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Chapter Text

Harry was seven when Mr. Maurice moved into the handsome home at #8 Privet Drive. Mr. Maurice was a retired chemistry professor whose wife had passed recently, and he was about as boring as they came. He had grey hair, grey eyes, and simple brown suits with red pocket squares.

He agreed to watch Harry when the Dursleys wanted to go to the cinema and Mrs. Figg was away visiting a sister or cousin or something. Harry decided that he liked Mr. Maurice a great deal more than he liked the cat lady.

Mr. Maurice was old, it was true, but he smelled of softsoap instead of cabbage, and he poured Harry delicious black tea while he talked ad nauseam about his chemistry paper on the properties of ammonium and different liquids. 

Harry, normally forced to pretend stupidity to avoid the wrath of his relatives, absorbed everything. He watched with rapt attention as Mr. Maurice went and retrieved books, showed Harry diagrams, and lectured for four hours (and over two cups of tea!) all about elements and their uses and their reactions to one another. 

When the Dursleys came to pick him up, Mr. Maurice said that Harry was welcome any time. The invitation was not extended to Petunia, Vernon, or Dudley, all of whom had been admiring the blatant normalcy of Mr. Maurice’s upper-middle-class home.

From then on, Harry was sent to Mr. Maurice whenever the Dursleys wanted to go and do almost anything, or when they got fed up with him. 

Mr. Maurice would feed Harry mediocre microwave meals, fresh fruit, and chocolate chips, and then discuss and lecture all about his chosen field and the breakthroughs he made when he was employed. To any other sort of child, this would have been terribly dull. But to Harry, who had never been given anything resembling the kind of attention and focus Mr. Maurice gave him in those lessons, and who had never been permitted to do anything with his growing mind, the talks were the most engaging part of his week.

Mrs. Figg began asking about Harry, and saying she missed him, but being far less normal than Mr. Maurice and far smellier, the Dursleys ignored her. At one point, she began talking to Harry over the garden wall and Petunia got so upset, she threatened a restraining order.

That night in the cupboard, Harry overheard Vernon and Petunia talking about Mrs. Figg’s interest in Harry and how it was “not right,” and, “we should keep Dudders far away from her.”

The next day, Harry was invited to sit in the living room for the first time in his life and he and Dudley were given the “Stranger Danger” speech and told all about the red flags to warn about child predators.

Dudley and Harry gave Mrs. Figg’s house a wide berth after that lesson.

Harry began spending most afternoons with Mr. Maurice. It would be a long time until Harry would be able to do any kind of Chemistry in school, but he was looking forward to it all the same.

Mr. Maurice also seemed to one day suddenly realize that Harry was not studying chemistry in school just yet, and that the fact the boy knew how to stabilize almost any volatile reaction was not useful at the moment. 

He proceeded to take immense interest in Harry’s schoolwork and demanded to know why the young boy refused to put in his full effort. 

When Harry revealed in stumbling blocks of words and incomplete phrases that it was due to his relatives disliking him when he outperformed Dudley, Mr. Maurice took a deep breath and said, “Well I’m not your relatives and I should very much like to feel proud of you.”

So Harry and Mr. Maurice (call me Blake, we’re close enough for that now, aren’t we Harry?) worked on his assignments and his reading and his maths, and then Harry was quite suddenly at the top of his class. And while Dudley chased Harry around during school for a bit, and hit him loads (Mr. Maurice got vibrantly angry when Harry said he fell, gave him a hug! icepacks, and a whole treacle tart), the teachers had suddenly taken quite a shine to Harry and forced Dudley to knock it off and made all the boys attend an anti-bullying seminar. 

And Vernon and Petunia were angry, and did lock Harry in the cupboard, and were upset right until Harry’s teacher complimented them one Friday at the supermarket for doing, “such a good job with Harry. Poor thing lost his parents, but you are so very kind and doing so well by him. Bless you both.”

Word spread like fire throughout the neighborhood of the supposed “sainthood,” of the Dursleys and their well-to-do orphan, and it was so romantic an image, people decided that you couldn’t judge a book by its cover, and even though the Dursleys seemed quite disagreeable, it was really that sensitivity lies deep in the British soul.

So the Dursleys allowed Harry to keep doing well in school, meeting with Mr. Maurice, and getting new clothing from the elder gentleman which fit Harry better than Dudley’s cast-offs because it made him look very well taken care of indeed, and that was something necessary to the upkeep of their image as blessed members of the community. 

When Harry was nine it was recommended he be enrolled in a school for gifted children, and the Dursleys initially refused. Mr. Maurice bullied them into it, saying in an even tone, “Just imagine how impressed people will be with you for raising a gifted child.”

Vernon and Petunia both side-eyed Dudley, too large for his size and remarkable only in that they loved him so very much, and relented. 

Harry went to school for the first time away from the Dursley's influence, and Mr. Maurice was kind enough to drive him to and from the classes, which were located all the way near Hampstead. It was an hour's drive.

He made a great friend, a girl named Hermione who was far smarter than he could ever hope to be. But even though Hermione was far better than him at humanities, he still excelled in their science courses. 

They would sit together underneath a great big tree during break and exchange ideas on all they learned. Hermione confessed to him that she’d been moved into the school when she was just six, and people hadn’t really talked with her much until Harry came along. He confessed that he’d never had a friend before because his cousin scared them all away.

On Christmas the year he turned ten, Mr. Maurice gifted Harry a crystal-making set. Dudley saw it and took it from him, but then realized he couldn’t grow the rocks and gave it back to Harry half-used.

Harry spent all of Christmas day in his cupboard, making the crystals from the light of a single flickering bulb.

The next morning, Dudley took the completed project and displayed it as his own, leading to much coo-ing and excitement from Marge and his parents. (“Our boy’s a genius,” they crowed.)

Harry managed to slip away and go to Mr. Maurice’s house on the twenty-eighth, told the old man all about how he’d made the crystals but lost them, and Mr. Maurice had said he’d thought something like that would happen and had gotten Harry a second (better) set. 

Harry had hugged the old man tight around his middle, and said, for the first time to anyone really, “I love you.”

He’d turned bright red and tried to pull away, but Mr. Maurice (Seriously Harry, call me Blake already!) wasn’t having any of it.

He’d kissed the top of Harry’s head and said, “Oh I assure you, it’s very much mutual. Come see where I’ve left your new set.”

And how could Harry doubt that he was loved by someone when he saw the little science kit atop a brand new bed in a bedroom with two windows and a sign on the door that said, “Harry’s Room”? 

So Harry began to spend weekends with Blake, (Finally, thank you for calling me my name,) making rock candy with bunsen burners and explosions with mentos and coke. 

And then it happened that he started sleeping at Blake’s house more than he did in his cupboard. The Dursleys allowed it graciously because they didn’t care for him at all, and considered it good riddance. By the time Harry was halfway into being ten, he never went back to the Dursleys once during the week.

It was a quiet trip to the courthouse and then Mr. Maurice ( Blake , sorry yes I know what to call you) was Harry’s official guardian and the Dursleys could do nothing about it even if they wanted to, which they did not.

The neighbors of Privet drive seemed to forget with every passing day that Harry had ever belonged to the Dursleys at all -- the bright green-eyed gifted child was so clearly the grandchild of Mr. Maurice -- it was inconceivable that the slip of a thing had come from the dull and gargantuan Dursleys. He was so very unlike Dudley. 

And even more than the sainthood they’d been given for raising the boy, the Dursleys adored having absolutely no ties whatsoever to Harry Potter. 

So when a letter came addressed to a “Mr. H. Potter,” it was not addressed to the “cupboard under the stairs,” but to “#8 Privet Drive, eastern facing bedroom.” 

There was no boarding of windows to avoid the letters, no midnight journey to a hut in the middle of a lake, no breaking down the door and introduction to magic by a large man holding an Umbrella.

Blake (call me Granda, we’re that close, aren’t we?) simply looked at the letter and said, “huh,” because it all made sense. Harry had always been a bit too impatient to wait for certain reactions to run their course, and they always seemed to speed up just for him.

And he’d managed to discover geodes at an alarming rate, given that there should never have been any, let alone the sixteen he’d managed to find in their simple backyard. 

“Magic,” Blake decided, “is the most logical explanation.” 

It felt like something at the edge of his memory began to stir. Blake almost felt like he’d once wanted, desperately, to get a letter like Harry’s. He shook that feeling off. This was not a day about him. This was a day for Harry.

(Harry and Blake would never realize they’d missed a frankly necessary muggle-born visit from a professor due to Harry’s half-blood status and the assumption Petunia would have told him all about the magical world. In an effort to save face, Mrs. Figg reported Harry was doing quite well with his relatives and no one really ever bothered to check.)

It was far more surprising when Blake and Harry stumbled their way through Diagon Alley and found Hermione and her dentist parents equally confused and slack-jawed with amazement. 

So then the two families (Granda Blake asserting, “because that’s what we are now, Harry, you and me are family”) went through the shopping list together, the children getting stuck in one corner of Flourish and Bott’s and reading the afternoon into oblivion. 

They gasped as they read over the same part of a book, and Harry said, “Crikey, I’m famous.”

Hermione and Harry then decided they needed to know everything they could about the wizarding world and its most recent war, and to see if Harry had any money in his Gringotts vault, (because he felt bad about Granda Blake paying for everything even though he didn’t have to,) and left the store with several tons of tomes. 

It turned out Harry did have money in Gringotts, and the goblins were all rather confused by the muggle accompanying him  (What is the relation between you two?) (Oh, me? I’m his granda by choice. Best decision I’ve made since choosing Cambridge for my P.h.D) (It feels like we’ve seen you before many years ago. Do you think you might be from a prominent wizarding house? A squib, maybe?) (A what and a who? )

It would not be the last time, Harry was certain, someone would ask about him and Blake Maurice. But it was the first time, Harry thought, looking around at a colorful world with fantasy flying all around him, that he felt like he could begin to see his future.

Because when he left the alley after having gotten dinner with Hermione and her family, (no desserts, they’ll rot your teeth,) he and Granda went back to their quiet house and cuddled on the couch and talked about the world of magic over handfuls of chocolate chips.

And he knew that even when he went to Hogwarts, he could always write to Granda all the things he learned and all the things he’d done, and then… for summers and winters and if he ever decided the wizarding world wasn’t all that great… he could always come home.

Home, after all, is a powerful thing.

Chapter Text

Harry is all packed and ready to go on September 1st. He has his school clothes in a neat sack he wears on his back and most everything else in his trunk.

Mr. Maurice has enlisted the help of one of his daughters who does not live too far, just over in Mayford, to help pack Harry some good food. 

Harry’s met her several times since joining the Maurice family, and he likes Aunt Dorea very much. She is rather busy – being a doctor will do that to a person, but she is quite the cook. She drops off some roast beef sandwiches, a few fresh scones, and a thermos of good tea in a smart little basket for Harry’s first day. There’s even a note Harry can see peaking up. 

Mr. Maurice drives Harry to the station, wrinkled hands tapping slightly off-rhythm to the Beatles songs they sing along to. 

“In a couple of years, they have built a home sweet home,” Mr. Maurice sings out.

“With a couple of kids running around in the yard of Desmond and Molly Jones,” Harry responds. He swings his legs a few times in the front seat of the car and privately says goodbye to every tree he passes. He’ll see them again in winter, but by then they’ll have lost all their leaves. 

They finish the song just as they pull up to the car park, “Ob-la-di, ob-la-da, life goes on.”

It is early still because Mr. Maurice hates being late dreadfully, so they sit a while in the car. 

“What if I hate it?” Harry asks. 

“Then you’ll come home and I’ll enroll you right back in University College School.”

“What if magic is awful?”

The answer is the same: “Then you’ll come home and I’ll enroll you right back in University College School.”

Harry releases a breath. “It’s going to be okay, right?”

Mr. Maurice slides his chair back and motions for Harry to crawl right over and into his lap. The boy is getting a bit big for such things, but Mr. Maurice supposes he has to treasure these moments while they last. 

“It will be okay, Harry. The worst thing that can happen isn’t that bad. And you’ll write plenty and I’ll write you even more.”

Harry burrows his head into Mr. Maurice’s chest. His voice comes out quiet. “Do you promise you’ll still love me when I get back?”

Mr. Maurice presses a kiss to Harry’s head. “Harry, I will love you even after the sun burns out. I’ve started loving you already and I’m afraid it simply isn’t going to stop.”

Harry looks up at Mr. Maurice. He looks unfairly innocent right then, bright green eyes sparkling and spectacles a touch too big for his face. Mr. Maurice remembers when his daughters were this age and he wishes he could bottle this moment forever. He also wonders how much of Harry growing up he’ll get to see. He is older now than he was when he had little girls running about. 

“That’s good then,” Harry decides. “Because I don’t think I’ll ever stop loving you either.”

Mr. Maurice is not sure how he, a respectable Brit, ended up in such an emotional conversation. He is also unsure of how to end it, so he dignifies Harry with a rather heartfelt grunt in response and then pulls out an imaginary pocketwatch.

“Well, would you look at the time? Best to be going on, then.”

Harry nods once, climbs back to his own seat, and then out the door. 

Mr. Maurice and Harry hunt for platform 9 and ¾ on their own and from their preparations which included several reading sessions and quizzes with Hermione on Hogwarts: A History, they know what to do. Mr. Maurice pushes Harry’s trunk with one hand and holds onto his grandson with the other, and they run full tilt at the wall. 

Mr. Maurice is still rather surprised when they do not hit any bricks but instead emerge on the most bizarre train platform he’s ever seen. 

Students are running this way and that, parents dressed in multi-colored robes and smoothing down the hair of their children. 

There are wands everywhere and so much magic in the air, Mr. Maurice swears he can taste it. He and Harry look at the whole thing with wide eyes.

When Mr. Maurice looks at the train, he is struck with such a strong desire to ride it he finds himself shocked. But today is not about him. 

He forces a smile onto his face. “Harry, why don’t you find a compartment on the train? I’ll see you for Christmas.”

Harry surprises him by attacking his middle with the tightest hug he’s ever gotten. Mr. Maurice hugs back, almost as tight.

“Thank you,” Harry mumbles. “For everything.”

It should not feel like it is a goodbye nearly so much as it does.

“There’s nothing you need to thank me for,” Mr. Maurice says gruffly. 

“Harry! Over here,” a girl’s voice calls out, and Harry and Mr. Maurice turn to see Hermione waving from right by the train doors. 

Harry shouts, “Bye!” before scampering off to meet his friend.

Mr. Maurice moves to stand with the Grangers and waves at Harry through a window, long after the train moves on and Harry is out of view. 

Mrs. Granger says, “I wonder what we’ll do for so long without Hermione.”

Mr. Granger straightens his tie, “I wonder what Hermione will do for so long without us.”

Mr. Maurice slowly lowers his hand from its waving. “I wonder –” he says softly, “What Hogwarts is like.”

***

Harry and Hermione settle into an empty compartment together and wave to their family as the train pulls away. 

Harry’s hand is still waving even when Mr. Maurice is no longer anywhere in sight.

Hermione says, “I think you can stop now.”

Harry lowers his hand. “Do you reckon he’ll still want me for Christmas once he has his house to himself again?”

Hermione looks at him like he is absurdly daft. “You are an absolute knob,” she informs him.

“So that’s a yes, then,” Harry interprets. 

“Of course it is!” Hermione answers with an exasperated sigh. A crinkle forms between her brows. “Oh gosh, I wonder what my parents will do for such a long time without me. They’re ever so excited to hear anything I learn in school, they’ll be dreadfully bored at dinner I bet. I’ll have to write them every day.”

Harry nods. “Mr. Maurice says I need to write him loads and then he’ll write me back even more.”

“See, that’s how it should be done.” Hermione sits back, self-satisfied. 

The compartment door slides open a moment later and a boy with shockingly bright red hair shuffles in. He motions to the seat across from Harry and next to Hermione. “This one taken? Everywhere else is full.”

“Go ahead,” Hermione says. She extends her hand. “Hermione Granger.”

The boy takes the hand and shakes it for just slightly too long. “Ron. Weasley.”

Hermione takes her hand back and says, “Pleasure to meet you.”

Ron scratches the back of his neck. “Right, yeah. You too.”

Harry finds Hermione kicking his shins. She whispers, “Harry, go on. You’re being rude.”

Harry also extends his hand. “Er, yes. Hello there. I’m Harry Potter.”

Ron shoots up from his seat. “BLIMEY! Are you REALLY?”

Hermione rolls her eyes. “There’s no need to shout.”

“Erm, yes. I am him. He. I am he,” Harry confirms.

“Do you have the – the” Ron makes a gesture near his forehead as he sits down.

Harry pushes his fringe aside. “The scar?” The lightning scar is displayed, in all its scar glory.

“Wicked,” Ron breathes out. 

Hermione sniffs. “Did you know you have a bit of dirt just here?” she says, pointing to her nose.

Ron goes red and rubs at his nose, finding his fingers have indeed come away with a bit of dirt. 

Harry lets his hair cover his forehead once more, “I did read about all the stuff I apparently did when I was a baby, but I’m sorry to say I don’t remember any of it.”

Ron says, “Oh, well that’s okay then. What house do you think you’ll sort?”

The three of them end up in a conversation about the virtues of each of the houses and Hermione and Harry discuss how they’re hoping for Ravenclaw, or maybe Gryffindor. 

“Me whole family’s sorted Gryffindor,” Ron says, “There’s nowhere else for me to go.”

“Nonsense,” Harry says. “There are three other houses. If you don’t want Gryffindor, you’ll just have to be the first to go to another house.”

Ron mulls it over. “Ravenclaw wouldn’t be half bad,” he decides. “At least it would make me different from my five older brothers.”

Hermione narrows her eyes at him. “Somehow,” she says in her slightly haughty tone, “I don’t think you’ll end up in Ravenclaw. I don’t know if it suits you.”

Ron gives her a lopsided grin. “But wouldn’t that be part of the fun?”

They lapse into companionable bickering about what makes someone suited for one of the houses but soon are interrupted by a pudgy blonde boy throwing the door open to the compartment. 

“Have any of you seen Trevor? He’s a toad! About this big,” the boy says, holding his two hands very close together.

“No man, just got my lump of a rat Scabbers here,” Ron says, patting a blob in his pocket. 

“I’ll help you look,” Hermione says, standing up. “I’m Hermione Granger.”

“Neville Longbottom,” the boy hurriedly responds. “Oh, my gran will kill me if I lose Trevor the very first day.”

Harry isn’t sure if this is hyperbole and he finds himself standing as well. He knows what it means to have an angry family and be scared about it. 

“I reckon one of the older students can do an Accio for you – it’s a fourth-year spell and I can’t do it yet but we can ask.”

Ron’s eyes light up. “I’ll go get Percy. He’s my older brother and he’s a prefect. He can fix this.”

Ron does indeed lead the four of them to a car and throws it open. Sitting in it are very important-looking older students with shiny badges attached to their uniforms. 

“Ron?” Says one such teen with red hair just as bright as Ron’s. 

