Chapter Text
Location: 12 Grimmauld Place
July 6th, 1996 11:31 PM
“Well, well, well.”
The man’s grin widened, but it was not warm or welcoming like a smile normally would be. No, this man’s smile was sharp, predatory, and devoid of kindness.
He spun his cane with a flick of his wrist, the polished head gleaming under the candlelight before the butt of the cane rested against the ground with a sharp tink. With an exaggerated sigh, he leaned against it, posture relaxed and utterly unimpressed.
“If it isn’t the great Albus Dumbledore,” he said, dragging out the name like a bitter taste he couldn’t quite spit out. His voice was a smooth American lilt—pleasant at first, but it was laced with venom underneath the charm.
He tilted his head, his green eyes narrowing in calculation behind stylish rectangle glasses, like he was inspecting an insect beneath his boot. “The saint puppet-master himself. Tell me, did you plan this little reunion? Or has your chess board been knocked over so completely that you’re just improvising now?”
Gasps rippled through the room, eyes going wide, but no one dared move.
Whoever this man was—and many in the room were rapidly realizing who he was—he had changed. And not just physically. He still had that same dark brown hair, bangs still swept over his forehead, the same gleaming green eyes, and the same naturally tanned skin. But the man behind those features was different. He made it crystal clear in every word, every syllable, that this man no longer admired Albus Dumbledore.
He did not trust him. And he certainly did not fear him.
A long silence stretched between them as they stared each other down, neither flinching or yielding.
Then the man tilted his head and his grin twisted into something more feral. Dumbledore gave the slightest flinch.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” the man said smoothly. “You won’t like what you see in my head, Headmaster.”
“Albus!” Minerva broke the silence, her voice scandalized. “We do not read people’s minds—it’s rude!”
“Quite right, professor,” the man said easily, flickering his gaze to her with a brief glimmer of approval. Then snapped his attention back to the headmaster.
“My apologies,” Dumbledore offered, though the sincerity was paper-thin. He rubbed his temple like he’d developed a headache. “I just wanted to confirm your identity.”
“Maybe if you had a bit of patience, I would’ve told you my name,” the man replied, scoffing.
“Then may we have a name?” Dumbledore asked, still calm and composed.
“Hmm.” The man pretended to ponder for a moment. “I’ve always been partial to the name Alexandre. Oh, but Lucas is also a very strong name. However, if you’re feeling religious, there’s always Gabriel or Raphael.”
He swept a hand through the air in an overly dramatic arc, his voice airy and flippant. “Do any of these names suit your fancy?” He shot the headmaster a wide, malicious grin, defiance burning behind every word.
A loud snort echoed off the silent chamber. Heads turned to see Sirius, shoulders shaking and failing to smother his laughter behind his hand.
The man’s smile shifted, just slightly. It became softer, warmer. More genuine, but only for a flicker of a second, before the mask slipped back into place as he turned back to Dumbledore.
The headmaster gave a small smile, though it looked somewhat strained. “Perhaps I have not been clear enough.”
“Dear headmaster,” the man interrupted, grin tightening, “I’m not sure you’ve ever been clear in your life. You hide behind so many masks and half-truths, I doubt even you remember who you are anymore.”
Multiple mouths dropped open at his audacity. Moody actually coughed into his hand—half-laugh and half-grunt—but his mismatched eyes never left the stranger. His scarred grin was wide, yet wary. He was clearly torn between amusement and suspicion.
But Dumbledore merely waited for him to finish patiently before he continued. “Are you Harry Potter?”
The man gave a soft hum, tilting his head back. He rose to his full height again, his hands resting on the red-covered head of his cane. “Once,” he said quietly, a faraway look in his eyes. “But that was a very, very long time ago. I go by a different name now.”
“And that would be?” The headmaster asked.
The man smiled. “Alastor.”
A thick, heavy silence encompassed the chamber.
“Harry?” Molly echoed, her brow furrowing in disbelief.
They stared, taking a longer, harder look at his features. His hair was more tamed then they remembered, his eyes the same bright green. The lightning bolt scar still cut across his forehead, but it had faded with age. Age that he had obviously lived. He was no longer a child, but a full-grown adult.
“Where…where did you go?” Hermione asked quietly, pressing her lips together.
“Away,” he said. His eyes met hers, a flicker of a familiar warmth in them as he gazed down at her. “Very far away where you wouldn’t have been able to reach me.”
“That’s not cryptic,” Moody grumbled, his magical eyes fixed on Alastor, focused like it was looking for something.
Alastor's grin sharpened. “Ah, well, if you like something a bit clearer—” He picked up his cane, sweeping it through the air. “Through time, old chum! Time and space. As I was no longer in 1995 or in Britain, for that matter.”
“That explains why you look old,” Fred piped up, grinning.
“Yeah, how far back did you go, Harrikins? Fifty years?” George added, elbowing his twin. They shared a mischievous smile.
Alastor narrowed his eyes playfully. “Ah. We’re doing the age jokes now, are we?” A flash of amusement sparked. “I remember you two. The demon twins.”
Confusion flashed across their faces.
“Is that what we’re called, Gred?”
“Dunno, but I like it, Forge.”
“I’ll have you know I’m still in my prime,” Alastor said, placing a hand over his heart. “And fresh as a daisy at thirty-six.”
“If you’re really Harry, prove it,” Sirius suddenly said, his face firm, all amusement from earlier gone. “Prove it.”
Alastor raised a brow, but his smile remained. He gave a shrug. “Very well.”
He cleared his throat, tapping his fingers against his cane as he tilted his head. “Forgive me. My memories may be a bit fuzzy, but I’ll give it a try.”
He turned toward Ron first. “In second year, after Hermione had been petrified, we visited Hagrid. He gave us a clue: 'Follow the spiders.’ You weren’t exactly thrilled.” He gave Ron a meaningful look. “You kept muttering the entire way, asking why couldn’t we just ‘follow the butterflies’ instead.”
Ron’s pale face turned even more white, his freckles standing stark against the skin. “Bloody hell, mate.”
Alastor turned to Hermione next. “Ah, Hermione,” his voice became fond and his smile softened. “You kept me alive more times than I can count. Though, I believe my favorite moment is when you punched that ferret in the face.”
