and walking, but most people in the pub would be sitting down. Hilariously, magical people never expected someone to do it without magic. No amount of anti-summoning charms would stop you from physically grabbing something.

When he heard steps approaching, Harry pushed himself off the wall and reached for the door. It opened before he touched it, and he looked up in surprise.

“Sorry about that,” he said, looking down and taking a step back.

“No, no!” an older wizard said. “It’s alright, lad! Come on in. Nippy out. Where’s your cloak?”

“Knew I forgot something,” he said, putting a hand over his face.

“Shut the bleeding door!” someone shouted. “You’re letting the cold in!”

“Don’t just stand there,” the older wizard said, waving Harry in. Harry gave him a self-deprecating smile and brushed past the man, his deft fingers slipping into his cloak. It was laughably easy, and soon Harry was several galleons richer.

Harry made his way to the bar, not showing overt interest in the clientele. Instead, he listened.

He couldn’t predict anything in this world. His best bet for breaking into the Ministry would be placing an employee under Imperius, or legilimizing them for information. Assuming about half the population worked for the Ministry, finding a decent target would pose no challenge. Someone from Magical Maintenance ideally, who had access to pretty much the entire building.

Harry leaned against the bar and waited to catch Madam Rosmerta’s eye. Once he did, and once he knew Madam Rosmerta would assume he was a student, Harry hid his wand—what should have been Percy’s wand—in his sleeve and Confunded her. 

Madam Rosmerta smiled blandly at him. “What can I get you, dear?”

“An icegin and pumpkin juice,” he said. It didn’t sound near as appealing as firewhiskey and pumpkin juice, but he would make do.

Madam Rosmerta frowned. “I’m sorry, pumpkin juice? Never heard of it.”

Harry stared at her. “Have you got any juice at all?”

“I’ve got sloe squash.”

Harry laughed. “Yeah, alright. I’ll have a sloe icegin.” He laughed harder, until his vision went blurry with tears. 

Madam Rosemerta gave him a worried look, but Harry wiped his eyes and set a few sickles on the bar. A minute later, Madam Rosmerta returned with an icy glass of a dark magenta spirit.

“Cheers,” Harry said, taking a sip. He shuddered at the coldness sliding down his throat, while his mouth was filled with tart and sweet and plum. It was a jarring, yet intriguing combination of sensations.

Harry took another sip of his roundabout sloe gin, then turned to to face the pub. He hid behind his glass when he immediately spotted the perfect target, his stomach twisting into knots.

How could he forget?

Bertha Jorkins was alive.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 4 of The Evans Boy
• Part 1 of The Wrong Universe