“Percy, can you accio Trevor the toad?”

Percy rolls his eyes but takes out a wand and says, “Accio ‘Trevor the Toad.’”

A small toad comes zooming into the compartment and into Percy’s hands. Neville grabs the toad babbling nonsensical words of gratitude before Hermione leads everyone back to the compartment. 

Ron calls out a hasty, “Thanks, Perce!”

Even after they've all sat again, Neville still hasn’t stopped hugging the toad. “I don’t want to make my Gran upset. She was ever so pleased that I got my letter, you know it took loads for my first bit of magic.”

“Did it?” Ron says. “Let’s hear what it was, then.”

"Great Uncle Algie came round for tea and he was hanging me out of an upstairs window by the ankles when my Great Auntie Enid offered him a meringue and he accidentally let go. But I bounced ' all the way down the garden and into the road."

Ron laughs good-naturedly and Neville looks encouraged by the response. He puffs up with pride. 

“Oh, the whole family was celebrating. Haven’t stopped really. It was the best day of my life.”

Harry and Hermione share a look of absolute horror. Harry asks, tentatively, “What would have happened if you hadn’t bounced?”

Neville titles his head, “If I hadn’t? Might’ve died, I suppose.” He shrugs. “But I didn’t.”

Harry knows what he will be writing to Mr. Maurice. “That’s –” he struggles to find a word big enough, “ abhorrent .”

“Disgusting,” Hermione agrees emphatically. “What was he even doing, holding you out by the ankles?”

“Just trying to scare some magic out. It’s perfectly normal,” Neville assures her.

Ron agrees, “Yeah, all the wizard families do it. Got to know if you’re raising a squib.”

Harry says, cooly, “A squib?”

“A non-magical kid in a magical family,” Ron answers. “We’ve got one. He’s an accountant or something I think. No one ever talks about him.”

Hermione shakes. “Even if it’s normal to hang children out by their ankles here, it should not be.”

“Don’t worry. I’m glad it happened!” Neville says, “But I am worried about the sorting. Gran says I’ll be lucky to make Hufflepuff. What if they send me back because I don’t have enough magic.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Ron says. “If you didn’t have enough magic, you wouldn’t have gotten a letter.”

Harry says nothing, just thinks about if he can really imagine staying in a world where letting kids without magic die is normal.

Wizards, he decides, are very strange. And even if he is one, he must be very careful not to always be like one. 

***

They change into their robes before they arrive at the school grounds. Across a dark lake that reflects light from large glass windows, Harry sees an enormous stone castle. It is large in a way that seems almost unstable, tall spires climbing into the sky against all the rules of physics. 

It is frightening. It is also beautiful. Harry likes it at once, even if some part of him feels he shouldn’t.

The first years are told by a large man to get, “Four into a boat!”

Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Neville pile into one together. 

“There’s a giant squid that lives in this lake,” Hermione says.

“Oh right,” Harry says, “We read about it in Hogwarts: a History.”

Ron moans. “If this is what Ravenclaw is like, I’m not sure I want it.”

Hermione glares. “If this is what you’re like, I don’t think Ravenclaw wants you. ”

They stick their tongues out at each other. They are, indeed, eleven. 

Before they enter the great hall, they meet ghosts and a severe woman named Minerva McGonagall. Once they’ve cleaned themselves up, they enter the most beautiful room Harry has ever seen. 

“Even if I knew the ceiling would look like this, it’s still incredible,” he whispers, staring up at all the stars and floating candles. 

Hermione takes his hand and squeezes. “I think I’m dreaming.”

The two of them stand in a line with the other first years and learn that they will be sorted via magical hat. It even sings them a song about all the houses.

Magic is perhaps even weirder than wizards, Harry decides.

Hermione sits on the stool for 45 seconds. Harry counts every single one. The hat makes a single huff, and then yells out “RAVENCLAW!”

Neville is sorted second. He sits on the stool with clenched fists. After a few minutes, the hat calls out, “GRYFFINDOR!”

Harry applauds and Neville starts toward the table still wearing the hat. He is called back and returns it blushing, but then goes to join the lion’s table. It’s small, but he’s clearly smiling. 

Harry is called up, and a hush falls over everyone. “Harry Potter?” the whispers ask. “Is that really him?”

Harry suddenly feels self-conscious about how short he is and how his glasses are still something he’s growing into. He sits on the stool slumping and pretending no one can see him even though they very clearly can. 

“Hmm, difficult, very difficult,” says a voice in his ear, “you seem to be about suited for everywhere. There’s plenty of courage, yes, but cunning too. And oh, you do like working hard and have loyalty like few others, but this desire for learning is so very strong. What to do – what to do.”

“Ravenclaw please,” Harry says. 

“Yes, you would do well there. But what about Gryffindor? Your parents went there, you know.”

“I never knew them. Ravenclaw, please.”

“And Slytherin would get you to where you need to go. You’d make true friends there.”

More forcefully, Harry recalls every moment he spent learning about chemistry and balancing equations and reading and writing, and doing anything he could with his brain. He recalls that his first happy memories are him pouring over science with Mr. Maurice. “Ravenclaw, thank you,” Harry says again.

“Fine then, you stubborn thing. RAVENCLAW.”

Harry slides off the stool. The hall has been shocked into stunned silence. Only Hermione is clapping for him. He gives her a brilliant grin and goes off to join her.

When Ron sits on the stool, the hat has barely touched his head before it begins to call out “GRYFFI –” but then it stops and says, “OH. That’s different.”

The hat goes silent. And stays silent. Ron appears to be whispering things under his breath and is in an argument with the hat. It begins to call out, “GRYFFIND–” but Ron shouts out, “NO!”

The hat says, “NOT RAVENCLAW!”

Dumbledore, from the front of the room, serenely says, “That certainly does help narrow it down.”

After another five minutes of what appears to be an agonizing debate, the hat sighs in a distinctly human-like manner. Rather than shout, it lets out a weak-sounding, "Slytherin."

It mumbles, even more quietly, "I guess."

Chapter Text

She is born strong and healthy on the eve of the summer solstice. 

“A good omen,” her grandparents say, nodding approvingly at her exhausted mother.

Her eyes are blue as all newborn eyes are, but her eyebrows are the color of spun gold, just like the hair of both her parents. Her face is red and tiny and she cries out with healthy lungs. Her father holds her close that first day, pride shining in his silver eyes.

She is named Lyra after the stars.

She is loved by all her family, for a time. 

She will not remember it well. 

***

From his place at the Ravenclaw table, Harry applauds Ron’s sorting. Two twins with Ron’s red hair color join in from the Gryffindor table, standing up to do it. Everyone else watches in a kind of slack-jawed shock as Ron slides the hat off his head and saunters over to the Slytherin table.

All the Slytherin students huddle together, leaving only one open space for the boy at the far end of the table. They glare at him before turning their heads away.

“They’re acting like he murdered someone,” Harry whispers to Hermione.

She nods. “Maybe tomorrow we can invite him to sit with us for meals. That looks an awful lot like bullying.”

If there’s one thing Harry and Hermione cannot abide by, it is bullying. 

A Ravenclaw girl to the left of Harry says, “Sorry, but couldn’t help but overhear. We don’t really mix houses during meals at Hogwarts.”

Harry asks, “Why?” He and Hermione share a look that communicates, “ We really couldn’t care less about what’s normally done if there’s bullying involved.”

The student shrugs. “Dunno. Just thought you should know. My name’s Cho, by the way.”

Hermione introduces herself and then Harry does the same. 

When he does, Cho laughs with her head thrown back. “Oh, trust me. I know.”

Harry feels his face warm and tunes in to the headmaster saying, “'Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber!”

Following his cryptic comments which have Hermione saying, “he’s supposed to be brilliant but he is rather eccentric, isn’t he?” and Harry nodding, the table groans under the sudden weight of piles and piles of food. There are meat pies, roast turkeys, fish and chips, cornish pasties, salads, rice dishes, and several selections of sandwiches. The goblet in front of Harry fills with an orange liquid that smells nothing like orange juice. 

He and Hermione stare at each other. 

“Let’s begin with a bread roll first, and then go from there,” she says. 

“That seems sensible,” Harry agrees. They both take deep breaths and place their napkins on their laps. Hermione and Mr. Maurice have both helped Harry learn table manners since he was never taught much about eating with the Dursleys given they only sometimes deigned to feed him. Sometimes he thinks maybe he overcorrects for the embarrassing way he used to scarf food down and hide it in his pockets those first few months he got lunches at his new school with Hermione and how he kept hoarding bread and snacks even when he began living with Mr. Maurice. 

Once he began feeling more secure and after many lessons with Mr. Maurice and Hermione, Harry makes sure to always be as methodical as possible when eating. 

The drink turns out to be pumpkin juice. Harry makes sure to eat his delicious roll slowly, tearing it into bite-sized pieces and dipping it in olive oil with a dash of balsamic vinegar.

Once he and Hermione are done with their rolls, they load their plates first with a few salads. Harry makes sure to select the correct fork, working outside in. 

After the salads, Harry isn’t all that hungry but he manages a bit of cornish pasty and some chips.

While he and Hermione work through their meal, they learn the names of their year mates. Cho, it turns out is a second year. 

Harry isn’t sure about all the boys in his year, Terry Boot, Anthony Goldstein, and Michael Corner all seem to be different kinds of people from Harry. Anthony in particular will not stop talking about how impressive his wand is and how much his clothes for the year cost. 

The girls all seem lovely, however. He and a girl named Amanda Brocklehurst (call me Mandy!) get into an amazing conversation about the economic slowdown in Japan and another girl from Harry's year joins in the conversation. Hermione adds some of her own thoughts, and the conversation naturally slides into a debate over whether or not countries that lost in the second world war should ever be allowed to redevelop militaries. Two other girls in the year, Morag McDougal and Padma Patil reveal that they do not know anything about muggle history, so then Harry, Mandy, and Hermione launch into a lecture about the first world war because it has the necessary context for the second world war. 

It is a fun conversation that Harry enjoys quite a bit, and he is a bit sad when he is led by prefect Penelope Clearwater up the moving spiral staircase to the Ravenclaw dorm. He is mollified by Padma and Morag excitedly asking to hear more about the end of the first world war and all about the second whenever they get time. Hermione asks if they’ll also tell her about wizarding history, to which they respond, “Of course!”

Penelope Clearwater shushes them once they reach the entrance to the Ravenclaw dorms and explains that students get into the dorm by solving riddles and asks one of the first years to volunteer to open the door.

Hermione’s hand goes up first and she comes to the front of the little group of first years. The door is solid bronze and the knocker is a three-dimensional detailed eagle with a sapphire belly. The wings flutter ever so slightly. 

When Hermione comes in front of the knocker, the wings spread and the eagle’s beak opens. The eagle’s voice is decidedly not human. It sounds as if the words are formed from the rustle of leaves in a light summer breeze. “I speak and yet I have no mouth. I hear and yet I have no ears. I have no body, yet I come alive with the wind. What am I?”  

Hermione tugs on one of her curls. Her brow furrows as she mouths the words to herself. Her eyes light up when she comes to an answer. “I am an echo,” she muses aloud. 

“Well done,” the eagle praises, and the door swings open. 

“Nice job,” Penelope says, giving Hermione’s head a pat. Hermione beams. 

The first years shuffle inside. The common room takes Harry breath away. The room is circular with many shades of blue silk hung from shining bronze flowers all across the ceiling. Their interlacing pattern gives a feeling of airiness and like Harry has found himself either in the sky or the ocean, he can’t quite decide. 

There are enormous arched windows that show all the shining stars. 

Rich rugs decorate the floor, there are many sofas and ottomans scattered about, and there is a huge marble fireplace.

But what catches Harry’s eyes the most are all the books. Inlaid in the walls are several layers of bronze-colored shelves filled in with books pressed so close together, it looks as if there’s barely enough space to hold them all. 

“When the sun comes up tomorrow you’ll be able to see the best view in all of Hogwarts. We’ve got the Quidditch pitch, the grounds, the forbidden forest, and of course, the herbology gardens. For now, you’ll all be off to bed. As ground rules, all books are fair game just make sure to bring them back within the week. If you don’t, you’ll get an enchanted note telling you to return whatever you borrowed. And by enchanted, I mean a howler. Also, if you need any help, we’ve got a list of tutors for all your subjects on the board in the alcove by the staircase. They each put whatever hours they’ll be available to help you in the library or here, make sure to check. Girls can go to boys’ dorms, boys can’t get to girls. If you need a different dorm than the one you’re assigned, let us know and we’ll fix it for you. That’s it for now, welcome to Ravenclaw!”

They all chorus back, “Thank you!”

Harry settles happily into his room with the three other boys. He’s in the left corner by the window. He’s got a large four-poster bed covered with a sky blue eiderdown and navy blue curtains. It’s beautiful and the bed is rather comfortable. When he’s drawn the curtains, he quickly tries his hand at casting a Lumos. 

The light that ends up shining from his wand is a tad dimmer than he’d like but serves his purposes just fine. He writes his first letter home talking about what house he’s sorted and about Neville’s story.

He hesitates but writes one final line before adding his signature. 

I miss you already. 

Love, 

Harry

He’ll post it after classes tomorrow. Satisfied, he ends the charm on his wand and goes to sleep. 

***

When Harry stumbles out into the common room the next morning, Hermione is already waiting for him. “Come look at the window!” she commands.

As Penelope Clearwater promised, the view from the arched windows is indeed stunning. Harry’s eyes are drawn to the herbology garden and he smiles at all the plants growing in their places and the few dancing toadstools (magic mushrooms) he can see with the glasses Mr. Maurice brought him.

“I can’t believe we get to see this every day,” he says.

“It still feels like I’m dreaming,” Hermione confesses. “What if it turns out I don’t have any magic?” she asks him. 

“Impossible,” Harry decides. 

Hermione gives him a grateful smile. “Time for breakfast?”

Harry nods. “Definitely.” 

They are joined by Mandy, Padma, and Morag on the way. The four of them sit down and Harry sees Ron sitting alone at the Slytherin table again. 

He calls out, “Ron! Want to eat with us?”

A bright smile spreads over the boy’s face. “That’d be bril!” He stands up immediately. One of the students catches his wrist and shakes their head.

Ron tugs his wrist harder until the grip breaks and comes over. 

Mandy whispers, “What are you doing?”

“Trying to eat with a friend,” Harry responds. 

Ron comes over shortly after and slides into a space Harry made on his right. “You will not believe the time I’m having.”

Harry butters some toast. “What’s going on?”

“Slytherins are crazy. They’re all like, ‘you’re a blood traitor who belongs in Gryffindor. We don’t want you blah blah blah. Watch your back, Weasel.’ It doesn't bother me, though.” Ron sniffs. 

Hermione says, “It would bother me.”

Ron grabs an apple and tosses it in the air before fumbling to catch it. His face loses some of its confidence. “I mean, yeah. It’s not…great.” 

“Always welcome to eat here,” Harry says. 

“It’s not against the rules,” Padma hedges. 

Ron knocks his shoulder against Harry. “Thanks. I think things will get better.”

“Why’s that?” Mandy asks. 

“I challenged the first years to a chess tournament.”

“That helps how,” Hermione asks. 

Ron tosses his hair. “If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s chess.”

“I’m pants at it,” Harry says.

“He is,” Hermione affirms. 

A flurry of owls interrupts the conversation and newspapers and letters are dropped onto the table. Harry receives a handsome envelope addressed to him in Mr. Maurice’s curling script. 

He opens it up excitedly. 

Dear Harry,

I fear I miss you already and it’s only been a few hours. I do not have much to say beyond that, but I hope that you have a good first day at school and enjoy everything magic you will see. Be good and do good.

Love,

Granda Blake

P.S.

I have enclosed a bonbon for you because learning should always be sweet

Harry folds the note and puts it in his pocket and finds that the envelope does indeed contain a red-foil-wrapped sweet. He eats that immediately, cheeks stretching with a smile. 

A shout from the Gryffindor twins has Harry turning his head. “Mum’s sent us a howler!”

They hold up an envelope that indeed begins shouting in the tone of an irate woman: “I DON’T KNOW HOW YOU SENT GINNY A TOILET SEAT BEFORE THE FIRST DAY OF CLASSES BUT YOU ARE IN A WORLD OF TROUBLE, YOUNG MEN. I AM ASHAMED OF YOU AND YOU OUGHT TO ME ASHAMED OF YOURSELVES. IT WAS NOT FUNNY AND IT WAS ALSO NOT HYGENIC. OH!” The tone of the letter abruptly changes to something much warmer but no less loud, “AND CONGRATULATIONS RON ON YOUR SORTING. SLYTHERIN, LOVE? FOLLOWING IN YOUR GRANDMOTHER’S FOOTSTEPS.”

Ron’s entire colors red and the twins sink in their seats as the envelope bursts into flames. 

“What was that?” Hermione asks.

“A howler,” Padma responds.

Harry startles. “ That’s what we’ll get if we don’t return a book from the Ravenclaw shelves?”

Padma nods gravely. “Brutal.”

***

The first class of the day is potions which has Harry shaking slightly from excitement. “This is going to be my favorite class, I can tell already,” he tells his friends.

“Not mine,” Mandy responds. “I’m more of a theory person.”

“I heard that Snape is really mean,” another girl in their year, Lisa Turpin, says. 

“Professor Snape, Lisa,” Hermione corrected absentmindedly on their walk.

“I heard he’s a genius,” Harry says. “Youngest professor in Hogwarts. His class is going to be great.”

“If you say so,” Padma responds, doubtfully. 

They enter the dungeon room as a pack and settle onto tables that remind Harry a lot of lab benches. He likes the room at once.

The Hufflepuffs come a few moments later, also as a pack and chatting amiably amongst themselves. They all smile at the Ravenclaws and Harry thinks they are all charming. Everyone pulls out their papers and has their quills at the ready.

Professor Snape enters the room the moment the class officially starts, a dark robe flaring behind him dramatically as he strides forward. 

He stands at the front of the room and observes all the students with narrowed, black eyes. He looks particularly cold when his gaze lands on Harry. Harry gulps. 

“You are in potions class. There will be no wand-waving and no blustering here. Brute force and unfocused magic will get you nowhere in this class. I expect almost none of you to possess the finesse…the subtlety required to be truly excellent. To those of you who truly have the disposition, I can teach you how to bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses. I can tell you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even put a stopper in death. To succeed, you will need to listen to me and to your potions. I expect most of you to fail.”

His lips curl around the word, ‘fail,’ and he makes direct eye contact with Harry. 

He walks forward, his footfalls heavy and making light echoes in the silence of the room. 

“Mr. Potter,” he says in a soft yet dangerous tone, “Our new…celebrity.”

Harry stares at the ground. He doesn’t like being called that, especially not by the person he thought would be his favorite professor. 

“What is the main ingredient of dreamless sleep?”

Dreamless sleep is not a first-year potion, but the theory behind it is included in the first-year textbook. Harry recalls the information easily. “Sopophorous bean,” he answers, “although there is some debate because Italian potion makers prefer to rely more heavily on the chamomile.”