Several adults turned to Hermione in surprise and confusion as her face flushed red.
“Truly terrifying,” He added with a smirk.
“Okay, got it. You’re Harry. Or Alastor. Or—whatever,” she muttered, clearing her throat.
“Padfoot,” Alastor started, arching a brow at Sirius. “I would say I solemnly swear that I’m always up to no good nowadays. Afraid my mischief just cannot be managed.” He gave an easy, playful shrug.
Sirius blinked, then gave a soft laugh. “You clever bastard.”
“Is that enough proof for you?” Alastor asked, leaning on his cane once more.
“That’s enough for me,” Sirius said with a smile. Then the smile faded and his voice caught on his next words. “You…you grew up.”
Alastor cocked his head, blinking. “That’s what happens in life, Sirius. You grow up. You change.”
Sirius shook his head, exhaling loudly through his nose. “Then I’ve failed you as your godfather.”
Alastor pushed his glasses up his nose, watching him quietly. “How could you have failed when you were never given the opportunity?”
Sirius gave a wry grunt. “Don’t try to cheer me up.”
“I’m not,” Alastor said sharply. “I’m merely stating a fact.”
Sirius brows furrowed. “I’m not sure if I should feel better that you said it like a fact…or worse that you said it so bluntly.”
Alastor shrugged nonchalantly. “Take it however you like. Far be it from me to tell others how they should feel or act.” His eyes slid pointedly back to Dumbledore. “Isn’t that right, headmaster?”
Dumbledore, who had been watching the exchange in composed silence, he blinked then smiled mildly, one hand stroking his beard. “Indeed. You are correct.”
Alastor let out a soft scoffed and straightened. “I believe any further questions should wait until the morning. I see more than a few tired eyes and yawns threatening to unhinge jaws. The air in here is more carbon dioxide than oxygen at this point.” He lifted his cane, gesturing lazily at several people.
“You as well, headmaster,” he added, eyes narrowing and his grin growing sharp again. “Rest that old mind of yours—if there’s still anything left worth sharpening. Tomorrow, you’ll need every wit you have left just to keep up.”
Several people blew out breaths of disbelief and someone in the back let out a low whistle.
“Pretty sure I just witnessed a murder,” Sirius muttered in shock, half a grin on his face.
“Oh, no,” Alastor said lightly. “That was a little teasing torture. Tune in later and you’ll see a proper execution. I promise it’ll be highly entertaining.”
“Should we be concerned?” Remus asked, his question only half joking.
“Yeah,” Sirius added, raising a brow. “Are we talking actual murder or just a verbal beating?”
Alastor stared at them, quiet, his grin growing with every second that passed. He paused long enough to make everyone uneasy. “Who knows?!” He piped up cheerfully. He threw his hands up in his shrug. “I do love to keep people on their toes!”
His cane—or was it a microphone?—crackled and let out a series of laughs, too perfectly timed to have been an accident. It cut off abruptly with a staticky pop.
“Now, might I inquire about a room?” He asked, microphone settled back in front of him, his posture relaxed. “As much as I’d love to bunk with Ron like old times, I’m afraid I’ve grown rather attached to my own space.” He paused. “That and the age difference might be something to consider.”
Molly suddenly sprang to life, her hands fluttering as her motherly instincts reactivating. “Oh! Yes, of course! Beds, everyone, now. It’s far too late to be standing about.” She started herding the younger ones out the door and up the stairs. They all grumbled, but obediently slunk off, too tired to protest too much.
Sirius and Remus lingered behind beside Alastor, watching him as he gave a jaunty wave to the people leaving. “Ta-ta! Sleep dreams and whatnot!”
“I can show you to a room, if you like Harr—er…Alastor?” Sirius said, hesitating over the name.
Alastor turned to his godfather, his smile truly softening for the first time all night. “I would appreciate that. I’m afraid I don’t remember the layout of Grimmauld anymore.”
He hesitated, eyes flicking between them. “And…you may call me Al, if you wish. I know the name change might throw people off, but I’ve grown rather fond of it.”
“That’s fair,” Sirius said, nodding easily enough. He turned his gaze to Remus, who was staring at Alastor, nostrils flaring. “You’re quiet, Moony.”
Remus blinked, frowning. He leaned in slightly toward Alastor, who went tense. He didn’t move, but discomfort flashed across his face. Remus noticed and backed off immediately. “Sorry…it’s just…your scent has changed.”
Alastor’s brows lifted in surprise. “Has it? What did I smell like as a child? And how do I smell now?”
Remus hummed thoughtfully. “Six months ago, you smelled like the sky, broom polish, and like the Gryffindor fireplace. Now though…” He leaned in again, more cautiously this time, and sniffed. “You smell like damp earth, a bit musky. You still smell like the sky, but it’s sharper, like a storm. Then there’s the fire, but it’s…heavier. Coffee, black. And something else…a hint of copper? And…” He paused, sniffing. “Apples. It’s very faint though. Not you, exactly. Just…clinging to you.”
Alastor gave a soft snort. “Apples?”
Remus nodded. “Yeah. Why?”
Amusement sparkled in Alastor’s gaze. “You know," he said, snickering under his breath, "I think I’ll let you figure that one out.”
“Right…” Remus said with a confused frown, curiosity clear in his face.
“C’mon, it’s late,” Sirius said, reaching out to clap Alastor on the shoulder but froze when the man’s staff suddenly and gently stopped his hand.
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t touch,” Alastor said tensely, eyes guarded. “I’m very…particular about who I allow to touch me.”
“Oh.” Sirius dropped his hand quickly, nodding. “‘Course, Harr—Al. I’ll make sure to let everyone else know.”
“Much appreciated,” Alastor replied, smiling easily again. His posture relaxed and he turned to follow Sirius and Remus.
They walked through a familiar enough looking hallway; long, gloomy, and dusty. Mounted house-elf heads stared down at them with glassy eyes, gothic décor oozing from every panel and sconce. If he remembered correctly, the heavy curtain on the hallway wall was the portrait of Sirius’ mad, blood purist mother.
They continued up several flights of creaking stairs before they finally stopped at a door marked with a small, tarnished plaque labeled R.A.B.