Professor Snape turns his head away from Harry, “We are not Italian. Can someone else tell me where we would find a bezoar?”

Hermione raises her hand. “The stomach of a goat, sir!”

“Or a potion kit,” he adds. “Well done, two points to Ravenclaw. Write this down, everyone!”

Harry received no points for his answer.

The class is divided into pairs with one Ravenclaw and one Hufflepuff. 

“There happens to be an odd number of students, so I will have one of you work alone. Mr. Potter, that will be you.”

Harry startles, “Why, sir?”

“Three points from Ravenclaw for talking back. And why? Because I said so, Mr. Potter. I will not abide by you relying on the work of another student and passing it off as your own. Today we will be brewing a Boil-Cure potion. It is absurdly easy, and should be quite possible alone.”

Harry clenches his fists, feeling so disappointed in Professor Snape because he seems to be a bully. 

Harry goes to work alone, carefully gathering all the ingredients. Once he’s brewing though, the whole rest of the world fades away. His focus narrows down to the preparation of the ingredients, the careful science of when to add everything, and the art of mixing it all together.

At the end of the class period, Harry bottles his ruby red potion. He knows from the color that it is perfect.

He stands in line to present his work to the professor. 

Professor Snape holds each potion up for inspection and gives judgment. To one pair, he says, “Poor. This is pink. You added porcupine too early.”

To another, he says, “Dreadful. You forgot to heat it, are you daft?”

To Hermione and her Hufflepuff partner, he gives a small nod. “It is a weak red, but it would get the job done. Two points each to Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff.”

When it is finally Harry’s turn (he’s at the end of the line) he presents his perfect potion hoping for something similar. 

Snape holds up the ruby potion to the light and puts it on his desk. He says nothing. 

Harry stands, waiting. 

Professor Snape says, after a long pause, “Class dismissed.”

Chapter Text

Previously on Song of the Forgotten:

A mysterious girl with golden hair named Lyra was born and her family loved her.

Harry meets his year mates and doesn't much like the boys.

He brews a perfect potion, but Snape doesn't seem to care at all and ignores it.

Now, back to the story!

Her eyes are sapphire blue as she greets her first birthday in a party too splendid for her age. Lyra will not remember it.

She has a little toy dragon that helps her toddle around the manor and she giggles as she’s passed around to family members.

“Any sign of her first magic?” Her grandfather asks her mother.

“Not yet,” Lyra's mother responds, unbothered.

“She’s young,” Lyra’s grandfather remarks. “You didn’t show a sign until you were three.”

“She has time,” her father says. Still, he has a wrinkle in his brow and the barest hint of a frown.

If nothing else, Lyra will remember his unhappy expression.

***

During breakfast, the Slytherins are incredibly loud and Harry hears an argument between Ron and Draco. Draco is screaming and going red in the face and the prefect, Gemma Farley, slams her hands down on the table.

“Oh shut up already, Malfoy,” she says. “He beat you seven times. There’s no conspiracy. There’s no cheating. He’s just really good at chess and better than you.”

Malfoy stands nearly trembling with rage in front of the Slytherin table. “He can’t be. He can’t be! I learned chess with tutors from Russia. From Russia! His chess set must have helped him win.”

“I beat you five times using your chess set,” Ron points out, sliding what looks like 100 galleons into a pouch.

Harry catches Ron's eye and grins. Ron waves and shrugs in a satisfied sort of way.

After breakfast, the Ravenclaws travel as a pack to their next class.

They arrive to charms absurdly early, in Harry’s opinion. They still have fifteen minutes until class starts. The Hufflepuffs are already in the classroom and all wave cheerfully at the Ravenclaws. After the first lesson they shared in potions, they all feel quite friendly. Harry and Hermione sit next to a couple of Hufflepuff girls, Susan Bones and Hannah Abbot. 

“And here I thought we got here early,” Hermione says to both girls, appreciatively. 

“We wanted to make sure we weren’t late the first day,” Susan says.

“Smart,” Harry responds. 

They sit in a slightly awkward silence for a few moments.

“Want a piece of bubble-sculpture gum?” Hannah offers, holding up a pink stick of what looks like muggle gum.

“Sure, thanks” Harry accepts. Hermione hits him. He stares at her. “What?”

She sniffs. “What if you’re allergic?”

“Then I’ll find a magical epi-pen. Never know until you try.” With a flourish, he tosses the stick of gum into his mouth and starts chewing.

“You blow like this,” Hannah demonstrates, sticking her tongue out of her mouth just a little and blowing just like Harry is used to. Instead of the typical bubble, a fully formed bubble rose appears, petals and leaves and all until Hannah folds it back into her mouth. “Fun, right? I only ever can do flowers, though.”

Susan grins and blows her own bubble, a unicorn. “I can do anything that’s equine in nature. I’ve done unicorns, pegasi, abraxans, zebras, horses, and one time…” she lowers her voice and leans forward with a proud gleam in her eyes, “I even did a thestral!”

Hannah and Hermione gasp.

“Did not,” Hannah denies. 

“Did so!”

“How would you even know what one looks like?” As soon as Hannah says it, she seems to kick herself. “Suzie, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

A dark shadow passes over Susan’s face. She shakes herself and tosses a lock of hair over her shoulder. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Harry gives his gum a few chews. It tastes sweet but decidedly fruity, like sugared strawberries and honey on plums. “What’s a thestral?” he asks. 

“They’re winged skeleton horses that you can only see if you’ve witnessed a death,” Hermione says. “They’re generally friendly and can move faster than almost any other magical animal.”

“Ah,” he says, and gives Susan an understanding smile. “Very cool bubbles.”

She blushes a bit. “Thanks. Now you have to try. They say your first bubble reveals a lot about someone.”

“No pressure,” Harry jokes.

“None at all!” both Hufflepuff girls assure, genuine as anything.

Harry blows a bubble. It stretches in front of him. Harry goes cross-eyed trying to see what he’s made. 

“It’s a boy,” Hermione says perplexed. “He’s got a shirt and trousers, only he doesn’t have any shoes.”

“Oh, interesting!” Susan says, staring at Harry’s bubble. “He’s made a squib.”

“He looks kind of like a young Mr. Maurice," Hermione notes.

Harry sucks the gum back in. “How could you tell it was a squib?”

“Well he was barefoot, wasn’t he?” Hannah says as if that explains anything. “Here blow another one.”

Harry obliges. 

“It’s a little girl this time,” Hermione says. “With two braids and a cute dress. She’s holding a stuffed animal but she also doesn’t have any shoes.”

“I’ve never met someone who blows bubbles of squibs,” Susan says. “I’ve no idea what that means.”

Harry spits out the gum, feeling a bit odd. “Why don’t squibs wear shoes?”

“Dunno,” Susan says. “They just don’t get any.”

Harry is going to ask more, but then Flitwick sashays into the class. 

The man in question has dark grey eyes and a smart suit with brass buttons and a deep blue set of robes over the top. He is short, almost absurdly so, but Harry is short too and some distant part of him is a bit pleased to no longer be the shortest person in the class.

The man sort of hops to a stack of books at the front of the classroom so he can be taller, and he has a pleasant sort of absent smile on his face. 

He takes the register and begins going down the list of students in the class. 

When he says, “Harry Potter,” he gives an excited squeak and topples out of sight. He reappears a moment later, smiling widely and hopping back onto the books. 

He says, “Ever so sorry. Best that I be the first one to fall in class though, show you all how it’s nothing to be ashamed of!”

He continues on without toppling, and no one makes a comment about how Harry’s ears have turned absolutely red.

“Today we will be working on ‘wingardium leviosa,’ a charm for making inanimate objects levitate or fly. There are two important things to remember, the wrist movements and the words. ‘Swish and flick,’” Flitwick says, making a sort of swish and flick with his hand. “Now you try. Wands down, at the start.”

Everyone raises their hands and practices the motion as Flitwick demonstrates and says, “swish and flick. Very good, though Mr. Boot, please be a bit more confident with the swish. Yes, there you go, well done.”

Flitwick then says, “And the words. ‘Wingardium Leviosa’” make sure you get it right, say the words with me now.”

And all the students repeat the words again and again until they feel familiar. 

Flitwick says, “Two points each to Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff. Now here’s the fun part, put them both together!”

And he holds his wand, says the words, swishes and flicks, and a feather in front of him rises into the air. 

Harry and Hermione look at each other and at the feathers in front of him.

Harry closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to see if it doesn’t work. 

“Wingardium leviosa,” he whispers, swishing and flicking and envisioning the feather floating into the sky Very Hard. 

“WELL DONE!” Flitwick bellows. “MR. POTTER AND MS. GRANGER HAVE DONE IT!”

Harry opens his eyes in a squint to see his feather and Hermione’s bopping along quite pleasantly near the ceiling.

“Oh,” he hears himself say distantly. “That’s nice.”

***

Transfiguration begins with Professor McGonagall masquerading as a cat and ends with Hermione falling in love with the transfiguration professor. 

In the time between these two events, the students attempt to turn matches into needles. Harry visualizes quite clearly the difference in the chemical composition of wood and steel, namely how wood is mostly cellulose and steel is an iron alloy. He envisions replacing lots of the carbon atoms and all of the hydrogen and oxygen atoms in wood instead with iron, thinking about the difference in weight and bonds.

He ends up with a perfect steel match, strong and not at all oxidized though it surely will corrode with time. 

It looks nothing like a needle.

Hermione, however, has achieved a needle. 

“What metal did you go for?” He asks her.

She squints at him, “Couldn’t tell you. I just wanted a needle.”

At the end of class, they all present their attempts. Most students have something a bit pointy or a bit shiny. 

Hermione is the only success, and McGonagall gives her a rare smile and points for Ravenclaw. When she looks at Harry’s perfectly steel match-shaped object, she leans in. She picks it up and taps it against the desk, and then takes off her spectacles and taps it against those too.

“This is the best metal I have ever seen a first-year student produce,” she says in vague surprise. 

“Oh, thank you,” Harry says.

“It seems to be perfect steel. Truly, many adults would struggle with getting a perfect metal in transfiguration. But you have failed to make a needle.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry responds, staring at his lap.

“You have talent, Mr. Potter. Chin up, lad.” Harry raises his head as his professor continues on: “I suggest focusing a bit more on the function next time instead of just the material. Being able to change material and function is the whole art of transfiguration.”

“Right,” Harry says. “I will.”

She doesn’t smile at him, but her expression softens just slightly. “See that you do.” To the class she instructs them all to write, “ten inches by next Tuesday. Now off you go.”

***

During astronomy, Harry pays rapt attention even as most of his year mates fall asleep around him. He lies next to Ron and doesn’t comment on his friend’s split lip or Malfoy’s black eye. 

He just points out the constellations. Ron says, “Bloody hell, when’s looking at stars gonna do anything?”

Harry laughs. “I dunno if I believe it, but Professor Sinistra says we’ll be able to memorize the moon and interpret star charts.”

“Load of centaur stuff, this is.”

“Well, better to know something isn’t useful than wonder what we're missing, that’s what Mr. Maurice says.”

“Classic Ravenclaw.”

The next day, Harry is rather exhausted, but he manages to do alright in herbology and he’s well rested by the time comes around for another day of potions.

This time they brew respiration aid, an easy potion to help athletes breathe better after a difficult time exercising. 

Harry once again brews alone. 

He loses himself in the crushing of the wicker-wonder root and the stirring of the potion, six times clockwise and four and a half times counterclockwise.

It turns out a light yellow color and is perfectly opaque, which is precisely how it should look. His potion is the only one to achieve a perfect opacity.

Snape again gives everyone else comments and accepts Harry’s potion without so much as a word. 

“Well?” Harry asks. “How’d I do?”

Snape stares Harry down with a curl of his lip. He leans forward ever so slightly. “It is not your place to question a professor. You would do well to remember.” 

Harry feels his face heating up. “I just wanted to learn.”

Snape turns his head away. “Leave, Potter. Class is over. Oh, and a point from Ravenclaw for your cheek.”

Potions continue. Harry brews perfect potion after perfect potion and is ignored. He gets graded “Acceptable” across the board when he should be getting Outstandings.

He stops expecting Snape to say anything to him.

Mr. Maurice writes to him to suggest, “Just buggering off and doing what you find interesting. You’ll ace the exams when you’re a fifth-year student, so enjoy the class. It doesn't matter if you get graded down, you’re not being graded fairly now.”

So Harry takes his advice to heart. In the next class when they are supposed to brew a shrinking potion, Harry instead brews a perfect minimizing potion. Instead of shrinking an object, a minimizing potion will shrink a person. The two potions are similar, but minimizing potion is much more complicated and requires many more skills. It is an OWL-level potion but Harry’s already read through the NEWT curriculum and he knows which ingredients to grab. He only needs to grab one more thing than the shrinking potion requires.

He gets to work, and at the end of the class, he has a rose-tinted potion. It’s flawless.

He presents it in line and immediately turns away.

“Mr. Potter,” Snape’s voice calls out, sharp. Harry turns back to see Snape examining the potion under the light. 

“What have you made me?”

“My best attempt.”

“At what, Mr. Potter? Shrinking potions should be pink in color. This is rose.”

Harry shrugs. “Must’ve made a mistake then. Figures. I’m only an acceptable student after all.”

Snape’s eyes narrow. “You must have added something to get this color. Something I did not give your permission to add.”

“Fairy wings,” Harry says, confidently. “I thought any changes would be minimized by the chamomile.”

Snape places the potion down on his desk. His lips quirk once as if almost hoping to smile. Harry blinks and the expression is gone. “Detention. You may never use materials not listed in my instructions. It will be Saturday with Mr. Filch.”

Harry leaves class beaming, to Hermione’s consternation.

“Harry, you just got detention! Why are you smiling?”

Harry gives her the cheesiest finger guns he’s ever done in his life. “Because I got Snape to talk to me!”

Hermione rolls her eyes. “Professor Snape, Harry.”

“If that’s what he is to you.”

***

Blake sits at his kitchen table, reading the same line over and over again from one of Harry’s letters. 

I don’t know why, but for some reason, squibs don’t wear shoes. That’s what everyone keeps telling me. But I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t some wizards give their children shoes? I hate how everyone talks about them like they don’t matter. 

I don’t know about wizards. 

There’s more to the letter, but Blake keeps going back to the words, “squibs don’t wear shoes.”

A memory of a day far in his past floats to his mind. 

He’s cold, walking on a London street with trousers and a long-sleeve shirt as rain beats down on his back and drips down his face. His feet are bare and scratched up from bits of glass on the ground. It smells like cigarettes and mold and wet asphalt and he can see his breath in white puffs made in the frigid air.

He’s found by a kindly police officer named Lionel Jameson who adopts him a few months later.

Blake still has the case file buried somewhere of that day, his first day of memories. Even if Lionel's long dead now, that file, along with his many wise lessons, remains. 

He goes up to the attic and sorts through all the boxes, the newest ones filled with pictures of Harry and the older ones with pictures of his daughters.

He finds the box he’s looking for and pulls out the worn thing from its plastic covering, blowing the dust away. It scatters sepia-toned with his breath. 

There, in the print of a typewriter, he sees Lionel’s report. 

Found a child walking on his own. It must have been no more than four degrees out. The child was walking without any shoes and his feet were all bloody. When asked, couldn’t remember his parents or where he lived. Looked between ten and eleven.

He just kept saying one thing over and over: “Black Maurice Black Maurice Black Maurice Black, you mustn’t forget, mustn't forget, mustn't forget.”

Chapter Text

She’s four years old and tugging on the sleeves of her mother’s silver and pink embroidered robes. “When will I be able to do magic?”

Her mother’s face pinches.  “I don’t know, Lyra.”

Lyra thinks about it for a minute. “I think it would be fun to not have any magic.”

Her mother gently takes Lyra’s hand in hers so it stops tugging on the expensive robes. “How so?” She asks, a slight tremble in her voice. 

“Everyone has magic here. It’s so boring. I wanna be cool, like a muggly! They live just fine without any magic, isn’t that so amazing?”

“No, dearest. Muggles are like cockroaches. They are best fit for being crushed beneath our boots.”

Lyra tugs her hand free from her mother’s grasp and crouches on the ground. “I’m a cockroach,” she says, giggling. “You can be my mummy cockroach and we’ll have to hide from boots!”

Her mother gingerly joins Lyra on the floor and tugs her daughter into her arms. “You mustn’t speak like that,” she says. “People will start to get the wrong idea. Promise me, darling.”

Lyra relaxes into her mother’s hold feeling safe and warm. “Promise.”

***

Harry knocks on Filch’s door before entering. It is small and dark. There are no windows anywhere. The room smells of fish and mold. There is a single moth-bitten chair that is a few different shades of oily brown. It sits behind a rickety desk at least ten years too old for use and surrounded by overflowing wooden filing cabinets that look one blow from collapse. A single oil lamp swings from the ceiling, the flame sputtering and on the verge of extinguishment. 

Harry takes a deep breath and reminds himself that he is not in his cupboard. He can’t help but feel claustrophobic anyway as he steps past the doorway. It may be larger than his cupboard was, but it feels the same – windowless, dark, and out of the way as if no one wants to see whatever, whoever is inside. 

The man sitting in the moth-bitten chair has a face with deep-set wrinkles and long but limp grey hair with the barest hint of a receding hairline. He is bent over a book that Harry reads, “Kwikspell: Beginner’s Guide to Magic.”

Harry clears his throat. Filch immediately looks up with a sharp glare, tosses the book into a desk drawer, and a cat jumps onto the table. It hisses at Harry once before hopping off the table to rub against his legs. “Oh, hello, there,” he softly says. 

“Sneaking about, were you?” Filch says, voice like gravel that can cut.

“Err, no,” Harry says, still preoccupied with the cat weaving between his legs, tail high in the air. “Just came for my detention, sir.”

“The Potter boy, of course. I do have nasty things planned for you.”

“Delighted to hear it,” Harry replies. The cat eyes Harry for a moment before beginning to climb his leg with sharp claws. “Sorry, ow! Could you just call back your cat?” The cat in question hisses at the suggestion, having made it to Harry’s hip and still attempting to go up higher.

“Mrs. Norris goes where she pleases,” Filch responds, “I suggest holding her in your arms if she’ll let you.”

“Oh, okay,” Harry says, “Never really met a cat before who wasn’t my professor.” He puts his arm right above his hip and the cat, Mrs. Norris, immediately jumps onto it. Harry doesn’t know what comes over him, but he ends up cradling the cat against his chest like he’s seen some parents do for their babies.

She immediately begins purring and Harry can’t help a soft smile spread across his face. “Oh,” he says in a sense of wonderment, “she’s beautiful.”

Filch’s voice comes out a great deal warmer than it had been only moments prior, “She is. Been with me through some real tough moments, she has.”

The purrs, if at all possible, increase in volume. Filch sighs. “She doesn’t normally take to people. You can spend your detention here, I suppose. Play with her and then clean out her litterbox.”

“What about the nasty things, sir?”

“Never seen a litterbox, have you?” Is the dry response with which he is rewarded. 