“This is Reggie’s old room. I hope you don’t mind. It’s been cleaned,” Sirius said, shuffling as he cast his eyes toward their feet.
“Not at all,” Alastor said, pushing open the door and looking around.
The room was drenched in Slytherin green, bold and commanding. Snake motifs curled subtly across the wallpaper and furnishings, weaving through the décor. A large queen sized bed sat at the very opposite side of the room from the door, four tall, dark wood—almost black—bedposts rose from the corners. Dark green velvet curtains framed the bed to add privacy. At the end of the bed, a deep green, suede chaise lounge with a gray blanket thrown carelessly over it.
The floors were a dark brown, faded wood. Scuffed and well-worn over decades of footsteps treading over it. A plush rug in deep emerald green settled over most of the floor, silver etchings and swirls embroidered through the threads. The bed and chaise rested comfortably atop it, settled as if they’d always belonged there.
To the left of the bed stood an impressive bureau made of the same dark wood as the bed with silver handles dulled with age. A silver tarnished mirror hung on the wall beside the bureau, ostentatious and imposing.
On the opposite side sat a sturdy, ornate writing desk accompanied by a high-backed cushioned chair. A sturdy filing cabinet filled with parchments, quills, inks, and other forms of stationary sat next to the desk, all organized and arranged like the room’s owner had only just stepped out and might return at any moment.
“How very Slytherin,” Alastor commented absentmindedly, his gaze drifting over the room.
“That was…Reggie,” Sirius said, voice tight. “Anyway, you need anything, I’m right down the hall. Remus is in the room next to me.”
Alastor gave a nod, stepping further into the room.
“Um…Al?” Sirius called, hesitating just before he closed the door. Alastor turned around, one brow raised in silent question.
“It’s…it’s good to have you back. Even if you’re all grown up,” Sirius said, a sad smile tugging at his lips.
Alastor stood for a beat. Then, slowly, he gave a gentle smile—small, but sincere. His eyes softened, the sharp guarded look momentarily dulled. “It’s good to see you again as well Sirius. Remus.”
With that, they exchanged quiet goodnights, and the door was closed.
—
Alastor’s POV
The quiet crept in like a thick fog once the door clicked shut. Alastor stood in the center of the room, closing his eyes and simply breathed. Slowly, eventually, his shoulders sagged as the tension eased. His smile slowly dropped as he exhaled heavily through his nose.
So…he was back.
Even if he knew it was coming, even if he had been prepared, he still felt like the wind had been knocked out of him the moment he saw all those familiar faces.
Ron and Hermione. The Weasleys. Sirius and Remus…
He swallowed thickly, focusing on calming his pounding heartbeat. His fingers tightened around the cool metal of his staff to steady the subtle tremble in his hands. So many emotions rolled through him. Anger, trepidation, excitement, joy, relief; it all tangled together until his thoughts felt like static.
‘Get a grip,’ he chided himself. ‘You knew you’d see them again.’
Another sharp exhale, and he opened his eyes once again. He took in the room again, the oppressive green walls and décor were such a jarring contrast to the red hellscape he’d grown used to and loved over the decades. It grounded him in the surreal reality of his return and made it more real.
It also felt colder than he remembered.
He frowned, planting the end of his can onto the soft green rug beneath his boots. He had gotten so used to the heat of New Orleans and then the infernal fires of Hell, that anything else was cold. He’d just have to acclimate, slowly though.
He drew his coat a little tighter to himself, humming. He’d just have to add heating charms to his clothing and room for the time being until he got used to the cooler weather.
He lifted his hand to do just that when a knock echoed off the bedroom door. He blinked and turned toward the door, pausing.
“Alastor?” Hermione’s soft voice came through the wood, muffled, but unmistakable.
He sighed—half exasperated, half amused. Of course it would be her. No doubt Ron was with her as well. He really should have remembered the kind of antics the three of them used to get up to.
“Come in, then,” he called out quietly, standing straight, hands over his cane, and a small, genuine smile in place.
The knob turned and Hermione slipped in first. She had a sleep robe on over her pajamas and her hair was a mess of curls. Ron followed behind her, his own hair tousled and his eyes red-rimmed and heavy with exhaustion. They both looked like they should be in bed, yet here they were running on adrenaline and boundless curiosity.
“Well, I would say it’s a surprise to see you here already,” he said, his smile knowing. “But then I would be lying.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” Ron grunted, blinking sluggishly.
“You couldn’t sleep or did Hermione drag you here?” Alastor asked wryly, raising a brow as his lip twitched into a sideways smirk.
Hermione’s face burned red briefly as Ron gave him a knowing smile. “You already know the answer, mate.”
Alastor chucked, then gestured to the chaise, offering them a seat. “By all means.” Hermione sat primly, her spine straight and tense while Ron just dropped onto the lounge like a sack of potatoes, arms thrown out on either side of him as he let out a wide yawn.
With a lazy wave of his hand, Alastor conjured a deep red armchair in a bright flash of green. He sat down with grace, leaning back and throwing one leg over the other, his staff resting against his thigh. Both Hermione and Ron stared in disbelief, Hermione opening her mouth to ask a question, but shook her head, thinking better of it.
“Well then, I’d offer cocoa or tea, but I’m afraid I’m fresh out,” he said lightly, shrugging his shoulders freely.
Ron just grunted, a weak smile twitching at his lips. Hermione rolled her eyes, placing her hands on her knees.
“We just have some quick questions then we’ll let you rest,” she said, doing her best to look calm and mature.
Alastor studied her, then Ron, eyes flicking between the two. They were still kids. Both of them were sixteen and yet…they held a maturity, a heaviness, that they really shouldn’t.
It brought back memories of their time together, of their “adventures,” their near misses, the countless dangers they'd survived together. They’d been forced to grow up faster than the rest of their peers.
And Harry had never had the luxury of being a child, thanks to his loving relatives.
A darker smile twitched at the edge of his mouth, but he quickly reined it in. He made a mental note to perhaps pay his dear relatives a visit later. Just a friendly chat, of course.
But Ron and Hermione, his two best friends from childhood, stood by him when so many others had not. And because of that loyalty, they’d been dragged into danger they should never have faced. Hermione didn’t need to act mature around him…and it stung, just a little, that she felt she had to.
“Relax, Hermione,” he said suddenly. “Even after all this time, I still recognize your tells. You’re putting on a front. You don’t have to do that with me.”
She met his gaze, tilting her chin up. “But aren’t you doing that with us?”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “Touché. Mine’s more…habit than anything else.” He waved a hand vaguely, the motion almost tired. “I don't mean to offend. It’s just—there are more layers to me now. I’m still Harry at my core, but there’s a bit more to me than that.” There were only so many layers he could drop. Even with Lucifer’s help over the last several decades, he still struggled to embrace all sides of himself. He still struggled to allow Harry to breathe.
He made an effort to bring a bit of Harry to the front, the sharp look behind his glasses easing and his practiced smile loosened.
Hermione noticed. She relaxed in return, her shoulders dropping. “Sorry. It’s just…it’s only been six months for us.”
“Yeah, mate,” Ron added, tapping his hand against the back of the lounge. “Then you show up all grown up. Kind of a lot to take in.”
“It’s a bit difficult to wrap our heads around,” Hermione admitted, a tiredness seeping into her voice. “I know you can’t—or won’t—tell us everything. Especially not tonight, but…” she paused, biting her lip. A nasty habit she’d always had. “Can you tell us something?”
He gave a soft hum, sighing quietly. “I suppose I can. You’re still part of a very short list of people I trust.” He gestured loosely. “Well, what would you like to know?”
“Where did you go?” Hermione asked immediately. Ron had opened his mouth to ask a question, but shut it again without protest. “You vanished in the Department of Mysteries. Just…gone—which shouldn’t have been possible. There was no sign, no trace, nothing. Professor Dumbledore looked shaken.”
Alastor snorted sardonically, but gestured for her to continue.
“We thought you were hurt, or maybe…” Her voice cracked slightly, genuine worry bleeding through. “Dead. Were you kidnapped or something?”
Alastor’s eyes softened. “No, I wasn’t taken,” he said quietly. “I…was offered a choice. One that no one else could make for me.”
Her brows knit together. “So you chose to leave us?” The hurt was sharp and clear in her voice. Ron, still slouched with exhaustion, now watched the exchange more sharply.
“I chose to save you,” Alastor responded firmly. “This path I chose—it wasn’t an easy one, Hermione. I chose to become someone else. To grow up without you, Ron, Sirius…but I made that decision to protect you.”
“How?” Ron asked suddenly, cutting off Hermione. “How did leaving save us?”
Alastor tilted his head back against the chair, eyes narrowing as they stared up at the dark ceiling. He was quiet for a moment before he responded.
“I was shown the future…” he said quietly, his voice steady. They both leaned forward, listening intently. “If I had stayed…there would’ve been only death and torment, blood and misery. However, if I chose to leave, to grow into another person, to be something more, then maybe…the future had the potential to shine, to be balanced.”
The three were quiet for a long moment, the silence settling over them like a familiar weighted blanket.
Then Hermione asked, barely above a whisper. “Who?”
Alastor’s eyes met hers.
“Who gave you that choice?”
He drew in a deep breath. “A very powerful and very old being," he said at last. "One I will not reveal just yet. Not because I don’t trust you, but because I’d like to think about whether I should tell you.”
“What do you mean by that?” Ron asked, frowning.
“You’re sixteen,” Alastor explained plainly, raising a hand before they could jump into protests. “I am well aware you are not children. I was there for every adventure, remember?” He gave them a smile. “But, I need to decide how deeply I want to bring you into this. Because, my story, this choice, goes deeper than the pits of Hell.”
Hermione and Ron frowned at him from the lounge, still unconvinced.
“My story is long, tangled, and complicated,” he said, rolling his hand in the air while he spoke. “My path is filled with rights and wrongs, blood and fire, and hard choices made for the sake of Balance. It’s not a story I’d share lightly. Not even with Sirius or Remus. Only one other knows the full story.”
Hermione and Ron exchanged a long look—one of their silent, wordless debates. He recognized it immediately: Should we push him? Or wait?
They nodded and turned back to him.
“Alright,” Hermione said. “We’ll leave it. For now…A-Alastor.” She stumbled a little over his name and he gave her a smile.
“I know the name change will take some getting used to,” he said. “So call me Al. It’s a privilege few receive,” he added with a wink.
“That’ll make things a little easier,” Ron mumbled, yawning behind his hand.
Alastor let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. “You two should get some sleep. I’m not going anywhere, so you can ask more questions tomorrow.”
He stood, staff in hand, and his chair disappeared a poof of black smoke, starling them. Smirking, he gently guided them over to the door.
“You promise you won’t just disappear on us?” Hermione asked once they stepped out into the hallway.
“I promise,” Alastor replied, nodding. “See you in the morning.” He smiled and closed the door with a slow and final click.
—
Location: Grimmauld - Kitchen
July 7th, 1996 7:03 AM
The scent of butter, crisp bacon, and something spiced wafted through the air of Grimmauld place. Alastor may or may not have been using a teensy bit of magic to make sure it entered every bedroom in the rickety old townhouse.
It was very early—too early, in fact, as many would grumble—but the kitchen was far from quiet.
Alastor stood at the stove, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and an apron tied over his vest and shirt. His coat hung nearby on the hook where the apron usually rested. The checkered red and white fabric read “Kiss me and you’ll be my next meal” in a looping bold red script, a few decorated spots of blood around the script.
His cane leaned against the counter by the ice box as he shuffled between stove top and counter space. Jazz music hummed softly from a radio he’d conjured into existence, the old scratchy kind that belonged in a New Orleans speakeasy. It crackled gently under Billie Holiday’s voice. He hummed along, his tail—under a glamor with the rest of his demon features—swished happily back and forth to the music. He flipped a pancake in the cast iron pan with a practiced flick of his wrist, eyes bright as it was the perfect color.
A cooling rack next to the stove held golden-brown southern cathead biscuits, their tops brushed with butter and steam rose visibly into the air. The smell alone almost made his stomach grumble. A pan of thick-cut bacon sizzled on the burner above the pancakes, and a heavy pan of creamy sausage gravy sat warming beside it.