Harry is instructed to make a puzzle for Mrs. Norris to keep her brain active and ends up creating a three-tiered maze with hidden treats for her to navigate using a mixture of the cabinets and some of the charms he’s learned. 

He notices Filch flinching the moment Harry pulled out his wand, but does not end up saying anything once he sees Harry immediately use it to stick one cabinet to another. 

Harry plays with Mrs. Norris as Filch sits in his chair, looking over something different than the book Harry first saw. 

When Mrs. Norris finishes the puzzle, she leaps over to Filch. He pets her and says, “Aren’t you a genius?”

Harry carefully cleans up the maze and then sets to work on the litterbox, which is admittedly less awful than anticipated. He merely needs to scoop up some of the waste Mrs. Norris has left behind.

“Do I need to do anything else?”

Filch says, “Not yet. I will need to replace the litter in a few days, but this is still fine.”

“I could come back next time?”

Filch glares at Harry. “To replace the litter?”

“To see Mrs. Norris. And that too! I’m very good at doing chores.”

The cat perks up at her name and wanders back to rub against Harry’s legs. Filch steeples his fingers together. “Be here Wednesday at 7 PM. If you are one minute late, I’ll send you away. Now go!”

Harry pushes the door to the office wide open, heart enormously lighter. He likes cats, he decides.

But as soon he steps out of the dingy office into the open, window-packed castle, he can’t help but look behind him. He sees Filch sitting in a falling apart chair with just his cat for company, a sputtering lamp swinging from a rusted chain and leaving more shadows than light in its wake.

The door shuts.

***

Harry takes Snape’s words to heart and he never uses an extra ingredient in class. Instead, he carefully determines which potions he can make using the same ingredients as everyone else but with different ratios and methods. 

Each potion he produces is more challenging than the last, and each one turns out flawless. He begins getting graded with “trolls” as his potions have ceased resembling even slightly what he is supposed to be producing.

Harry couldn’t care less. Hermione keeps berating him. “You’re never going to be top of the class if you keep doing what you’re doing.”

The lowest grade she and her partner have gotten is an E.

“Snape will never grade me fairly. May as well learn something.”

“Professor Snape, Harry. And if that’s true, you should tell an adult. Teachers shouldn’t discriminate against their students.”

“Somehow I think the wizarding world could not care less about what should or shouldn’t happen. Thanks though.”

Hermione shakes her head. “At least you’re doing better in Transfiguration.”

And Harry is. He always focuses most on changing the chemical composition of one object to another, but he does spend some mental bandwidth imagining the new shape of whatever he is transfiguring. 

“I can’t wait for today’s class,” Harry says.

“Why’s that?”

“Turning water into wine is just up my alley.”

Hermione nudges Harry’s shoulder. “If I didn’t know your love for chemistry, I might think you have a problem.”

Harry nudges back. “I do. It’s just not alcoholism.”

When Hermione and Harry enter the transfiguration classroom, they see that every desk has a cup of water placed upon it. 

“As I spoke about with you all last class, today I ask that you transfigure water into wine. I do not expect any of you to drink more than a single sip of what you produce, and I will be cross if you do. Make sure you imagine taste and not simply color.”

Harry grins widely and gets to work with his mental transformation. He has been studying in preparation for class today ever since he learned the assignment. 

Mr. Maurice sent him some papers from Napa Valley about the chemical formulas of award-winning wines. 

Harry considers first the phenolic compounds found in good red wine. There should be more catechin than anything else, and it’s too easy to think of how to make catechin from water. It’s still just hydrogen and oxygen but with carbon added in. What’s the structure again?

He looks up, trying to remember.

“What are you doing?” Hermione hisses as he taps his fingers, trying to recall. She is bent over her cup, upset that the color is right but it is entirely flavorless. 

“C15H1406!” He shouts. That’s right.

“Chemistry?” Terry Boot, a Ravenclaw, says dryly. 

“He’s crazy for that muggle science,” Goldstein says. 

“Totally raving bonkers for it, yes I am,” Harry confirms, moving on to recalling the structure of gallic acid. 

Once he’s assembled all the phenolic compounds in his mind, he can consider the ethanol, glycerides, polysaccharides, and trace elements. He works hard on traces of oak for the casks of the wine and carefully ensures that in his head, the sugar content does not exceed one gram for every 175 ml.

When he has all his mental images in order, he finally takes his wand and taps the glass, and utters the proper words. 

The water immediately turns a deep red and loses its transparency. A bouquet of black currant, mint, and violet wafts from his glass. There are notes of oak and an unexpected hint of vanilla. 

Harry takes a very small sip.

“Bleg,” he says, wiping the back of his mouth.

“What’s wrong with it?” Hermione asks.

“Nothing, I think,” Harry responds, “I just don’t like wine.”

“Can I try?” 

“Sure.”

Hermione takes a sip and then gives it back to Harry, almost upset. “I should have known this class would be easy for you. It’s only been fifteen minutes and yours is already perfect.”

The words, “perfect” summon Professor McGonagall and she seemingly materializes out of thin air in front of Harry.

“That color is certainly promising,” she says. “Let’s see how well you’ve done, Mr. Potter.”

Harry passes her the cup with one leg shaking in excitement. “Yes please.”

McGonogall holds the glass by its stem and gives it a few swirls before bringing it up to her nose. “The aroma has hints of mint, currant, and oak. Very impressive.”

“Thank you.”

McGonogall closes her eyes and takes a sip of the wine, swishing it back and forth in her mouth before swallowing. Her eyes fly open in a wide-eyed expression of shock. She takes another sip, and another, and three more, until she puts the now half-empty glass back on Harry’s desk. She gives him an amazed smile. “Mr. Potter,” she begins, “I think that may have been the best wine I have ever tasted. That is a fine cabernet sauvignon. It is a far better transfiguration of water to wine than I have done. I almost hesitate to ask given your age, but how did you make this?”

Harry stares at her, shocked silent for a long moment, mouth hanging open. Hermione kicks him in his shins and then he comes back, blushing furiously. “It – it wasn’t much special. Anything special! I just read some of the manuals from the scientists making wine in Napa Valley and then studied the chemical composition of some award-winning wine and then thought about changing things not on a visual level but instead at the molecular level. But that’s what I always do! It was just easier this time because I didn’t have to think about the shape or anything.”

McGonogall gives Harry a disbelieving laugh. “Not hard, he tells me, approaching this art in a completely novel but genius way. Take ten points for Ravenclaw, young man.”

Harry can’t believe it and feels something warm inside his chest at all the praise. 

McGonogall crouches down for a moment until she is at Harry’s level. There’s something impossibly fond yet haunted in her eyes. “You ought to know,” she says voice almost a whisper the way Mr. Maurice’s voice sounds when he’s speaking of a sacred legend, “your father was also one of my best students.”

And then McGonogall is off to help other children in the class and Harry’s head in his hands as he thinks about his father sitting in this same room, his same age, maybe also turning water into wine. And Harry’s crying too, but he doesn’t even feel sad. Just like he’s part of something so big it’s overwhelming. 

Hermione abandons her potion which is more grape juice than wine and is hugging Harry. Padma joins right in.

“What happened?” Hermione asks. 

“My dad–” Harry says, choking on air, “My dad.”

“Your dad?” Padma asks.

“He – transfiguration. He was good at it too. She said.”

Hermione hugs him harder. “Oh, Harry.”

It takes a few minutes, Goldstein saying, “crybaby Potter,” and Padma dumping her utterly bizarre red mostly liquid substance that is certainly not wine on Goldstein’s head for Harry to stop and pull himself together. 

The liquid on Goldsetein’s head seems to solidify but whenever Goldstein tries to rub it off, it turns into a dripping mess.

McGonogall misses the whole thing because one of the Gryffindors somehow manages to break their cup by knocking it off the desk and the resulting shattered glass cuts three students. 

By the time all three students are healed, the only evidence of Harry’s brief episode are his red-rimmed eyes and the fact that Padma’s red non-newtonian fluid is all over Goldstein’s head.

McGonagall looks at Goldstein for a long moment and then banishes Padma’s creation from his person. “If I see anything like this fooling around again in my class, there will be punishments,” she says, turning to both of Goldstein and Padma.

“Yes ma’am,” they chorus. 

“Good.”

***

Harry wants to try doing a very complicated potion, the “Iris” potion. It’s a sixteenth-century invention that turns the eye color of its drinker rainbow for three to four weeks depending on potency. It’s a fast brew and uses all the same ingredients as the muscle relaxant potion the class will be brewing.

It has a very involved set of preparation instructions that are time sensitive and requires a spell. Harry knows he cannot use wands in potions class, so he has been practicing the spell over and over again without his wand. Once he says the spell, he will have thirty seconds to finish the potion. If he fails, he may face a volatile reaction where the potion catches fire. 

He’s prepared for that, though. Several people who have made the potion say that the fire will burn itself out in a minute and is not very dangerous so long as you have no hair in burning distance of the cauldron. 

So Harry is ready to enjoy himself when he gets to potions class on Tuesday morning. Susan Bones stares at him when Harry comes into the room.

“You have something very stupid planned,” she says with confidence. “I can see it on your face.”

“When does he not?” Hermione asks, resigned. 

“I am the picture of innocence,” Harry assures them. 

They give him dubious expressions. 

Then Snape sweeps into the room in an obviously foul mood, glaring at everyone and writing on the chalkboard in an especially vicious way. Hannah Abbot gulps.

The instructions and ingredients for the muscle relaxant are all written and Harry completely disregards them, instead focusing on his preparations in his head.

When they are dismissed to begin brewing, Harry moves quickly and methodically, preparing every single ingredient before heating his cauldron.

He puts the rosemary into the cauldron first, letting it toast for 89.3 seconds before dropping the quail egg and scrambling its contents with a copper spoon. Next, he dumps the measured rose water into the mixture, stirring with a glass pestle clockwise 8 times. With the pestle situated in the middle of the cauldron he throws in three diced Ashwinder scales. Without missing a moment because this is the most important part of the potion, he says, “ yurlungger,” carefully envisioning the Ashwinder scales turning into iridescent rainbow drops and on the chemical level all the keratins and carbons converting into hydrogen and oxygen. He pushes all the magic into the spell he can, trying to recreate the rushing feeling he gets sometimes when he uses a wand.

He stares in wonderment as the scales indeed turn rainbow, like cloud droplets in the bright sun before dissolving into the rest of the potion. He wiggles the glass pestle back and forth until the cauldron is all one color: a rich brown.

He takes the cauldron off the heat and holds his breath. This is the moment – either he will succeed or the potion will catch fire. 

The brown bubbles and then begins swirling, ripples of color running through. When the ripples stop, there is a cauldron full of sparkling, rainbow liquid that glows faintly. 

Harry pumps his fist and lets out an audible whoop. “I did it!” he says, laughing to himself. “I did it.”

“And what did you do?” Snape calls from the front of the classroom, displeasure written into every line of his body.

Harry can’t be bothered to be frightened or upset. He did wandless magic! He made a seventh-year potion that Hogwarts no longer has on its curriculum because it’s not useful. But it’s fun, it’s so much fun. And Harry’s brewed three full doses so rather than answer, he pours himself one dose and downs it. 

“YOU FOOLISH IDIOT! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?” Snape thunders, immediately rushing to Harry’s side. He seems one step away from cursing Harry into oblivion, or maybe just emptying Harry’s stomach.

He stops in his tracks when he bends over Harry’s cauldron and sees the rainbow potion. “The Iris potion,” he murmurs. He grabs Harry’s face and stares into his eyes before releasing it as if burned. 

“Stay after class,” Snape says quietly, almost vibrating in rage and banishing the rest of Harry’s potion. Harry sighs, he was hoping to take another dose. 

“Your eyes are rainbow-colored,” Susan Bones remarked. 

“Yeah,” Harry says, staring at Snape’s back. “That’s what I was going for.”

When class is dismissed, Harry stands at his table waiting for further instructions. Snape paces around at the front of the room before coming to stand in front of Harry. “This must end.”

Harry stares down at his hands. “What must?”

“Do not play with me, boy.” 

Harry flinches involuntarily at the address. “I’m not getting graded properly, so I thought I may as well learn something.”

Snape bangs his hand down on the table. “YOU CANNOT GO ON LIKE THIS.” Harry shrinks back.

Snape looks at him and takes a deep breath, before making a very conscious effort to lower his voice. “I know you think yourself very clever, but there are actual dangers involved with what you are doing. You have been the epitome of fortune thus far that nothing has maimed or killed you, but I cannot and will not spend every potions class supervising whatever inane project you have decided for yourself. Your arrogance is boundless but it must end.”

“If you don’t want to supervise me, then teach me.”

“Are you not a student in my class?”

Harry shakes his head. “Doesn’t seem like it, no. I brewed perfect potions and you said nothing and graded me down. I brewed seventh-year potions perfectly, and you gave me detention. I am not arrogant but I am good at this class and you have shown no interest in teaching me at all.”

Snape’s expression settles into a mocking expression of sympathy. “Oh, is that so? Were you upset because I failed to take an interest in your supposed talent? Did that hurt your precious feelings?”

Harry sees no point in lying. He squares his shoulders and stares Snape directly into his black eyes. “Yes.” 

Snape leans forward. “The world does revolve around you and not every professor will sink to their knees in admiration of you. That you should have supposed I would is a reflection of your utterly inflated ego.”

Harry steps back. “No that’s not – you know what? Forget it. I just like potions. And I read about you and thought you were amazing because you’re the youngest potions master ever, and the youngest professor, and I just thought it was the best thing in the world that I would get to learn from you. But whatever you say you’re not teaching me, so excuse me for trying to learn something I love on my own.”

“I will not excuse you. If you cannot be trusted to brew in my class, then I will revoke the privilege outside of exams. You will come to class and you shall sit in the corner, writing about the theory behind potions.”

“And then how will I be graded?” Harry asks, plaintively. 

“Dreadfully.”

“What joy,” Harry says. “Is that all, professor?”

Snape stares at Harry for a moment longer, eyes glittering. “Your arrogance will get you killed one day.”

“Is that a threat?”

Snape clenches his fist. “Leave.”

Harry scoops up his bag, striding from the dungeons. He raises his voice on his way out. “Magic could be so wonderful, but the longer I spend in this world the more I think I would hate to ever be a wizard.”

Chapter Text

There’s no one moment when Lyra realizes her father doesn’t love her anymore. She is too young to understand these things in the deep ways adults can. She just learns he doesn't want to hug her any longer, doesn’t want to hear her speak, and that his face falls when she enters the room.

She hasn’t seen her grandparents in months.

She tugs on her mother’s robes and gets her hand smacked away.

Her lower lip trembles. “Is this because – because I haven’t done magic yet?”

She’s newly six. 

Her mother smiles at her but it's fake and looks painful. “It has come to our attention, Lyra, that you are a squib. Your father is on the board of governors at Hogwarts so we asked if there’s a letter in the works for you. We learned there is not.”

A squib. Lyra knows what those are. Her mother and father hate them. The kids of magical people who can’t do magic. 

Lyra thinks about never holding a wand the way her parents do. She thinks about never being able to charm anything her favorite color or being able to get on a broom and play Quidditch the way she sometimes thinks about. 

She thinks about running outside with her legs burning and running her fingers over peacocks and helping her favorite house-elf, Lottie, with her own two hands and getting flour all over her nose. She thinks about how there’s a whole world of people out there just like her and how there are more of them than there are wizards.

“That’s okay, mummy,” she comforts. “My tutors say I’m really smart. I can invent stuff when I’m older! I don’t need magic to be happy.”

Her mother stares at her like she’s a stranger. “Darling, we all do.”

Lyra stamps her foot, “I don’t!”

Her mother takes a deep breath. “Okay, okay.” She says nothing else.

Lyra stares up at her mother’s face and notices how her beautiful lips are pressed together so tight they’re turning white. “Do you hate me now?”

Her mother picks at the embroidery on her robes. She will not meet Lyra's eyes. “No, darling.”

Lyra shuffles, unsure if she believes it.

She goes to sleep in a new wing of the house, not the family wing, in a cold room that is smaller than her old room. She gets new clothes that are less grand than the ones she’s used to, all of them threadbare and brown.

All her shoes stay in her old room. She does not get any new ones. Her mother does not come to kiss her goodnight.

She falls asleep crying and wishing that her parents still cared about her the way they used to. 

“Maybe soon, maybe they’ll see I’m just the same as I always was,” she thinks to herself. “Maybe then, they’ll love me again.”

***

Harry replaces the litter in Mrs. Norris’ box and talks to Mr. Filch all the while, gesticulating wildly. 

Filch grunts in all the right places. 

“I just wanted to learn magic! Is that so wrong?” He asks after finally filling in Mr. Filch on every awful thing Snape told him. 

At this, Mr. Filch gives Harry his full attention. “I’ve asked that same question many times. Finally made it to Hogwarts when I was seventeen and they still wouldn’t teach me any magic. Bought books with my hard-earned money that still wouldn’t teach me any magic. ‘It can’t be done,’ they tell me. But there’s nothing wrong with trying, is there? What could be so wrong about wanting to learn?”

“Nothing!” Harry says, definitively. He tries to parse through everything that Mr. Filch just said. “But why did you only come to Hogwarts when you were seventeen?”

Mr. Filch looks at Harry almost in an accusing way. “They say I’m a squib.” He says it as if he’s daring Harry to respond in a bad way.

Harry lights up. “So is my grandad, probably. And he’s the best person I know.”

Mr. Filch’s entire demeanor softens. “Is that so?”

“You’re a pretty good man yourself, Mr. Filch. Better than all the wizards I’ve met, anyway.”

Mrs. Norris comes over to rub against Harry’s legs. Mr. Filch pauses for a moment and then... he laughs. The sound of it is grating and slightly awful, but Harry wants to hear it again as soon as it ends. “You’re a strange one, Harry Potter.”

“Back at you, Mr. Filch.”

Mrs. Norris hops onto Mr. Filch’s desk and he reaches out to pet her. “Argus. That’s my name.”

“Argus, then,” Harry says. 

“If you’d like to come back next week, you’d be…tolerated. Also, your eyes have ceased being green and are rainbow-colored. Thought you should know.”

Harry beams. “Oh! I did the eye thing on purpose and I aspire to be tolerated. See you next week or sooner, Argus.”

Argus smiles back, a small tentative thing that makes him look twenty years younger. “Until next time, kid.”

When Harry leaves the room, he utters an air-cleaning charm under his breath. It’s subtle and almost undetectable, but after a quiet rustle that runs through the room in the time it takes for a door to swing open and shut, the scent of fish in Filch’s office dissipates. 

As Harry begins his return to Ravenclaw tower, he finds the castle disagreeing with him. The stairs keep changing directions and letting him off on parts of Hogwarts he’s never seen before. He winds his way through one stone passageway and finds himself drawn to an empty room.

A sliver of moonlight cuts across the floor. Against the wall, there is a mirror. Harry walks toward it, reading a strange inscription, “Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohs.”