He happily added the final pancake on a plate already towering well above his head—held up and kept fresh with magic. Then he turned and started tackling the grits—proper grits, not the instant nonsense—and had already conjured jars of peach preserves, orange marmalade, sweet cream butter, and a spicy tomato relish.
The table had been set with care. Mismatched plates from what he could find in the cupboard, polished silverware—not real silver, he made sure. In the center, a conjured vase of fresh roses and cypress sprigs added a subtle scent of nature, just beneath the rich aromas of the food.
Alastor moved fluidly, relaxed. His expression was soft and content, his eyes were light, and his smile was relaxed. This was him. The version few in Hell got to see. The same boy who used to sneak into his Maman’s kitchen just to learn how to make Sunday breakfast right.
He continued humming and cooking when the kitchen door creaked open behind him.
“You’re up early,” Remus' voice came from behind, still rough from sleep.
“Old habits,” Alastor replied lightly. “Figured the house could use a little comfort food. So I decided to whip up a nice Southern homestyle breakfast.”
Remus blinked at the kitchen, taking in the food, the music, the atmosphere. He looked mildly stunned. “You made all of this?”
Alastor shot him a brief smile over his shoulder. “Of course! Cooking is one of the few things that keeps my mind quiet.”
He gestured to the far end of the countertops. “There’s tea, coffee, and juices over there. Please help yourself—before the Weasley hoard arrives,” he chuckled, a familiar flash of mischief lighting his eyes.
Remus moved to pour himself a cup of tea—a classic Earl Grey—then leaned against the counters, staring wide-eyed at all the food. “This smells amazing.”
“Why thank you! I promise it tastes even better.”
“Merlin’s balls, what smells so good?” Sirius asked, shuffling sleepily into the kitchen. He stopped short and his eyes widened. “What the—” His mouth dropped as he took in the sight.
“Morning!” Alastor sang, voice chipper as he set the grits onto the table. With a flick of this wrist, the leaning tower of pancakes, biscuits, bacon, a whole loaf of toasted bread, and the pitchers of pumpkin, orange, and apple juice lazily hovered through the air before settling neatly on the dining table. He turned off the burners and poured the sausage gravy into a large boat, steam rising from it.
“I don’t know what half this stuff is,” Sirius said, staring in awe, noting the easy way Alastor used magic, “but it smells like heaven.”
“Probably the closest you’ll ever get to heaven,” Alastor teased, setting the gravy boat carefully down with a quiet clink.
“Ha! Probably!” Sirius barked a laugh as he walked over to the kettles. “What kind of coffee did you brew?”
“Chicory—it’s a New Orleans staple,” he answered brightly. “There’s cream and sugar next to it if you take that sort of nonsense with your tea or coffee.”
Sirius snorted. “Nah, I drink it black, like my name.”
“Hm, and here I thought you’d say like your soul,” Alastor quipped, sending him an impish look. “Which would be fairly accurate as well.”
Both men choked on their drinks, sputtering. Sirius threw his head back and laughed while Remus chuckled, cleaning up the mess he made with a flick of his wand.
“Damn, kid, you’ve definitely gotten sharper,” Sirius muttered into his coffee mug, humming pleasantly at the taste. “This is good!”
“I’m no longer a kid, I’m the same age as you, Sirius,” Alastor replied, rolling his eyes.
“Still changed your diapers,” Sirius shot back, smirking.
The door creaked open again and the aforementioned Weasley hoard entered. Every single one of them paused and stared.
“Food?”
“There’s so much!”
“Oh, Harry—er Alastor, dear, you didn’t have to make all this.” Molly bustled past the stunned twins, eyes wide and hands waving through the air. “You’re a guest here, and you still must be tired.”
“Nonsense, Mrs. Weasley!” Alastor said warmly, smiling down at her. “I got plenty of sleep, and technically, you’re a guest here as well. Besides, I love cooking. And I couldn’t resist sharing some of my favorite dishes from New Orleans.”
“Is that where you’ve been?” Hermione asked behind the Weasley’s, her brown hair standing out in a sea of red.
“For the most part,” he answered airily. “Now, please! Sit and eat! We can’t have anyone starving or letting the food grow cold!”
“What is all this?” Ron asked, eyes bright and drool slowly sliding down from the corner of his mouth before he hurriedly wiped it away with his sleeve.
“A Southern homestyle breakfast, of course!” He spread his arms wide and his smile stretched across his face, genuine.
“We have classic buttermilk pancakes, with maple syrup or we have blueberry, strawberry, and buttered almond readily available. Then we have our biscuits—scones for you posh Brits.” He smirked, very aware he was the only one he considered non-British anymore. “And a thick, creamy sausage gravy to go over them. Or if you want something lighter, we have a variety of spreads and shmears.” He gestured toward the mason jars filled with sweet or spicy spreads. “Careful. The tomato relish has a kick to it.”
He then moved down the table, every head following him. “Then we have our thick-cut bacon and a classic cheesy grits that also can complement your biscuits or pancakes or eaten by themselves.”
He finally gestured to the drinks. “We have apple, orange, and pumpkin juice, Earl Grey tea, and chicory coffee to drink.” He bowed, extending an arm out to the table. “Please, bon appétit.”
“Blimey,” the twins whispered together as they sat down. Fred reached for a biscuit and happily poured a little gravy on top, eyes wide with curiosity. “I’ve only ever heard of biscuits and gravy.”
George hummed next to him as he grabbed a couple strips of bacon for both himself and Fred. “Oi, Ron, don’t be stingy with those pancakes! Pass a few over here.”
Hermione eyed the cheesy grits in front of her, brows furrowed. She cautiously placed a spoonful on her plate, then reached for a couple pieces of toast and peach preserves. “I’ve only ever seen a spread like this at Hogwarts.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Weasley.” Alastor popped up next to the couple, startling them. “Please, sit and enjoy. I made this with you in mind, Mrs. Weasley.”
“Oh,” Molly gasped and pressed her hand over mouth, her eyes glassy with emotion. “Oh, dearie, you didn’t have to.”
“Oh, but I did,” Alastor said gently, his voice low with sincerity. “This is my way of giving back—to you and all the meals you cooked for me. If it wasn’t for you, I’m not sure I ever would have become a normal weight.”
He smiled kindly, guiding them to a pair of empty seats. “Please, dig in. I do recommend the cheesy grits for a burst of flavor, and the orange marmalade with the biscuits.”
Arthur and Molly happily dug in, soft smiles on their faces. Arthur reached over and gently squeezed Molly’s hand when she gave a little sniffle.
“You still sweet as ever, Harr…Alastor,” Molly said, gently wiping an eye before tears could fall.
“Oh, please, just call me Al,” he insisted, finding his own seat next to Sirius and across from the twins. “I understand the name change is quite unexpected.”
“Then I insist you finally call me Molly,” she said firmly, nodding. “And Arthur. No more Mr. and Mrs. Weasley from you, young man.”
He chuckled. “I will try to remember to do so, Molly.”
“Merlin’s beard!” George groaned around a mouthful of toast, the spicy tomato relish heaped on. “This is spicy!”
“Oh, pish posh, it’s just a bit of chili peppers and powder. Honestly,” Alastor said, slathering the same relish onto his own slice of toast. He took a hearty bite, entirely unbothered by the heat. “This is nothing compared to my Maman’s jambalaya recipe.”
“Maman?” Sirius asked, pausing mid-sip of his coffee.
“It means ‘mother’ in Creole French,” Alastor explained. “You see, when I landed in New Orleans, this lovely woman was kind enough to pick me up off the streets. She was patient and kind. She taught me her family recipes, how to play piano, how to dance.” He said, voice quiet as his eyes stared unseeing into his coffee cup.
“I miss her daily.” He drew in a deep breath and looked up. The table had quieted while he spoke, every eye now turned toward him.
“But I honor her through good food, good music—” he tilted his head toward the radio on the counter, where Ella Fitzgerald’s soulful voice now filled the kitchen. “—and heaping supply of respect.”
“Can you tell us about your time in New Orleans?” Hermione asked, setting her orange juice down. Her eyes were bright with interest. “I’ve always wanted to visit. It’s the city of jazz right?”
Alastor’s face lit up, eyes sparkling. “Jazz, dancing, food, the neon lights of the city fading softly into the sounds of the bayou.” He launched into his story, his arms waving animatedly in front of him, careful not to knock into Sirius next to him.
“Oh, you would love it, Hermione,” he said, his voice warm and full of emotion. “The cobbled main streets, worn smooth with history, led to the best speakeasies and clubs. The bourbon and whiskey flowed like water and spiced the air. Live jazz and sultry singers sang lullabies through the windows and streets.”
He sighed, the memories of New Orleans settling over him like his well-loved coat. The others at the table watched in quiet fascination, idly enjoying their food.
“The dance floors were scuffed from too many pairs of shoes jumping and jiving, swinging and spinning into their partners’ arms. Or into the brass section if they got too enthusiastic,” he added with a fond chuckle.
“And when the musicians and dancers went home, it was by the light of the moon and fireflies. Laughter echoed off the streets and into homes lit with warm light,” he smiled, taking a small bite of his toast. “Often families gathered around with some po’ boys and gumbo, eagerly stepping out onto their porch to share with their neighbors.”
While he spoke, more Order members arrived. Minerva first, stopping just like the others previously had, taking in the scene. Remus caught her eye and waved her in quietly, offering the empty chair next to him. She accepted with a nod, though her gaze lingered on Alastor as he continued to speak.
Severus was only a few minutes later, a surly frown in place—until he stepped into the warm, quiet kitchen. The smell of coffee and the low, magnetic timbre of the Radio Demon’s voice stalled him in the doorway. His expression faltered in surprise.
“Oh, the people of New Orleans were eclectic and full of life,” Alastor continued, waving Severus over to another seat and ignoring Sirius’ scowl. “They thrived under the Southern heat and the richness of their heritage. The community Maman had brought me in was poor, yes, but we were never lacking in generosity or joy.”
Severus hesitated, then slowly sat, eyes narrowed in suspicion. But nobody was paying him any attention. Every eye was still focused on Alastor, entranced by the world he painted with his words. Quietly, Severus poured himself a cup of coffee, blinking at the flavor after his first sip. A soft, surprised hum left him before he took another.
“Oh, and the bayou,” Alastor exhaled, his love thick with fondness. “Such a wonder of nature. Muggy and filled with bugs, it may have been, but it was a hidden world all its own. Toads and frogs splashed through the running streams, croaking and singing. Cranes and egrets glided gracefully through the cypress trees, barely ruffling the Spanish moss. Gators lingered along the banks or beneath the water, so one did have to be careful,” he added, snickering, “or you might end up as breakfast yourself.”
He rested his chin into his hand, lost in memory. “There were many afternoons and evenings when I would just walk along the marsh of the bayou. The sounds of the city—the cars, the people shouting, and the music in the air—would slowly melt away, replaced by the chirps of birds, the buzz of cicadas, the wind blowing through the leaves and hanging moss, and the echoes of the croaking toads. I would just sit and listen for hours, until Maman called me back home with a heaping bowl of jambalaya and a slice of cornbread.”
A slow and wistful smile curled his lips up as his eyes lingered on the marmalade jar in front of him. “I miss it very much,” he murmured. “It’s been…some years since I was last back in New Orleans. But I’m quite happy with where I made my new home.”
He shook his head, snapping out of his nostalgia. “I definitely recommend going one day, Hermione. You won’t regret it,” he said, taking another bite of his toast.
“It sounds amazing,” she murmured, smiling. Several people around them hummed and mumbled in agreement.
Alastor Moody had made his way into the kitchen while Alastor had been talking. He grunted as he ripped off a piece of bacon with his teeth—having already cast half a dozen detection charms to check the food before eating.
He chewed thoroughly, his magical eye whirring in its socket as it scanned the table, the food, and finally landed on the other Alastor.
“This is good,” he said gruffly, as if the words were being dragged out of him. “Too good. But all my magical scans came back clean…” He hummed, his other eye narrowing.
There was a beat of silence before Sirius snorted into his coffee.
“That’s just how he cooks, Moody,” Sirius said, grinning. “Apparently all those years he’s been gone turned him into a bloody chef.”