He puzzles it through. It doesn’t seem like any romance language he knows, but it’s using the roman alphabet. “A riddle, then,” he decides. And he’s good at those, he needs to answer one every time he wants to get back into his dorm. 

He means to just determine what the inscription means, but as he’s been creeping closer to the mirror, his eyes get caught on the reflection. 

It’s Mr. Maurice in one of his brown suits sitting at a breakfast nook in what looks like a very nice house with a wide-open field full of flowers visible through an open window. He’s sipping some tea when two people come into the frame. One of them is a man with floppy black hair, Harry’s nose, and a pair of round glasses. Another is the most beautiful woman Harry’s ever seen. Red hair cascades down her back and she’s got the greenest eyes, just like Harry. 

He stares transfixed as his parents rush to Mr. Maurice, embracing him tightly and lips mouthing, “Thank you, thank you.”

Mr. Maurice holds his hands up as if to say, “No need to thank me,” and then they all settle into the nook and drink some tea together, seeming to catch up on all things Harry.

It’s like Harry’s parents have been away for a while, preparing to take care of Harry again. And they’re ever so grateful to Mr. Maurice for filling in for them while they were gone. 

Mr. Maurice is so overjoyed to see them and is ready to be a grandfather who is very involved but gives the parenting of Harry back to the parents. 

“You’ll take care of me now,” he says.

“Of course we will,” Harry's mum says.

“Least we can do. You’re family now,” Harry’s father says. 

Harry raises his hand to the glass of the mirror. His mum raises her palm to his. “Come now, Harry,” she seems to say. “It's almost time for breakfast.”

Harry’s mind is working through the puzzle of the mirror when his heart asks him to stay watching this forever. Palm still against the glass, Harry says, “I show not your face but your heart’s desire.”

He forces himself to look away, blinking back moisture in his eyes.

Against the opposite wall, he notices Professor Dumbledore. “Many have wasted away staring into this mirror.”

Harry swallows a few times, trying to separate dreams from reality. “I hate it.”

“Some do. It can be cruel to see something you desire so desperately only for it to have been a mirage.”

“I could have gone my whole life without seeing that,” Harry says, missing a universe that doesn't exist, one where his parents and Mr. Maurice are raising him and each other.

“And what did you see?” Dumbledore asks. 

“What I didn’t know I wanted.”

“Which is?”

Harry holds out a hand and imagines his mother’s palm pressed against his, warm, soft, and vibrantly alive. “I saw my parents.”

“Ah,” Dumbledore responds. He seems relieved, somehow. 

“I saw them having breakfast with Mr. Maurice and thanking him and agreeing we’d all be – all be family. Together.”

All at once, Dumbledore’s face still goes in a way that frightens Harry. “Who is Mr. Maurice, Harry?”

Harry takes a step back on reflex. “He’s my guardian.”

“He can’t be,” Dumbledore refutes. “You live with your aunt and uncle.”

“Haven’t for a couple of years,” Harry responds. “And why do you know that?”

“The blood wards have held,” Dumbledore says, as if he cannot hear Harry at all. 

“The what?”

“Come, Harry,” Dumbledore says, and leads Harry out of the room with the mirror, herding him along and up to the top of the castle and into a very large office with several portraits on the walls. 

A red and gold fancy chicken is sleeping on Dumbledore’s desk.

“I need you to tell me more about your ‘Mr. Maurice,’” Dumbledore says in a tone that leaves no room for argument, “But first, can I get you anything? Tea? A lemon drop? Some water?”

Harry shifts uncomfortably, “No that’s okay.”

“You’ve scared him,” one of the portraits comments. 

“Oh, you have,” another agrees. 

“Oh do stop your heckling,” Dumbledore says. “Now Harry, who is Mr. Maurice?”

“My guardian. I already told you. He’s like a grandfather to me.”

“And how did you meet?”

Harry begins, “I was seven when he moved into the home at number eight, Privet Drive. He was a retired chemistry professor whose wife had passed recently. He wore simple brown suits and red pocket squares and my aunt and uncle, they liked him better than Mrs. Figg. He liked me better than everyone, Mrs. Figg, my aunt and uncle, and my teachers.”

“Your aunt and uncle didn’t like you much?”

“They hated me,” Harry says in a rush. “More than I’ve ever hated anyone in my whole life. I don’t think they liked magic very much.” Harry clenches his fist and makes eye contact with Dumbledore to try to show how genuine he is. He finds himself thinking about frying pans connecting with his ear as he ducks beneath the hits aimed toward his head, Dudley pushing him to the ground, and being hungry and thirsty on Christmas while hearing a family celebrating just outside his cupboard.

He drops his eyes and focuses on breathing deeply to avoid crying. He doesn’t want to cry here. 

Dumbledore looks at Harry with downturned lips and a crease between his brows. “It was wrong of them to treat a child that way. You are deserving of love.”

Harry kicks his legs. “That’s what Mr. Maurice says.”

“He seems like a smart man. I would very much like to meet him.”

Harry mumbles, “I don’t know if he’d like you.”

“And why is that?”

“Professor Dumbledore, do you think squib children should wear shoes?”

If Dumbledore is surprised by the non-sequitur question, he does not show it. He merely tilts his head. “Why, I think the world would be a far better place if we all did away with shoes and simply wore socks.”

Harry stands. “That’s not much of an answer.”

“What do you think, Harry?”

“That the wizarding world would be far better if you had said, ‘Why, all squib children get shoes just like everyone else. Is there a reason you ever thought otherwise?’ That’s what I think.”

“What can I say? I like socks.”

“Good for you,” Harry responds. “Can I go now?”

“Of course. I would never keep you here unless it was a safety concern. And I see now that you are in good hands. Goodnight, Harry.”

“Sleep well, Professor.”

Harry leaves, comparing the grandeur of Dumbledore’s fancy office with all its windows and portraits and fancy desks and lovely chairs to the dilapidated office given to Argus Filch and finding he does not like the comparison one bit. 

***

Ron wakes up in a foul mood. It’s a Thursday which means Malfoy will be more of a nutcase than usual and Ron got caught wandering around after curfew the night before because not one person in Slytherin bothered to tell Ron the password to the common room had been changed. Filch ended up dragging Ron with excess force to Snape’s office saying nasty things about him the whole way there and then Snape glared at Ron and said, “If you stopped antagonizing your classmates, you would not be having so many problems.”

“It’s not my fault my brothers keep pranking everyone!”

“Beating all your classmates in chess and then making fun of them for losing does not endear you to them. You ought to have been in Gryffindor.”

“I didn’t want to be, and you know what, I still don’t!”

“And what an odd thing that is,” Snape had replied, finally deigning to tell Ron the new password.

So when Ron stumbles out of bed he’s tired and angry, and so not in the mood for Malfoy to be moaning about his mother must be missing him so terribly.

“It’s Thursday after all,” Malfoy is saying to Crabbe and Goyle who are sitting one on either side of the blonde ponce, shoulder to shoulder. “She pretends she’s just the same but she always wants to spend the most time with me on Thursdays and hugs me extra tight. I bet she’s missing terribly. I should write her a letter.”

“She’d like that,” Goyle says. He says this every Thursday. He’s been saying it since September. It’s October already. 

“He’s like a parrot that only learned one sentence,” Ron says, under his breath. Not quietly enough, though.

Nott seems to overhear and laughs quietly. 

Ron notices and gives Nott a tentative smile. Stop antagonizing your classmates. 

Nott turns away. “Draco, what about sending her chocolates?”

“What a good idea! Thanks, Theo.”

It does get lonely, how no one in his house calls him by his first name. But then again, he’s the only Weasley in Slytherin and he’d never been the “only” anything in his whole life before he was sorted. He's still in a foul mood, but he'll be better after he eats breakfast.

I’m okay, he tells himself. I want to be here. I do. I do. 

***

Mr. Maurice anxiously adjusts his tie. He got to the restaurant a full thirty minutes early but this place is evidently so fancy he was led straight away to a private room overlooking London from high above as soon as he told the server the reservation name. 

He’s rarely eaten in places as fine as this. 

After uncovering his file, he sent Harry letters to look into if there were any wizarding families with the last name of Maurice or Blake, or even Black. 

“Black” turned up a very prominent wizarding family that apparently Ron, one of Harry’s best friends, is related to somehow. A grandmother, apparently. That turned into Mr. Maurice explaining himself to Ron’s mother who sent him several family trees. 

That led to Mr. Maurice sending out many letters and writing to several people who did not claim him as family.

The woman he is set to meet today has been nothing but cordial in her letters and sent him an invitation immediately when he explained which family he thinks he might have come from, once upon a time.

At exactly 7:15 PM, a woman with platinum blonde hair and bright blue eyes enters the room. She’s wearing a silk blouse and a long embroidered jacket. She has a tight smile that does not entirely meet her eyes. 

“Mr. Maurice, how nice to meet you at last.”

“Mrs. Malfoy, thank you for coming.”

She takes a seat with the kind of grace Mr. Maurice’s late wife never once possessed, bless her. Mr. Maurice’s wife and his daughters have always been rough-and-tumble people who are more likely to repair a broken fence than put on a dress. It’s good to have women like that in his life as Mr. Maurice is the least handy person he knows.

He doesn’t know if he’s ever met a woman like Mrs. Malfoy. He’s only seen women like her when looking at pictures of the royal family. She could stand next to a princess and fit right in.

Mr. Maurice feels his heart drop. There’s no way this woman could be his relative. She can be no more his relative than the Weasleys and Bulstrodes and Greenwoods, all of whom bear him no relation at all. 

“It is my pleasure,” she says, the lie rolling off her tongue coated in gold and honey.

“I don’t mean to waste your time,” Mr. Maurice says, “it seems unlikely that we are related just from appearances, though I am sorry to say so.”

“No, no. There is a relative who was a squib, and he would have been about your age. It is a very real possibility which is why I am here.”

“Oh,” Mr. Maurice says. 

“What I’ll have you do is touch this gem,” she says, pulling out what looks to be a very large diamond, “and if it glows, you are a Black.”

“And if I’m not?”

“Then you will have touched a gem and be no different,” she responds. 

Mr. Maurice tentatively lays his hand on the rock. A beam of light immediately springs into force, thousands of tiny rainbows shining throughout the room. 

He sees Mrs. Malfoy’s expression go from a tight smile to one of shock, mouth hanging slightly open, to another smile but this one smaller and much more melancholy in a matter of seconds. “You can take your hand off, now,” she says.

“Right then,” Mr. Maurice says, trying to put all his feelings together. He really was born to a wizarding family. 

Mrs. Malfoy puts the gem back in her bag. “Your name is, or well, was, Marius Black.”

“Marius Black,” he says, feeling the name. It fits him. It fits him better than Blake ever did. “Marius,” he says again. “Yes, that’s right.”

“You ought to call me cousin Narcissa. And what good circumstances for a reunion, we can catch up over dinner.”

Marius takes a deep breath. Family. Narcissa is from his biological family. She’s from the family that raised him from before he can remember. He’s an old man already and feels a bit embarrassed from how emotional it makes him, but this intangible feeling that he was from somewhere else, that he remembered Hogwarts in that vague way he sometimes remembers dreams, it makes him feel as if he could weep. “Nothing would make me happier. Forgive me, though, I was under the impression that the Malfoys are none too kind to squibs.”

Narcissa lays her palm over Marius’s wrinkled hand. “You’re my family,” she says simply as if it explains everything.

And to Marius, it does. 

Chapter Text

It feels with every passing day that she has been forgotten. Her mother comes to visit her a few times each month, but less than once a week. Lyra counts every sunset diligently so she knows what day it is. Her feet get cold as the seasons change and she wishes for shoes or slippers. She doesn’t even get socks. Her seventh birthday is coming up.

Every third day she gets to meet with a very old tutor, who tuts at her. “Such a shame,” he tells her. “You have one of the best brains I have ever taught, but not a lick of magic to match.”

He brings her bonbons, sometimes. 

He at least seems to remember she’s a person. His name is Pontius Filch. Lyra used to be instructed by a whole team of tutors but she never sees any of them anymore. 

“But aren’t you a squib too?” She asks him after he makes another comment about what a shame it is she doesn’t have magic. She’s never seen him use a wand.

He sighs. “A luckier one than you, I think.”

Lyra grins. Another person like her! “I knew it! And I don’t think it’s a shame I don’t have magic. I think it’s silly how much people care. Don't you agree?’Im just the same now as I was before my parents learned I’m a squib. I bet once my parents have enough time, they’ll see that too and love me again.”

He looks at her then, and kneels down and hugs her. He seems out of practice: it’s a bit too tight and too long. Lyra hasn’t been hugged by anyone for months. She melts into it even if her mother’s hugs were much better. “Dear girl,” he says, “I think hatred is always silly.”

“Do you think things are going to get better?”

His arms shake around her. “Maybe one day. But I fear that will be after I’m gone.”

Lyra clings to him. She’s learned about life cycles and how sometimes people much older than her go to sleep forever. Mr. Filch looks even older than her grandparents. After he’s gone could be not that far away. Lyra asks, “Will it be after I’m gone too?”

“I wish with all my heart that you will see a beautiful future.”

Lyra closes her eyes and just enjoys the hug. It’s not much of an answer. “How much longer,” she asks herself, “until things are any better?”

***

“Do you ever feel like something is wrong with Professor Quirrel?” Harry asks Hermione when they are both working on a potions essay side by side in the Ravenclaw dorm room.

“Not really, why?”

“I dunno. It’s just that my scar hurts whenever I talk to him and that’s a bit weird, innit?”

“‘Isn’t it,’ Harry. And ‘I don’t know.’ Be proper when you can. I haven’t noticed anything but you sometimes notice things I don’t. Maybe talk to Professor Flitwick or write Mr. Maurice?”

Harry nudges Hermione with his shoulder. “You can’t change me. And that’s a good idea.”

Hermione rolls her eyes. “I can try. And thank you. Who are you going to talk to?”

“Mr. Maurice. Obviously.”

Hermione nods. “Of course. Now explain the concepts of entropy in potions again, I didn’t quite understand your explanation last time.”

“Right you got it, if entropy in chemistry is the measure of how much the energy of atoms and molecules becomes more spread out in a process, in potions the idea is mostly the same. The thing to add is that magic can also become more spread out in a potion because there are almost different kinds of magic, like the magic that can turn my eyes rainbow versus the magic that can shrink a toad. But also, entropy is a measure of how dispersed and random the magic of a potion is distributed. Does that make sense?”

Hermione shakes her head. “Magic is magic. Transfiguration isn’t different magic from charms, it just uses the same magic differently.”

Harry shrugs. “Water is only hydrogen and oxygen. You can drink it. Hydrogen peroxide is also just hydrogen and oxygen, but it's a bleaching agent you definitely cannot drink. The same components in different ratios become different things. I think magic is similar.”

Hermione purses her lips. “If you can ever prove that, you’ll win an Order of the Merlin.”

“Is it bad that I’d rather win a Nobel prize?”

Hermione blinks. “I might be wrong, but sometimes I feel like you are less interested in leaving the muggle world than me. Do you want to stay in the Wizarding world once you graduate?”

Harry blinks back at her. “You know, I haven’t decided yet.”

***

There’s definitely something wrong with Quirrel. He’s stuttering along at the front of the room, going on a random tangent about vampires, and smelling strongly of garlic. His face is drawn and pale. His turban looks like it needs a wash. Even if he’s not a bad person, there’s clearly something wrong. 

“Healthy people don’t perfume themselves in garlic because of fear,” Harry whispers to Susan Bones. Hermione glares at them but doesn’t say anything about them gossiping in class.

“If you ask me, I think he needs a mind healer,” Susan responds. 

“Yeah, I bet he has generalized anxiety disorder.”

Hermione jumps in, unable to help herself, “That would make sense. He might even have post-traumatic stress disorder.”

“Poor thing,” Susan says.

Quirrel takes that moment to stare over at the three of them. “S-s-something t-to add, Mr. Potter?”

Harry makes the mistake of looking up and into Quirrel’s eyes. Immediately, he raises a hand to his scar. “Ouch,” he says. The pain is sharp and sudden.

“W-well?” Quirrel prompts.

“I was just wondering,” Harry begins, stalling and staring at the table, “If the blood of vampires differs from the blood of humans. Internally.”

“V-vampires are not alive, Mr. Potter.”

“But do they have blood?”

Quirrel pauses. “Yes.”

“Is it wizard blood?”

“It’s the blood of the undead.”

“But if a wizard needed blood and there were no blood replenishers available, and a kind vampire donated its blood to the wizard, would the wizard become a vampire? Or would the blood do just as well in the wizard as it did in the vampire?”

Quirrel smiles. It’s an oddly cruel expression on the man’s face. “What a fascinating question. I will have to get back to you. Lesser creatures are rarely kind to wizards, however. Now then class, back to the t-topic at h-hand.”

Harry strums his fingers against the table. Yes, something is definitely wrong with Quirrel. When Harry questioned him, he looked like an entirely different person. And he forgot to stutter for several sentences. 

Harry walks to potions, thinking about it. When he gets to the potions classroom, he goes to the corner and sits in a sulking sort of way. He has a quill in hand and parchment on his desk. 

“You can’t even brew anymore?” Terry Boot asks, slightly mocking.

“It's because he's too much of a show-off!” Goldstein guffaws. 

“Well, what would you expect from our ‘new celebrity?’” Boot returns. They dissolve into laughter. Hermione glares at them so hard, Harry is surprised they don’t catch fire. 

“Ha ha,” Harry responds. “You two should get your own comedy special.”

When Snape enters the room and writes instructions on the board, he ignores Harry. When the other students begin working, Snape ignores Harry. Hermione and Padma give him sympathetic looks. 

Once every student has started mincing lacewings, Snape deigns to speak to Harry. He comes and looms over Harry’s seated form. Harry asks, “Is there anything, in particular, you want me to write about today?”

Snape curls his lip. “No.”

Harry echoes, “No?”

Snape says, “Impress me,” and then walks away. Harry sits for a moment, startled. That seemed like an invitation. ‘Impress me.’ A command. But Harry can work with that. He planned initially to do his homework in class, but this seems maybe like a peace offering. If Snape wants to be impressed, Harry can deliver. 

He hasn’t yet done enough with entropy to write anything convincing, especially not over the course of a single potions class, but Harry’s been interested for a while in combining muggle chemistry with the magic of potions and he thinks he’s got something that is definitely impressive enough to surprise Snape. 

Harry enjoyed a lot of science experiments with Mr. Maurice, but his favorite among them was a magic trick reaction called the oscillating clock. Also known as the Briggs-Rauscher solution, the chemical reaction resulted in a liquid that oscillated between colorless, amber, and deep blue for about four minutes. In order to make the oscillating clock, three colorless chemicals were added together: acidified potassium iodate, a solution of malonic acid and manganese sulfate, and finally diluted hydrogen peroxide. Harry always thought it was so cool that three colorless liquids could result in two new colors and remain colorless, all at the same time. 

Harry believes that if one could infuse each of the three chemical solutions in the oscillating clock with a magical property, for about three to four minutes the resulting potion would oscillate between both colors and different combinations of magical properties. 