“Cooking’s not a bad skill to have,” Moody muttered, still chewing. He stabbed his fork into the biscuit and gravy, lifted a piece, and sniffed it before eating it. “Good way to keep your hands busy and mind sharp. And quiet too,” he added, his tone implying quiet was rarely safe.
Alastor inclined his head, a glimmer of humor in his eyes. “That’s exactly what I found. Peace in creation.”
Moody grunted, but nodded. His magical eye clicked and rotated again, sweeping over the room once more before settling on Alastor. “Hmph. We all need something like that, especially now.”
Alastor tilted his head, curious, but refrained from asking. He wanted to know how the last six months had been since his disappearance, but didn’t want to ruin the warm atmosphere and the shared smiles.
The room settled into the sounds of cutlery scraping against plates and quiet conversations. Someone chuckled softly down the table. The radio cracked as Ella Fitzgeral’s tune gave way to a mellow instrumental.
Alastor hummed along under his breath, sipping his coffee once more as his gaze swept over the table. A small, genuine smile tugged at his lips.
It filled him with a quiet sort of joy, seeing them here—his old friends, his first found family—all seated and eating his cooking. The feeling mirrored the ones he had when cooking for Lucifer, Charlie, and his sisters during the less chaotic moments in Hell. There was something truly grounding in it. Made it more familiar.
He sighed softly and leaned back in his chair. It was strange how strongly these emotions still were, how much he still cared for these humans of his past.
‘But was it really that strange?’ He asked himself. No, he supposed not.
Every single person at this table had protected him in some way or another—had stood by his side when so many others turned away. Even the professors.
And while he didn’t care much for Severus Snape—and he was very much looking forward to messing with the man—there was a measure of respect. It was complicated. But then, all worthwhile things were.
—
Location: Grimmauld Place - Black family library
July 7th, 1996 6:06 PM
Alastor sat alone in the Black family library, a thick book on sixteenth-century rituals open in his hands. His eyes slowly moved across the page, deciphering the archaic spellings of Olde English. He wasn’t as fluent in it as he would’ve liked, but Zestial had helped him enough over the decades to get by.
And what little he could understand was rather fascinating.
Ancient Black family rituals all centered around the old ways—Yule, the Equinoxes, Samhain. Ceremonies meant to honor the deities, inviting them into their homes, into their bloodlines, embracing the old magic. The kind of magic that was respected.
Until it was labeled Dark.
He scoffed quietly in the empty room. ‘And wizards wonder why Magic is unhappy.’
Alastor turned another page, finger trainly absently over the inked margins.
But did they know? How often did the wizards think or even believe in the deities anymore? Possibly only the oldest bloodlines still remembered—if they remembered. Their teachings had withered into superstition, all but died out and forgotten.
An invisible ear twitched as he heard three sets of footsteps scuffing down the creaky hallway leading toward the library. His nose twitched and he picked up the scents—parchment and cinnamon, bitter potion fumes and damp earth, then sweets and ozone. Minerva, Severus, and Dumbledore.
A smile stretched across his face.
Alastor looked up just as Minerva opened the door. She paused when she met his gaze, a flicker of surprise crossing her features. Then, composed, she stepped inside, followed closely by Severus, his black robes billowing behind him just as Alastor remembered. Finally, Dumbledore entered, garish yellow robes standing out violently like a beacon.
Alastor snorted. “Dear me, headmaster. I believe those robes should come with a warning label. Something along the lines of ‘Caution: may cause temporary blindness,’” he quipped lightly, closing the book he had been reading.
Minerva pressed her lips together, but a flicker of amusement flashed in her eyes. Severus narrowed his eyes, forcefully pulling his lips down—likely suppressing a grimace.
Dumbledore merely chuckled as he took a seat in the chair in front of Alastor. “I do like to stand out.”
“Indeed,” Alastor deadpanned. An almost unnoticeable huff escaped Severus and Minerva's mouth twitched.
He stood suddenly, cane in hand. He smoothed down the front of his coat and stepped aside with a small flourish. Then, with a respectful bow, he turned to Minerva and extended an arm toward the seat he just vacated. “Please, professor, take my seat. My Maman always told me that women work twice as hard and deserve twice the respect. I’d be remiss not to listen to her.”
All three professors blinked, mildly taken aback. Minerva hesitated, then moved to sit. Alastor smiled as she settled in.
“Thank you, Alastor,” she said, her voice even, but a touch softer than usual.
“Mr. Potter,” Severus corrected, though it lacked its usual venom from what Alastor could remember. His eyes were sharp, tacking in every movement.
Alastor stood tall, his staff’s end on the floor and his hands casually on the top. His smile was closed and relaxed, unbothered while his eyes met the headmaster’s, just as calculating.
“I heard you made quite the impression this morning,” Dumbledore said warmly. “Quite the breakfast and storytelling.”
“I aim to please,”Alastor said nonchalantly, shrugging a shoulder. “Though sometimes I do overshoot and end up just pleasing myself. Terribly selfish of me.”
Severus turned his head away, clearing his throat. Minerva raised a sharp eyebrow, watching Alastor.
Dumbledore gave a light chuckle. “It’s good to see you again, my boy. You’ve certainly changed, grown up.”
Alastor’s eye twitched just slightly. “Time has a funny way of doing that,” he replied lightly, fingers tapping against the top of his cane. “It’s determined to move forward whether we want it to or not.”
“Indeed,” the headmaster said slowly. “It’s reassuring despite the peculiar circumstances of your disappearance that you haven’t lost your charm, Harry.”
“Alastor,” he cut in, sharp as a whip. The smile on his face didn’t falter, but his eyes darkened. “Let’s not pretend you’ve lost your hearing along with your morals, headmaster. We both know you’re not that senile.”
Minerva’s brows shot up past her hairline, looking scandalized. “Mr. Potter,” she warned softly, more out of reflex than rebuke.
Severus watched the two men sharply, eyes glinting in curiosity. He said nothing, but he tilted his head, as if listening more intently.
Dumbledore didn’t flinch. His expression remained benign, grandfatherly. His eyes still twinkled infuriatingly behind his half-moon spectacles. “Apologies, Alastor. I’m afraid old habits are hard to quit.”