The question then becomes: how does one infuse a muggle chemical with a magical property?

This is where Harry’s love of transfiguration comes into play. Harry postulates that taking other potions that have already been made and transfiguring them into one of the three chemicals listed will allow the ensuing potion to behave like a Briggs-Rauscher while maintaining magical properties. The result should be something beautiful and allow a combination of potions to safely interact until the transfiguration ends if Harry is right.

He writes down all his ideas on this particular potion during his time in class and hands it into Snape while everyone else hands in potions. 

Snape glances at the paper. His eyebrows raise, but beyond that he says nothing. Harry leaves the classroom, mildly satisfied. 

“You sure seem happy for someone banned from brewing,” Padma notes. 

“An eyebrow raise is the best reaction I’ve gotten from Snape yet, pun intended!” Harry says.

Hermione says, “You are easily the most ridiculous person I’ve ever met.”

“Thank you.”

“Are you excited about the Halloween feast tonight?” Padma asks. 

“Dunno. It feels a bit weird to celebrate on the day my parents died, even if I didn’t really know them.”

Hermione lays a hand on his shoulder. “Of course. You don’t have to come.”

Padma sniffs. “I think you should come anyway. They’ll have Pumpkin Pasties.”

Harry gives her a light smile. “Well, if they’ve got Pumpkin Pasties…”

He goes. The whole hall is decorated in silky spiderwebs and giant carved jack-o-lanterns with moving faces. The ghosts are dancing in the center of the room. Great piles of chocolate are heaped on every table. 

“Score!” Ron says, sliding next to Harry at the Ravenclaw table and picking up a sweet. “I love blood gummies. Looks like a gaping wound, tastes like raspberry.”

“What?” Hermione and Harry ask at the same time.

“Watch!” Ron says, unwrapping the sweet. He picks up something red and slaps it on his hand. Immediately, his hand appears to be ripped open, exposing the bones beneath. “Wicked, isn’t it?”

Hermione looks green. “Mm. Sure.”

“Aw man, they had blood gummies?” Mandy Brocklehurst says, staring at Ron forlornly. “I haven’t found any. ”

Ron shrugs. “Think I got the last one.” He begins licking his hand and the wound with it.

Hermione shudders. “Hygenic.”

Mandy starts searching through the chocolate pile, tossing sweets this way and that. “There has to be one around here somewhere. Dang it, just looks like a bunch of chocolate spiders.”

Ron goes absurdly pale. “C-C-Chocolate what?”

“Spiders,” Mandy says again.

Ron releases a full-body shiver and then begins to, inexplicably, climb under the table.

“Ronald! What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

“Mione, I’m sorry, just please hide me. Tell them I’m not here. I don’t even exist.”

Hermione looks around. “Who?”

Two twins with red hair appear behind Hermione and stare down at Ron. “Yeah, ickle Ronnikins, who you hiding from?” They say together.

Ron looks no less afraid but a great deal more resigned. “Hullo.”

“You couldn’t possibly be,” one twin begins,

“Hiding from,” the second continues,

“Your loving big brothers,”

“Who brought you chocolate,”

“Could you?” They finish together.

“Fred, George, let’s just talk about this,” Ron implores as his two older brothers drag him out from under the table.

They look at each other and then back at him. “No.” Immediately, they pull two chocolate spiders out of their pockets and set them on Ron’s head. 

He starts shaking and batting at his hair as the spiders crawl over him. “Get them off, get them off, off!”

Harry lived in a cupboard for a long time with spiders and has no fear of them. He stands and plucks the first one off Ron and then the second. 

He transfigures the first into a strawberry and the second into a pretzel and then glares at both twins. “That was awful,” he tells them. “I would hate to have brothers like you.”

They look at him with frozen grins. “It was just a bit of fun.”

Hermione pipes up, “Ron wasn’t laughing.”

Harry nods. “I don’t think he found it very fun.”

Ron goes a bit red but squares his shoulders. “Harry, Hermione, I can fight my own battles.”

Hermione turns back to her food and stabs a bit of corn extra viciously with her fork. “Oh, I see how it is.”

The twins, Fred and George, stare at Ron. “You know we were just joking, don’t you Ron?”

Ron stares down at the floor. “...Yeah. Like you always are.”

“Right,” one twin says.

“Good,” says the other.

“I’m Fred,” the first twin says to Harry.

“And I’m George.”

“I’m Harry,” Harry says after a pause, “and I don’t like either of you.”

“Harry!” Ron protests. “They’re my brothers.”

“Family doesn’t always treat family well,” Harry responds. 

The twins cock their heads. “We suppose that’s true. Catch you around, Harry. Bye now, Ron!”

Hermione is still stabbing her food when Ron and Harry sit back down. 

“Women,” Ron says, watching her.

Hermione throws a roll at his face. “WHAT’S THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?”

“I thought it was pretty self-explana–”

Quirrel bursts into the hall, screaming. “Troll! In the dungeons. Thought you ought to know!” He promptly passes out. 

“Okay I see it now,” Hermione says as the school begins emergency proceedings. 

“See what?” Ron asks.

“I was talking to Harry. And he’s right. There is something weird about Quirrel.”

***

Weekly coffee dates with Narcissa were not precisely what Mr. Maurice expected after the first meeting, but he’s sitting at a lovely cafe smoothing down his brown pants for the third week in a row. 

As always, Narcissa comes in right on time. Today, she’s wearing a lavender dress and a long grey coat. “Good to see you again,” she says. Every time she says it, it sounds more genuine.

“You as well. Your dress brings out your eyes,” he compliments. She may not be his daughter, but she’s young enough to be and even if she’s a great deal more ladylike than his two rascals, he’s sure the same principles of showing love and saying nice things will work on her too. 

She gives him a self-satisfied look that’s almost a smile. “I know. I did pick it out, after all.”

“I never quite got the hang of colors, myself. Tend to stick with brown.”

Narcissa glances at him wearing yet another brown suit and laughs, quietly. “Quite so. One of these days, we’ll have to go shopping.”

“Oh, I don’t have anyone to impress.”

“Still, you never get too old to look dapper.”

“I suppose. Have you decided what you’d like to order?”

Narcissa picks up the menu and scans it. “Hmm. Perhaps a pastry and the Arabian Coffee.”

As always, Mr. Maurice gets black tea. Outside the window, he watches the sky darken and clouds hanging overhead, heavy with rain.

In these last few meetings, he and Narcissa have talked about many things. He’s learned about his family and how they looked down on squibs. He would have lived in his home until he turned eleven and did not receive a Hogwarts letter. And then, his memories were wiped and he was dumped in London with nothing but the clothes on his back, not even shoes.

When Narcissa laid it all out like that in the last meeting it seemed so simple. Clinical. Just a process, and not the complete destruction of a child’s life.

“Were you happy?” Narcissa asks him. 

“In the muggle world, you mean?” He clarifies.

“Yes. Here,” Narcissa says, motioning to shop.

“After a while, I suppose I was. I went to school. I fell in love,” and at this, he can’t help a wistful smile, “and had two beautiful daughters. One lives nearby, she’s a doctor. And my other darling is a journalist. Busy lives, those. But I still get to see them for holidays and such. And of course, I fell in love with chemistry. Yes, I was happy.”

Narcissa looks at him with wide eyes. “Good,” she says, but doesn’t sound like she believes it. “Good,” she repeats more forcefully. “Did you like muggle school?”

“Once I was older, sure. At first, I was so disoriented. Didn’t even remember my name right.”

“Right. But after you got more comfortable?”

“I spent my whole career in classrooms. I’ve never felt so comfortable anywhere as I have in schools.”

Narcissa nods to herself. “I did always wonder about muggle schools.”

“I still find the practice of wiping the memories of children barbaric,” he admits to Narcissa. 

She takes a sip of her coffee, not even grimacing slightly at the bitter taste. “I can see why you would feel that way,” she allows, “but you were lucky, you know.”

“How so?”

“A few decades after you were sent to the muggle world, a Dark Lord came to Britain and changed some deeply held beliefs. He thought – well – that it was better to kill squibs than take their memories.”

Mr. Maurice digests that, feeling so repulsed he nearly vomits. He takes out his pocket square and mops his brow, forcing himself to take deep breaths. It has begun to rain. “And did you - did you agree?”

Narcissa stares out the window, watching as water washes the grime of the city down the drains. Her profile is striking: sharp jaw, full lips, and an upturned nose. “I…” she trails off, closing her eyes. “...made a mistake.”

Chapter Text

The day after Mr. Filch hugs her, Lyra's mother comes to tell her that he will no longer be teaching her.

"But why?" Lyra cries. "He's the only one who cares about me."

Lyra's mother flinches. "I care about you."

Lyra's lower lip trembles. "Do you?"

"Oh, sweetheart. How could you ever think otherwise?" Lyra's mother sweeps Lyra into her lap and cradles her close. "I'm here. Darling, I'm here." Lyra lays her head on her mother's chest. it Mr. Filch's hugs were awkward but her mum's feels just right. Lyra ends up sobbing into her mum's nice shirt and getting her back rubbed as her mum makes soothing sounds. It's enough that for a moment, Lyra can pretend she is loved. But her mother's stomach feels bigger than normal; like there's a bit less room for Lyra on her lap.

But the next day, she is alone.

***

“What does that mean, Narcissa?” Marius finds himself asking, quite without his permission.

In the distance, lightning flashes. For a moment, Narcissa’s face falls into shadow. A few moments later thunder rumbles. Her painted nails tap twice against the table. Her lower lip trembles. “A story for another time, I think.” She says, quietly.

Marius feels his heart beating too fast for it to be healthy at his age. “But you don’t – you don’t think squibs ought to die, do you? You don’t want me to die, do you?”

Narcissa takes a deep breath, shoulders moving up and down. She reaches out as if to touch Marius but hesitates and withdraws her hand. “No.” She gives him a wry smile. “You’re family.”

“If I wasn’t?” Marius sees himself wandering barefoot and scared, confused, cold, and lonely. He didn’t know who he was. He didn’t know where he was. He didn’t even know where home was, and still, he missed it. That his past is considered a mercy – that he could have died – he doesn’t think he could ever want a relationship with someone that thinks children deserve death. 

Narcissa stands. She carefully puts on her jacket and picks up her bag. Marius also rises, still waiting for an answer. They walk together to the exit, both of them holding umbrellas in their hands, still furled. Narcissa opens the door, the smell of water and the sound of rain drowning out nearly every other sense. There’s hardly anyone on the street and the cafe is empty. Not a soul on the street is paying the pair of them any attention. Hesitantly, Narcissa says, “It would still be wrong. Even if you weren’t family.” 

There is a deafening crack. Marius finds himself standing without company on soaked pavement. The faint scent of rose perfume lingers amidst the wet earth. Marius opens his umbrella and walks to his car alone.

***

“What? A troll in the dungeons?” A shrill voice cries.

“Ron, you’re coming with us,” Harry decides. The prefects are attempting to corral their students into well-organized groups in order to bring them back to the common rooms.

Ron hurriedly grabs a pumpkin-glazed donut and a handful of sweets he stuffs in his pockets. “Why’s that? Not that I’m complaining.”

Harry speaks slowly as if Ron is a bit thick, which, if Harry is being honest, he sometimes thinks Ron can be. “There is a troll in the dungeons. Do you know what else is in the dungeons? Your common room.”

“Well, aren’t you a mother hen?” One of the twins says, popping up beside Harry. “We were just going to take Ronnikins with us to Gryffindor for that very same reason.” Harry identifies this twin as Fred. The other twin is talking to Percy the Prefect and is too far away for Harry to hear what they’re saying. 

Harry blinks, surprised. 

Fred waves a hand in front of his face. “Oh come on, you can’t really think we’d let our brother get clubbed in the head, did you?”

The bully Harry is best acquainted with is Dudley. Dudley for a while was sort of like a brother. Harry considers if Dudley would let him get hit in the brain by a smelly monster. “I mean,” Harry says, “Kind of?”

Fred lets out a low whistle. “Wow. You have trust issues.”

Mandy Brocklehurst nods. “Tell me about it.” Fred glances down at her, wrinkles forming between his brow. 

Hermione tugs on Harry’s sleeve anxiously. “Harry, we’re supposed to be lining up. We need to go!”

“Right. Come on, Ron,” Harry says. “Choose the common room you want to go to.”

But Ron isn’t moving toward either his brother or Harry and Hermione. Instead, he’s staring at the Slyhterins lining up a table over. He cups his hands together and yells, “Oi! YOU LOT. COME WITH ME TO RAVENCLAW! BAD TIME TO GO TO THE DUNGEONS WHEN THERE’S A TROLL THERE.”

Gemma Farley immediately snaps to attention and directs the Slytherins to get in line with the Ravenclaws. 

Professor Flitwick beams at them from the high table. “Ten points to Mr. Weasley for his quick thinking.”

Flitwick’s approval is sufficient for Ravenclaw students to lead the Slytherins along toward their tower. 

Ron falls into step with Harry and Hermione, and they all quickly make their way to safety. As they speed through the castle, Harry and Hermione exchange a glance. “I think you ought to tell Professor Flitwick. About Quirrel.”

Harry nods. “I think you’re right. I have to.”

Ron grunts. “Leave me out of the loop, why don’t you?”

Harry says, “I’ll tell you later.”

Ron stares behind him at the group of Slytherins pretending disinterest in their conversation. “Gotcha. Okay then.”

They spend the evening playing a cross-house chess tournament, and Ron ends up beating a Ravenclaw seventh-year to raucous applause from the Slytherins. By midnight, the troll has been taken out but the Slytherins and Ravenclaws are still chatting and many decide to spend the night. Pillows and silks are found, the fireplace is lit, and students of both houses drink hot cocoa and chat until dawn, finally succumbing to sleep in the few passing hours before they need to wake.

In the morning, the two houses walk to breakfast together and the blue table ends up with a splash of green, and the green table with a splash of blue. Harry looks at the mixing with wide eyes and can't help but feel that something monumental is changing 

***

Harry knocks on the door to Flitwick’s office. It is situated right next to the common room and has two doors, one from the common room and one on the outside for students who aren’t in Ravenclaw. 

Harry is entering from the common room. He raps his knuckles over the bronze surface: tap, tap, tap. 

A kindly voice responds, “Do come in.”

Harry pushes the door open. Flitwick’s office is circular and has six large windows. The windows are shaped in such a way that the sunlight shining through into the office looks like a star. The office is colored in every shade of blue with warm bronze accents. Flitwick’s desk looks like a hunk of molten bronze and his chair is a dusty azure. The desk and chair look rather child-sized, but Flitwick is far from tall. There are bronze bookshelves built into the wall. They wrap all around the office in concentric circles and are filled with books lined up spine to spine. Above each window hangs a weapon. Two windows have crossbows, three have carved daggers, and one has a broadsword. There is a spear embedded in each of the room’s two lintels. There is a comfy blue armchair across from Flitwick’s desk and at the edge of the sunlight star. 

Harry steps in and closes the door behind him. He loves this space. It feels calming and warm, even with all the weapons. Yet he also can’t help but feel slightly angered at how small Filch’s office remains in comparison. 

Flitwick looks up from some papers with a genuine smile. “Ah. Harry. I do apologize if that’s too familiar – only, well. I was quite close with your mother.”

Harry startles. “You, what? You were close with my mum?”

“Sit, sit,” Flitwick instructs, motioning to the armchair. Harry sits. “Oh yes, I knew her. She was a real prodigy with charms. Oh, how I used to wish she’d been sorted into my house. Children often change by the time they become adults. She told me right before she graduated that if she could go back and do it all again, she’d do it all again, just in my house. What a thing to say! But what a witch…” he trails off, and wipes at one glistening eye. “What a witch.”

“She was good at potions too, right?” Harry asks, momentarily distracted by stories of his mum. 

Flitwick looks lost in fond memory. “Potions too, oh yes. You ought to have seen her in arithmancy and runes though, that girl put masters to shame. She always came back to charms as her base, though. Wards you know – those are a combination of charms, runes, and arithmancy. She wanted to be a wardcrafter. Would have been one of the greats. Ah, I used to think it was such a waste.”

“What was a waste?” Harry asks, staring at his professor.

Flitwick shakes himself and looks at Harry with a gentle yet sorrowful expression. “That she died, of course. Now, I think it was tragic. Too tragic. Tragic, and yet, not a shame. I look at how she used her incredible skill to save you and I also can’t help but think that her last act of love is anything but wasteful. Knowing Lily, she’d come to me and say, ‘I’d do it all again. Without changing a thing, I’d do it all again.’”

Harry feels a clot in his throat. “You really think so?” He wondered, once he knew what happened. He’s spent nights wondering if his parents would have chosen to have him if they knew they’d die because of him. 

Flitwick vaults over his desk to come to stand right in front of Harry. He hesitates for a moment, then lays his hand on Harry’s shoulder. It’s a bit bony for a hand. It’s warm. Grounding. Flitwick has a furrow in his brow. “Harry. Believe me when I say I knew your mother and she loved a good deal of people, I lucky enough to count myself among them, and still… she loved you the most. She would have loved to see you grow up but choosing a world without you in it? That could never be the Lily I knew.”

Harry lets himself bask in the firm belief of his professor. He allows himself to imagine his mother smiling because she knows he’s growing up. It would be better if she were here, with him, but the image is something he can hold on to. “Do you think she’d be proud of me?”

Flitwick nods so firmly, his ears flap. “More than anything.”

Harry blinks back sudden moisture. “Oh. That's good.”

Flitwick removes his hand and goes around his desk to sit down in a chair again. He steeples his fingers together on the copper desk. “We did manage to get rather off-topic. Tell me what brought you to my office, if you would.”

Harry shakes himself. “It’s Quirrel. I think something’s wrong.”

Flitwick raises an eyebrow. “Quirrel? Let’s hear why, then.”

Harry explains in short choppy sentences how his scar hurts when he looks at Quirrel’s face, how the teacher sometimes seems like a completely different person without a stutter, and of course suspicion due to the troll. As he talks, Flitwick stays silent and occasionally jots something down on conjured parchment. When Harry finishes, Flitwick nods thoughtfully. “I will look into it. Thank you for trusting me with this.”

“Thank you, professor. For listening.”

How strange it is to think that before Mr. Maurice (or is it Grandpa Marius now?) no one ever bothered to listen to Harry. Flitwick may be half-goblin, but for a wizard, he’s not half-bad. Maybe even good. This means that if Harry stays in the magical world, he needs to be like Flitwick.

***

Quirrel is gone the next morning. Flitwick allegedly went to question him, and the former defense professor cursed him with something the older students call an “unforgivable,” but had apparently forgotten that Flitwick used to be a dueling champion. 

Fred slides across from Harry during breakfast, and George crowds in beside him. Ron is sitting at the Slytherin table and laughing happily with Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott. Harry waves to him and Ron waves back. 

“You know what happened to Quirrel?” Fred asks Harry. 

“I heard Flitwick took him out, somehow,” Harry responds, pridefully. Flitwick is his head of house.

“More than that!” George proclaims. “He demolished that poor man.”

Fred continues. “It’s dark. Flitwick questions why Quirrel sometimes loses his stutter. But instead of answering the question, bam! A red light flashes.”

Cho Chang gasps. “No! It wasn’t –”

George gives her a wicked grin. “Oh, it was. The cruciatus. Blinding pain. Worse than Flitwick ever experienced. He falls to the floor, screaming.”

Fred picks up the story, “But the man is a beast. Flitwick gets up on his hands and knees and casts an ice curse over the floor. Quirrel stumbles and drops the spell. And then Flitwick unleashes everything he can: spell chains, fire, diffindo, and Quirrel stands no chance. Dumbledore comes from all the ruckus and once it’s two against Quirrel, the man jumps out a window and runs away into the night, leaving behind a ghastly trail of blood.” 

Harry gulps. “That’s crazy.”

Hermione nods. “It is. I cannot believe a professor would be so wicked.”

“Truth is stranger than fiction, Grandpa Marius always says,” Harry murmurs. 

“Especially at a magic school,” Hermione agrees. “And we still have classes today! What if I'm too distracted?” Harry pats her consolingly on the back.

Harry looks at the high table with a noticeable absence of Quirrel. Dumbledore taps a spoon against the side of his cup and the hall falls silent. “We have a few weeks until winter break. For now, defense periods will be free periods. If you are younger than a fourth year, you must spend the free period in the library or with a professor. Older years may go where they please.”

Fred and George shout, “That’s not fair!” They are only third years, after all. 

Dumbledore responds, serenely, “Life is often unfair.”

“I’m not feeling the library today, Gred.”

“Couldn’t agree more, Forge.”

The two brothers ruffle Harry’s hair and then say, “We’re off.”

Hermione blinks after them. “They certainly have become friendly.”

Harry shrugs. “Guess so.”

She stands and motions for Harry to do the same. “And we need to get back to potions.”

Harry gathers his things a tad reluctantly and follows his best friend down to the cold dungeons. He goes to sit in his corner and pulls out a quill and a roll of parchment. He considers simply improving the recipe on the board for the sunflower seed potion his friends are brewing. Snape sweeps into the room in his needlessly dramatic fashion, cloak billowing from unseen wind in the stale air of the dungeon class. 

Harry dips his quill into his inkwell as Snape instructs the class before they begin brewing. They are all dismissed to go collect things from the storeroom and Snape advances toward Harry, leather shoes clicking on the stone floor. 

He does not loom over Harry the way he has in all previous classes. He instead pulls out a stool and sits. He takes Harry’s essay from last class out of his robes and puts it on the table. Harry pushes the ink and quill to one side and raises his head to stare at Snape. Snape stares back, face curiously blank and black eyes glittering. 

Harry thinks maybe he ought to say something, but he also thinks that Snape is unpredictable and might get angry if he does. 

Snape clears his throat. “It may be…” his words are soft and meticulously formed. “That we have misunderstood one another.”

Harry puzzles that sentence through and finds himself confused. “How so, sir?”

Snape clears his throat and opens up Harry’s essay. “Your oscillating clock theorem interests me. There are some potions in healing especially, those that impact the body, mind, or blood, which cannot ever combine. They are like oil and water. If we could combine these three types of potions we could create something of a multi-use cure for ambiguous or varied ailments. At present, if ever someone attempts to take any combination of two of those three potion classifications at once, they get the benefits of neither. If we could, as you suggest, safely combine them through transfiguration in the potion you suggested, the results would be…monumental.”

Harry startles. “Really, sir? You really think so?”

Rather than respond, Snape pulls out three vials. “Let’s test it. I am less familiar with muggle chemistry than you. If you would be so kind as to transfigure these. The first is a blood replenisher, the second a virus killer, and the last an anti-concussive.”

Harry nods, scarcely believing the civility and excited to see if he’s right. He hadn’t known much about the classifications of healing potions. This is exactly the kind of class he’s been searching for. 

He transfigures one potion into acidified potassium iodate, the second into malonic acid and manganese sulfate solution, and the final one into diluted hydrogen peroxide. He nods once it’s done. All three vials are colorless.

Snape nods once in return and produces a glass cauldron. He carefully dumps the contents of all three vials into the cauldron. The potion begins to oscillate between being colorless, amber, and deep blue. Snape then produces a very sad-looking frog and feeds it the potion.

Harry cries out, “We don’t know if it’s safe.”

Snape does not respond. The frog seems to expand ever so slightly and looks far more lively after a moment. Snape waves his wand and a series of colors come over the frog that Snape appears to read. He banishes the frog and then returns his wand to his robes. “It worked,” he says faintly. 

“IT WORKED?” Harry shouts. “OH MY GOD.”

“Refrain from shouting, Mr. Potter,” Snape says, still rather as though he is not present in his body.

“Will do. Sorry. Just. That’s crazy.”

“I should like to write a paper. I expect it to take me all year. You may assist and be credited for this being your invention. I shall have to do a great many experiments to determine the best uses. You may assist in this capacity as well.”

Harry finds himself confused once again, “Wait, what does that mean?”

Padma Patil bursts out, “Merlin, Harry. He’s just offered you an apprenticeship.”

Snape curls his lip and looks displeased. Still, he responds, “Indeed.”

Harry will deny later that he jumped out of his seat and pumped his fist, yelling, “Heck yeah!” 

It will not matter much because an entire class watches him do exactly that. 

***

It’s dark. It’s cold. It smells like mold. There are screams he hears even when everyone around him is so silent, they put the dead to shame. But maybe they’re all dead, already. Maybe he is too. If there's a hell worse than this, he doesn't want it.

There’s a person at the grate peering down at him and looking rather uncomfortable. “Best get on with it then, Mr. Black. Could you get off the floor?”

Mr. Black? Who is that? Oh wait, that’s him. Or at least it was, once upon a time. He focuses on the words. He was asked to get up. He can do that. He pushes himself and stands on shaky legs. He can still understand real words that aren’t screams. That has to be good, right?

He is confused about why he needs to stand up. The man beckons Sirius forward and then is opening the cell and Sirius is being led by his elbow out of Azkaban. He is taken on a boat and with every crest of the wave he feels the boat breaking, he breathes a bit easier. There’s a terror that begins to seep away and just leaves him feeling bone-tired. All he wants to do is sleep. The man at his side instructs him to, “Stay awake. Just a bit longer.”

The boat docks and then Sirius feels the tug of a portkey but he is far too tired to feel any panic. He barely feels anything. He resurfaces in a room with a woman in front of him. She has almond-shaped eyes and a gentle smile. “Mouth open, now.”

He thinks perhaps he should ask why, but he does not want this moment of being somewhere that smells clean with people who talk to him and no dementors anywhere to end. He opens his mouth. Three drops of what tastes like water are placed on his tongue and Sirius drinks them down aware suddenly of his thirst. 

“State your full name.”

His voice is gravel. “Sirius Black.” He can’t remember the last time he spoke. 

“Did you betray the Potters on Halloween, 1981?”

“No.”

“Have you ever killed any muggles?”

“No.”

“Do you know who killed 13 muggles on Halloween, 1981?”

“Yes.”

An excited shout. “Fantastic. Okay. Who?”

“Peter Pettigrew.”

“Is he alive?”

“Last I saw.”

The man from earlier who helped Sirius runs into the room, panting. “A bit problematic you started questioning Mr. Black without his counsel present. And bad coordinates on my portkey. I was three floors down!”

The woman does not apologize. “He’s innocent as can be. You’re not entirely needed. Now Sirius, do you know where Peter Pettigrew might be?”

“Anywhere he can pretend to be a rat.”

“And why is that?”

“He’s an unregistered rat Animagus. Missing one toe.”

The counsel person says, “That’s enough then. I should like to look at your memory of this and please administer Mr. Black the antidote. “

“Of course. We Aurors have more than enough. Open your mouth, Sirius.” Sirius tries to organize all that she said but finds himself too tired. His mouth opens and she places something on his tongue once more, the antidote. Was he poisoned? No. 

“Veritaserum,” He says aloud. 

“A bit unethical but you’re a free man, now. A bad day for Fudge but what can you do when Narcissa Malfoy takes an interest in her family?”

“Narcissa? She got me out?”

The counsel man coughs. “I heard it was a squib.

The woman shrugs, “A squib? What on earth can they do?”

Sirius feels his eyes closing. “Oh, keep awake. I need to get you out of here,” his counsel man implores. Sirius is once again led by the elbow through a series of passageways as his overtired mind tries to understand what is going on. 

Free? Him? No, that can't be right. 

He’s in a building that looks like the Ministry of Magic. Wait. Maybe it is?

Sirius is brought to an atrium and sees two men talking together. They turn when he enters the light-filled space. One is a strange old man who looks like a kind version of Sirius’ grandfather. He’s wearing a lilac suit with a grey pocket square. But the person next to him – he’s wearing ratty clothes and has unkempt hair. He’s got scars all over his body. He’s the most beautiful person Sirius has ever seen in his life. 

Before he can register he’s doing it, with an energy he does not possess, Sirius is running. The man starts running toward him and they collide into each other and Sirius is clasped tight and digging his fingers into the ratty cloak of the man holding him. 

“Remus,” he says into the man’s shoulder, “Remus. Remus, Remus. Remus.”

There’s a hand at the back of his head, tightly cradling him, matted hair and all. “I’m here. Sirius. I’m here.”

Chapter Text

It’s when winter is melting into spring that Lyra cannot pretend otherwise. “There’s a baby growing in your belly,” she decides on one of her mother’s rare visits. 

“He will be your brother,” her mother responds. 

“Will he live here with me?” Lyra asks, hopefully. 

Her mother flinches a little. “Almost certainly not. Not if everything works out.”

That feels a bit hurtful. Like her mother is saying Lyra didn’t work out. Lyra hugs her pillow to her chest. “Oh,” she says. 

Her mother seems to feel a bit bad and conjures a white peacock stuffed animal and presents it to Lyra. “But this little guy wants nothing more than to live with you.”

Lyra exchanges her hold on her pillow to cuddle the stuffed animal. He is very soft and absurdly cute. He’s not quite a living little brother, but it’s better than nothing. 

“Thank you,” Lyra says. 

Her mother pats her head, looking sad. “Of course. It wasn’t a big thing to do.”

To Lyra though, it feels very big. 

***

When Harry wakes up the morning break begins, the world outside is blanketed in white. Everything is peaceful and quiet as the sun bursts out from behind a fluffy cloud and golden light cascades down in half a dozen glittering beams. The wind is grazing the frozen earth, dragging flurries of fine snow. There are glimpses of the day before: a red leaf dancing in the breeze, a forgotten October pumpkin half-buried in snow, a leather-bound book some poor student forgot outside back when the weather was warmer. A few snowflakes leisurely fall to the ground, twinkling all the way.

Harry excitedly pulls on his warmest sweater, two pairs of trousers, his puffer, his robes, and finally his Ravenclaw scarf. He tosses on a hat and tumbles out of the dorm, cheeks flushed with excitement. Hermione is already awake and staring out one of the common room windows, suitcase right next to her. Harry dashes over. “Hermione! It’s snowing.”

She turns to him, unimpressed. “I do have eyes, you know.”

Harry huffs. “Well, I love snow.” 

Hermione knocks his shoulder. “I know you do.” 

Of course, Harry loves snow. It was snowing that first Christmas Mr. Maurice gave him a room. A whole room! He’s never gotten a better present before in his life. It is the best present he will ever get, he’s quite sure. And he’s so grateful for it too – grateful enough to last a lifetime. And he’ll be going back to his room and Mr. Maurice just this afternoon, after he meets with Snape once more.

“Mr. Maurice has guests staying at the house. He says one of them is family – what if they don’t like me?”

“Why would anyone dislike you?” Hermione asks, genuinely seeming confused. “I like you very much. You are a good friend, smart, and nice besides that. They’ll like you.”

Harry stares down at his shoes. “I don’t think my family likes me very much. No one in it ever has, before.”

Hermione purses her lips and gets a faraway look in her eyes. “One of these days,” she promises solemnly, “when I am a better witch, I should like to meet your aunt.”

Harry shakes his head. “Oh no, don’t do that. She doesn’t like magic much.”

Hermione still looks rather far away. “Oh yes, I know that very well. Anyways Harry, don’t you need to go see Snape? Have you packed already?”

“Yes and no. I don’t need to pack. I didn’t bring very much with me that’s muggle here – most of my clothes and toys and things are back home.”

Hermione looks aghast. “But how will you do your homework?”

Harry looks at her, aghast. “We don’t have anything due until a few days after we get back, right?”

“Yes! We must start as early as we can.”

Harry shakes his head. “I’m not doing that, sorry, ‘Mione. I need a break.”

“Just wait until it’s our OWL's year. You’ll wish you’d studied then.”

Harry rolls his eyes and wishes Hermione a quick goodbye before skipping his way over to Snape’s office. He spends as much time as he can going from window to window to see the snow. 

All too soon, he’s in the dungeons where there are no windows to the above-ground world. It is, fortunately, cooler down here as he is starting to overheat in all his layers. He bursts into Snape’s office without so much as knocking and exclaims, “It is so beautiful today, we should do this outside.” 

“By all means Potter, ignore every social standard and treat my office as your own personal property.” 

“It’s almost Christmas and it’s snowing professor, we can’t stay down here. It’s a crime!” 

Snape sighs, standing from behind his desk. Bottles of ingredients: toad legs and juniper and fairy dust line the walls. Each vial is marked in swirling calligraphy. “I liked you better back when you were afraid of me.” 

Weeks of working with Snape on the paper and teaching the professor chemistry have entirely disabused Harry of the notion that Snape is scary. “That’s a lie and you know it.”

Snape grunts. “How is it that you managed to so quickly overcome your… fear?”

The reason is quite simple so Harry says it out loud, “That’s easy. No matter how mad I make you, I know now you’ll never hit me or lock me up. The worst you can do is yell, and that’s not very bad.”

All at once Snape goes very, very still. “Hit you? Lock you up? Did you think me in the business of child abuse?”

His eyes glitter and Harry is struck with the sinking feeling that he has just offended Snape. “Er.” Harry says, wishing he were quite a bit better with words. But Snape is the one who is good at words. Harry isn’t even very helpful anymore. After he got Snape a chemistry book, the professor took off and discovered all sorts of things even Harry couldn’t. As Mr. Maurice told Harry, Snape is an adult. It is to be expected that he’s better at writing and can learn rather quickly. Harry sometimes thinks he cannot wait to grow up. Once he’s an adult, he’ll have an easier time saying the right thing. But he is who is at this moment, so he needs to try anyway. Snape is waiting patiently, not saying anything at all. It is a bit frightening, really, so maybe Harry isn’t as recovered from being intimidated by Snape as he thought. “So the thing is – ”

“Yes,” Snape prompts, voice absolutely toneless. 

“Those are just worse-case scenarios. What adults do at their absolute worst? But I know now you’d never. So.”

Snape looks no less still than before. If anything the room seems colder. Harry shivers despite being all bundled up. “And has it ever happened before,” Snape asks, “that an adult treated you in such a deplorable fashion?”

Harry knows that it is not normal to be locked in a closet or tossed around a bit by your uncle but to call it ‘deplorable’ seems a bit dramatic, somehow. “No,” he denies quickly.

Snape’s eyes narrow. “That’s a lie,” he says with complete confidence. “Who?”

“I deserved it, probably,” Harry counters without giving a name out. 

“Oh? And what did you do that was so horrible?”

“Well…” Harry starts, trying to think of something particularly bad, “Once, when I was running away from my cous– some bullies, I ended up on the roof of the school. It was really high and the firemen had to be called to get me down. They all thought I’d climbed up there and it caused such trouble. So really, getting sent to bed with no supper wasn’t so bad, was it?” Harry omits that he did not get to eat for four days and that he was locked in his cupboard for a week and a half and Petunia called the school to say he was sick when he really wasn’t and all he wanted was to go outside. 

“You never mentioned missed meals. You said ‘locked up’ and ‘hit.’ Did either of those happen to you after you apparated accidentally?”

“After I what?”

“Apparated. It’s teleportation, in muggle speak.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t deflect, Potter. Was the missed meal all of it?”

Harry studies one vial of rose water just above Snape’s head. “Yes.”

“You’re lying again. I do not abide by liars. Tell me once more, was the missed meal all of it?” His voice takes on an edge that Harry does not like. Not at all.

Harry stares determinedly at the rose water and admits in a low voice, “No.”

“What happened?” Snape’s voice has gotten considerably softer. It feels like it belongs to a stranger but is familiar enough that Harry finds himself talking. 

“It wasn’t that bad. Just got tossed in the cupboard a few days.”

“The cupboard,” Snape repeats, blankly. 

“Yes.” Harry does not elaborate and Snape does not ask him to.

 He just says, “I thought I knew you.”

Harry responds, “That’s very strange. I didn’t know you at all. How could you have?”

Snape shakes his head. “How indeed. Come now Potter, let’s go discuss ionic bonds in the snow.” So the two of them walk up the castle and out onto the grounds and Harry mentions that Mr. Maurice would never, ever, put Harry in a cupboard. “He gave me a room for Christmas,” Harry explains. “He’s not a cupboard person.” 

“Why did you need a room from your guardian?” Snape asks, confused.

Harry pretends not to hear and distracts him with the fact that magnesium would explode in the snow. He thinks it works, but Snape seems to be keeping more of an eye on Harry than he has in a long time. 

At the end of doing a bit of work on the paper – though Harry is not a good proofreader just yet and is mostly frolicking in the snow as Snape berates his lack of discipline  – it’s time for Harry to get on the Hogwarts Express. He ends up in a compartment with Hermione, Neville, and Ron.

Ron groans. “Oh, Christmas this year will be such agony.”

“Why?” Neville asks. 

“I was invited to the Malfoy Yule Gala but Mum is going to kill me.”

***

“You were invited to WHAT?” Ron’s mum yells, cheeks as red as her hair. She waves a wooden spoon in her hand in such a way that can only be described as threatening. Behind her, the porridge boils malevolently. 

“It’s only one night and Malfoy asked me to come.”

“Since when were you so CLOSE?”

“We are NOT. He just wants me to come to see if I can beat his dad in chess. His dad thinks he’s stupid or something because I always win, but I told him not to feel bad because I beat almost everyone. He then said his dad could beat me, and I said no he couldn’t. And then I said, “If I beat your dad, then it means you’re more than fine, Malfoy.’ That’s what I said. And then he invited me to the gala.”

Ron’s mum gets a fiery look in her eyes. “Beat Lucius Malfoy? Oh, you should have just said so. You’re going. And you are going to win.” Ron gulps. 

Beyond the kitchen, Ron hears all his siblings tittering. “Oi! Of course, I am.”

“You’re excused from chores,” his mum says despite a chorus of, “Hey, that’s not fair”s. “Instead, you will be practicing chess from dusk until dawn.”

“No. I don’t need to.” 

“I need you to.”