“So it would seem,” Alastor replied, his voice sweet with mockery. “Especially those involving invisible strings and well-placed pawns.”
A silence settled at his comment, taut. Minerva’s lips parted in shock, then closed again, speechless. Severus’ gaze flicked between them like he was watching a chess match.
Dumbledore chuckled, though there was a subtle edge to it as he casually stroked his beard. “Well, we’re all creatures of habit, in the end. I like to think some are…worth preserving.”
Alastor tilted his head slightly, smile easing into something more pleasant. “Mm, a fair sentiment.” He stepped leisurely toward one of the nearby bookshelves, trailing his fingers along the ancient spines. “Books, recipes, routines. Morning tea at precisely nine-oh-five.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Some things—and some people—stick with you, no matter how much you change.”
Minerva’s brow furrowed faintly, turning his words over in her head. Severus stood perfectly still by the headmaster’s chair. Shoulders tense, hands folded in front of him, his eyes never leaving Alastor.
“Of course,” Alastor went on, tone casual, “some things we call routine are just old chains dressed up as choices.”
He turned back toward them, smile poised and polite.
Dumbledore’s expression remained pleasant. “A poetic thought.”
“Poetic…or truthful?” Alastor replied mildly.
Dumbledore leaned forward slightly, the grandfatherly warmth returning. “You’ve certainly grown into something…unexpected.”
Alastor’s grin twitched wider. “That’s what happens when you stop walking someone else's path.”
He paused, letting the silence hang for a moment. Then Alastor gave a light sigh, casually inspecting the top of his staff, brushing invisible dust from it. “But enough about me, surely you didn’t wander all this way down here to comment on my habits or compliment me on my metaphors.”
Dumbledore’s smile flickered. “I was hoping we might…catch up. Fill in a few of the gaps we’re missing. Your disappearance has left more than a few questions.”
“I’m sure it does,” Alastor agreed, resting his staff back on the ground, hands atop it. “Unfortunately, answers are like a strong drink—better in small sips. Give too much too fast and someone’s bound to choke.”
Severus and Minerva exchanged glances, eyebrows raised.
Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, sighing. “Surely there are some things you’re willing to share. Where you’ve been, what you’ve learned.”
“Oh, I’ve traveled quite far and learned quite a lot,” Alastor replied, exaggerating his voice and waving a hand in the air. “Studied under teachers whose names hold no meaning to you. Broke bread with kings and monsters.” His smile sharpened. “Sometimes at the same table.”
He took a step closer, looming despite the distance between him and the headmaster. “But you’re not really asking where I’ve been. You want to know what I’ve become. What I am now and where I stand.”
An unsettling silence stretched between them.
Dumbledore’s eyes met his. His eyes serious and his twinkle missing.
Minerva shifted in her seat while Severus remained tense beside the headmaster, gaze narrowing.
Alastor beamed. “Ah. See? That’s the real question, isn’t it? So let me offer you an answer, headmaster, from one old habit to another.” He held up a single finger. “I’m exactly who I choose to be. And I stand exactly where I’m meant to.”
Alastor tilted his head ever so slightly, his eyes sharp. “And if that answer doesn't satisfy you, well…” He gave a light shrug, dismissive. “That’s rather the point, isn’t it?”
The headmaster’s fingers steepled in front of him, a weary look on his face. “One could mistake that for avoidance.”
“One could,” Alastor agreed. “But then, one could also mistake a chessboard for a battlefield. Just as they might mistake a pawn for a king.”
Severus twitched, subtle but there. He looked mildly impressed. Minerva’s lips parted, but she remained silent.
Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed minutely. “You’ve grown clever.”
“I had to in order to survive,” Alastor replied mildly.
Dumbledore’s gaze lingered on Alastor, the usual warmth in his expression slightly cracked, revealing the glint of calculation beneath.
Alastor held his gaze, unflinching, smile too wide. Then broke into a cheerier smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Well!” He clapped his hands together, the sharp sound startling the two other professors. “I do believe that concludes our little fireside chat. Tea-less, tragically. But I suppose some conversations are better taken…bitter.”
He took a large, deliberate step away from the three, spinning his cane once before letting it thunk against the threadbare carpet. “You’ll have to forgive my departure, headmaster. I’ve grown terribly fond of my own time, and less fond of having it filleted by old men fishing without the right bait.”
Minerva blinked in shock while Severus looked like he was biting the inside of his cheek.
Dumbledore sat still, hands steepled once again, visibly considering his next move, but said nothing.
“Oh, don’t fret,” Alastor cooed almost kindly. “You’re not the first one to think of yourself the spider only to realize the web wasn’t yours.”
He leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing and smile growing dangerously sharp. His voice dropped into something venomous, it was warm and bright and utterly wrong.
“And between us, headmaster…I do so love when the fly insists on staying for tea anyway.”
Minerva inhaled sharply through her nose. Severus made a soft noise in the back of his throat. They watched Alastor with open caution.
Alastor straightened again, the lightness returning to his voice. “Now then, I really must get back to my reading.” He picked up the tome on the side table next to Minerva’s chair. “The dead have such interesting things to say when one bothers to listen,” he said with a chuckle.
He gave a flourishing bow. “Professor. Potions Master.” Then he turned to Dumbledore, his tone syrupy sweet with false friendliness. “Headmaster. Do take care on the stairs—I’d hate for you to suffer a fall so close to such a riveting comeback.”
With that, Alastor turned on his heel, and left the library, dusty book in one arm and his cane tapping against the ground.
The conversation was over.
The headmaster’s expression was unusually stoic, hands folded as he stared at the opposite wall, eyes distant.
Minerva broke the silence. “Well…that was enlightening.”
Severus let out a slow exhale, growing. “He played you.”
Minerva shot him a glare, but didn’t correct him.
Dumbledore finally blinked before he adjusted his glasses. “Yes,” he said mildly. “Yes, I do believe he did.”
“He never once answered your questions directly,” Severus said, his voice low. “Every reply was a deflection.”
“And yet…” Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed, “not evasive out of fear. There was confidence in every word.”
Minerva shared a long glance with Severus, both realizing the same truth.
Alastor hadn’t been led through that conversation. He had been in control the entire time.