He could push back if he really wanted to. At least, he thinks he could. But he doesn’t. And so Ron is ‘forced’ to watch his siblings play Quidditch out in the snow whilst he sits inside, drinking hot butterbeer and playing 12 games of chess simultaneously, against himself. “Win, and then you can join them,” he tells himself.

His green and silver scarf is thrown haphazardly over the back of the chair. It looks quite out of place with all the red and gold of the house, but Ron doesn’t think anything of it. No one else seems to either. It’s just part of Ron now. That silver and green, that desire to win. 

“Just a few more games,” he promises himself. 

In the kitchen, his mum hums to herself and starts on the roast. She thinks about Ron. He’s a bit more confident, a bit less impulsive. Molly Weasley can’t help but think Slytherin was a good fit for him, after all. 

***

Sirius sits on the patio of #8 Privet Drive drinking spiked hot chocolate with nutmeg in it, and the snow falls on his shoulders. He’s wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt but pretends he can’t feel the cold, that everything is normal. That he hasn’t spent a decade in prison. That Remus will be back tonight even though it’s a full moon or that Sirius is well enough to join him. He’s not though. He’s not allowed to shift to his canine form for a few more weeks, doctor’s orders. Something about trauma and building strengths and different organs for various types of healing magic. He puts his finger to the ground and then sticks it in his mouth. The snow looks like sugar but tastes like nothing at all. 

The front door opens with a light click and Marius is there, dressed in a long coat and holding a sweater in his hands that he tosses at Sirius. “Harry will be here soon,” he notes. “You might scare him, looking like that.”

“What, cold?” Sirius scoffs. He’s not sure how he feels about Marius. About living with this relative who was blasted off the tree. Marius seems awfully dad-like, but Sirius isn’t sure about dads, especially ones he met only a few weeks ago. 

“Lost,” Marius says. 

“I am lost,” Sirius says, “Everyone I love is dead, except for the person who’s going to be suffering terribly and I can’t even go help him.”

Marius never reacts much to these comments. He just responds, evenly, “I promise that you’ll love Harry as soon as you meet him.” 

Sirius scoffs again but pulls the sweater over his shoulders. It’s unfairly warm and soft. He wants to be angry about putting it on and being treated like a child. But he feels immediately better so it’s hard to find the energy to be angry. 

Marius leaves a few minutes later to go collect Harry from the train station and Sirius stays in just the same place, sipping hot chocolate as the snow falls down around him. Eventually, he does get too cold and shuffles inside. All the alcohol save the Bailey’s has been thrown out and Marius has forced Sirus to read too many articles about the dangers of second-hand smoke for children so all his cigarettes are gone too.

“He really thinks I’m going to love Harry,” Sirius says. He feels so cold. He’s not sure he’ll ever be able to love anyone new ever again after all the loss and dementors. If he’s being honest, the thought of that terrifies him so he tries to not think of it. 

But when Marius comes through the front door and there’s a boy beside him with James’ wild hair and Lily’s eyes, head-thrown back in laughter, cheeks still soft with baby-fat, Sirius realizes all at once that he was wrong. 

He loves Harry fiercely, so fiercely it surprises him. He’s coming over before he even knows what he’s doing. He sees two of his best friends staring back at him but it’s more than that. He sees Lily’s kindness and James’ capacity for unbridled joy and he sees a glimmer of something beautiful that must be just Harry’s. The snow blankets the world outside, but Sirius feels warm. 

He looks at Harry and thinks that this must have been what it was all about. It’s as if spring has come early. As if Harry himself is spring, granting a chance to be reborn, to come back to life. 

Sirius holds out a hand and grins, “Hello, Harry. I’m your godfather, Sirius.” It feels good to smile. 

Harry smiles back, a little tentative but hopeful. “Hullo,” his voice is gentle and melodic. All Lily, but much more shy. “It’s good to meet you.”

“Know much about Quidditch?”

Harry’s eyes brighten, “Ron loves the Chudley Canons but I think they’re not very good, but I still support them, you know? I actually am really good at flying, and Madame Hooch thinks I’ve got an excellent shot at making the Ravenclaw team next year and –”

Harry continues to ramble and Sirius listens in rapt attention as the two of them settle on the couch. Marius comes out with tea and biscuits and sits to watch the whole thing, relaxing into a chair and feeling much assured that everything will work out, in its own way.

Chapter Text

Lyra names the stuffed peacock “bunny” because she thinks it is funny. It makes her laugh, calling him Bunny. She laughs a lot less than she used to in the days of ‘before.’ She sometimes lies awake and wonders if she was silly for thinking that her parents would one day come around and realize she’s just the same person she was before it turned out she didn’t have any magic. 

She just wants to go to someplace where people don’t care about that. She wants to be able to be praised for things that are praiseworthy, like that she is good at math or a great painter or nice to animals – not somewhere like here where all that seems to matter is being able to turn water into wine. Who does that help?

When her mother comes to visit her when her tummy is close to bursting, Lyra asks, “Is there anywhere without magic where I could go?”

Her mother stills. “What do you mean?”

Lyra says, “No one wants me here, right? I don’t want to be here either. If there’s somewhere where magic doesn't matter, I could go there and find people who want me.”

Her mother flinches and then sweeps her into an uncomfortable hug and holds her too tightly, stomach pushing against Lyra’s body. “I want you. Never think that I don’t. You’re my child.”

“Then how come I don’t get to eat dinners with you anymore?” Lyra pushes out of her mother’s arms and now that she’s started it seems she cannot stop. Every words is pulled out of her as if her very soul is tethered to the line of a relentless fisherman. “Why don’t you hug me good morning and ask me about my day and let me make friends? Why don’t I have shoes? Why can’t I go outside? Why don’t I have tutors anymore? Why can’t I see Dad?” Lyra’s mother comes forward to try and hug her again, but Lyra doesn’t allow it. She beats her fists again and again against her mother's arms, mindful even in her anger of the baby in her mother’s stomach. She is shaking and crying but she notices only distantly. “Why don’t you – why don’t you–” she sobs, her voice goes up on an octave and then breaks, “why don’t you love anymore?” After this, she stops hitting her mum and her arms fall down to her sides. Staring at the floor she sniffles, “I’m just the same I always was. So why can’t you love me any longer?” She examines her mother’s fashionable purple slippers and her own bare feet and says, quietly, “It’s not fair. I still – I still love you.”

Her mother makes a wounded noise and sinks to her knees. She puts her fingers under Lyra’s chin and casts a freshening charm. Immediately evidence of the tears on Lyra’s face and her snot disappear. As if, just like her, her emotions can be removed when they are not convenient. 

Lyra meets her mother’s blue eyes. “I love you, darling. Do you want to know about muggles? Let’s talk about them. There’s so much in that world and you’re right – you’d be such a good fit. They have this thing called school, I’ll tell you all about it. Maybe you’ll go one day and make so many friends. Lyra, sweetheart, of course, I love you. Of course, I do.”

It sounds to Lyra like she’s trying to convince herself. Suddenly tired, Lyra simply says, “Okay.”

Her mother smiles fakely. “Okay. Good.”

***

“I’ve nothing to wear,” Ron moans, falling dramatically onto the couch in the living room while his siblings watch on in amusement. 

“Nonsense,” his mother responds, holding up a truly horrible dress robe set. It’s orange and some sort of felt fabric for the most part, except for all the places white lace are laid, which are far too many in Ron’s opinion. The shoulders and sleeves are piped, inexplicably, with red frills. And the undershirt – Ron shudders. It’s a light shade of yellow and ruffled all the way down. “I had to get these second hand, there was not a lot of choice for someone so young and we haven’t anything in the family that will fit a first year, but these aren’t so bad. You’ll look just fine.”

“I will look like great Aunt Tessie! And,” Ron moans, coming to inspect the offending garments, “I’ll smell like her too.”

“Oh chin up, Ron, at least you’re getting to go to a ball,” Ginny says. “I want to go too.”

“Sort Slytherin next year and I might take you,” Ron says imperiously. 

Ginny glares at him. “Don’t think that I won’t!”

“Oi! Stop influencing her,” the twins call out. “You just sort wherever fits you, ‘Gin.” They say. She smiles up at them. 

Percy sits in the far corner of the couch and says, honest as anything, “I wish I was going, Ron. The connections you can make there at the ball, and all the ministry officials too.”

Ron says, “Murder me, Perce. I’ll look like a chicken and the Malfoys will eat me alive.”

Molly, getting more upset, shouts, “They will NOT. If they try, I will fry them in butter and SERVE THEM ON A PLATTER AT THE HOG’S HEAD. Stop being so dramatic Ron, honestly.”

“You’re being dramatic!” Ron accuses. 

A wooden spoon flies into Molly’s hand. “Want to say that again?”

Ron swallows. “No, ma’am.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“I wouldn’t even care if I had to wear those robes if I go to go,” Percy sighs. 

“Never knew you had such a hard-on for Malfoys,” George comments. 

“Or fancy balls,” Fred says, “Bet you can’t even dance.” Percy goes red. Ron waits for his mum to say something, but she doesn’t.

 Ron is struck with the uncomfortable feeling that Harry will judge him badly if he does not speak up just now. “You have a CV or something?” he asks Percy.

“...I do. Why?”

“I dunno. If you tell me what kind of work you want I could try giving it to some people there. Talk you up. If you want.”

Percy’s eyes go huge in a way that is unfairly adorable for an older brother. “You’d do that?” He asks, voice quiet.

Fred and George’s mocking expressions falter and then are replaced by something else altogether. Something a bit shameful and maybe even fond.

“Yeah,” Ron says. “Why not? You’re my big brother, aren’t you?”

Percy surprises everyone when he jumps off his end of the couch to come and grapple Ron in a hug. “When’d you start growing up, huh? Thanks, Ron.”

 Ron hugs Percy back hesitantly. He can’t remember the last time Percy hugged anyone. “Of course, ‘Perce. But you have to tell me, alright? I don’t wanna seem silly when I start talking about you.”

Percy pulls away with a manic expression in his eyes. “Oh, yes. Right. I’ll have to prepare you. I’ll make a list of all the people who are the most important and we’ll get you memorized by tomorrow…” Ron finds himself getting pulled away toward Percy’s room. 

As they pass Molly, she says, “Percy,” and they stop. Ron runs into Percy’s back. “Can I get a hug too?”

Percy turns around and blinks owlishly, which looks somehow more charming than it should behind his lenses. “Oh. Er. Yeah. If you’d like.”

Molly pulls Percy into her arms and clutches him tight. When she pulls back, she smiles and pats him on the shoulder. “You’re a good kid.”

“Thank you?”

“Percy, Percy, wanna hug us too?” The twins call out.

“Oh shove off,” he grumbles and pulls Ron along once more. The two of them settle on the floor and Percy makes flashcards and Ron learns all about Percy’s ambitions to be minister of magic one day, and make things better for everyone. 

A knock on the window interrupts them and Percy opens the window to allow in a very sleek-looking owl. She has bright yellow eyes and white feathers flecked with gold. She holds a package in her talons with a note stuck to its top. She drops it at Ron’s feet and then immediately takes off. 

“What is it?” Percy asks.

Ron first opens the note. It reads, Do not embarrass your house. - S. Snape.

“It’s from Snape,” he says blankly. 

“From Snape?” Percy repeats. 

Ron opens the package wondering what on earth his head of house could have sent and then recoils in shock at the contents. He pulls out a fine black silk dress shirt and an accompanying black dress robe. It is lined on the inside with silver and trimmed with a deep green cashmere that compliments the darkness of the robes. They are the finest pieces of clothing Ron has ever seen. 

“Do not embarrass your house,” Snape commanded Ron. “I won’t let you down sir,” he whispers to himself. 

“What?”

To Percy, Ron says, “Professor Snape is so emotionally constipated. Why can’t he just say, ‘Good luck tomorrow, you bizarre blood traitor I found under my care?”

Percy laughs and then asks, “Is that really any better?”

***

Sirius takes Marius shopping for dress robes at a fine establishment called Twilfitt and Tattings. Marius thinks the name is absolutely hysterical. “Twillfit,” he chuckles whilst trying on a set of deep blue dress robes, “because it will fit.”

Sirius rolls his eyes so hard he risks a concussion. He is in a red and gold set. Marius thinks he looks perfect for the holiday season. Like an ornament. He belongs on a tree dressed like that.  “You have the worst humor.”

“Better than no humor at all, say I!”

“I don’t understand how Harry turned out so well with you as his guardian.”

Marius hums, satisfied, “But he did turn out well, didn’t he? Harry is such a good kid. I am grateful every day that he wandered into my life.”

Sirius narrows his eyes, “Wandered in? I assumed he was placed with you because you’re well, my closest surviving not-murderous family, and he, ahem, couldn’t be placed with me. Not as if Azkaban is a solid choice for a nursery.”

“Narcissa isn’t murderous,” Marius asserts. 

Sirius’ voice comes out measured and hard, “You don’t know her, then. That woman is a killer. I’ve seen her. She will kill anyone for her family.”

“Lucky for us we’re her family then, right?” Marius responds, mulling over the words anyhow. Narcissa definitely seems like she could kill to protect people she loves, but to call her a ‘killer?’ That doesn’t match the woman Marius has come to know.

“She doesn’t think of us that way, trust me.”

“She got you out of Azkaban when I mentioned feeling upset that she was the only person I knew from my blood relatives. We learned all about you and Bellatrix and when we reviewed the trial records, we saw you never had one. I said, ‘That seems problematic,’ and Narcissa agreed. She pulled every string possible to get you one. Seems like you might count as family to her.”

Sirius shakes his head. “With Blacks, there’s always an ulterior motive.”

“What’s yours then for accepting her invitation to the ball?”

Sirius gives him a lopsided grin that edges on manic, “Who, me? Didn’t you learn this from our dear cousin Narcissa? I’ve never been much like the rest of the family.”

“Ah yes, a Gryffindor. Because bravery and ambition are diametrically opposed, apparently. It is not as if it takes bravery to reach one’s ambitions, of course not.”

“Your sarcasm is not appreciated.” Sirius sighs and then turns around in his robes. “What do you think?”

“You look festive,” Marius responds. 

“Do I look handsome?”

With his cut features, sharp jaw, gray eyes, and aristocratic nose, Sirius simply is handsome. “Yes dear, but that’s not because of the clothes. I would wager it is mostly due to your face.”

Sirius wrinkles his nose at the word ‘dear,’ but he’ll simply have to get used to it. Marius views him very much as a kind of nephew or son, and he is now dear to Marius. “Do I look good in the robes?”

“You look festive,” Marius repeats, “And mildly garish. In a very wizardly way, I suppose. You look somewhat like you’re in a costume but I am more muggle in my preferences.”

“Would you buy these?”

“Heavens no.”

“Right then.” 

Sirius eventually decides to match Marius in a set of copper dress robes though Marius opts for a lavender dress shirt and Sirus for a cream one. 

On the day of the ball, Remus takes Harry to London. As a Ravenclaw in disguise, according to Sirius, Remus and Harry get on well. Harry has adapted wonderfully to having two new adults in his life who care about him. He calls them “Uncle Sirius,” and “Uncle Remus,” and shares some of his chocolate chips with them because they, “need chocolate more than I do!” Every room in the four-bedroom home of #8 Privet Drive is occupied. Marius feels quite surprised that just five years ago, he felt rather lonely. Now he feels like he has children coming out of his ears. He wouldn’t have it any other way. His daughters sent him gift baskets and he sent them three presents each, just because that’s his tradition. Something to do with one of them in French class being sad they didn’t celebrate three kings day in England.

Marius is so proud of Harry. Far from being upset that he wasn’t invited to the ball, Harry is thrilled to be going to the West End Theatre to see Phantom of the Opera. “I’ve never been to a musical!” Harry says. Marius is glad he was able to get tickets for Remus and Harry in time. He never meant to neglect Harry’s cultural education, it just sort of seemed to happen. As Sirius and Marius dress in their fine wizard garb, Harry is dressed in a new blazer slightly too big for him (he’ll grow into it), and Remus in a well-fitted gray suit. Getting Remus new clothes was a task for Sirius and all Marius knows is that it was a battle Sirius eventually won. 

Remus smiles down at Harry and says, “I’ve been to a few but never with someone I like as much as you.”

“Oi!” Sirius retorts, “I brought you to see ‘Dusk in Dragonlight,’ didn’t I?”

Remus shutters, “Don’t remind me. Wizard musicals are awful. I do not want to ever experience song in five dimensions again.”

“Five dimensions?” Harry asks.

“The normal three but then add time and an odd zone where there is a seamless tie between gravity and electromagnetism.”

Harry and Marius blink. Harry asks, “What does that mean?”

Remus takes Harry’s hand, “I couldn’t even begin to tell you. But hurry up now, Harry, we don’t want to miss our carriage to the theatre.”

“You’re driving!”

“Details.”

Harry trots after Remus toward the door calling out, “Bye guys have fun! Love you Uncle Sirius, love you, Granda.”

“Love you too,” they both chorus.

“Be good,” Remus calls out. 

“I won’t,” Sirius responds. “I’ll be great.”

Remus laughs and the door shuts on them. “Now we pick up Mr. Weasley,” Marius says, “And then we go to the Malfoy party.”

“Into the den of vipers themselves,” Sirius mutters. “Right then. Hold on to my arm, I’m going to apparate to the burrow.”

***

The manner in which his mum embraces Sirius Black is honestly embarrassing. She is sort of laughing and sort of crying and trying to give him cookies and totally red in the face. “Should have – I knew you were good and I just – turned my back is what I did – but you look well! You ought to come over for tea and oh, I’ll cook you up your old favorites from back when we were in the order together. You look thin. Of course, you do! You’ve not had enough, but I’ll change it, yes I will, and –”

“Molly,” Sirius says, clearing his throat. He looks awkward. Ron feels awkward, just watching all that. “We must be getting on. Where is, er, Ron?”

His mum smiles in a trembling sort of way, “Oh right. RON!”

Ron walks to the fireplace, “Right here, mum.”

She looks at him in his nice robes and beams. “Aren’t you handsome? Now what are you going to do.”

“Beat Lucius Malfoy,” Ron says dutifully.

“That’s right. Beat him into the ground. Into DUST. Love you!”

“Love you too.” 

“And Marius,” She says, looking at Harry’s old grandfather, “Be sure to keep an eye on my boy, yeah?”

“I will do so.”

And with that, Ron, Sirius, and Marius are all stepping into the fireplace, throwing down floo powder and shouting, “MALFOY MANOR!”

Ron stumbles through and dusts himself off. The foyer is enormous. It seems that everything is made of marble, the walls, the columns, and the fireplaces. Everything is inlaid with gold. The chandeliers are all solid gold with diamonds and crystals and hundreds of ever-burning candles. As Ron is ushered to the ballroom by an elf, he is struck with the sudden thought that money can’t buy taste. The house feels like a museum and not all like a home. There are moving tapestries on some of the walls in addition to the portraits. Tapestries are terribly expensive, Ron knows that, but they feel creepy. The way the men and women and dragons of the Malfoy house crest move about in the tapestries, the way the threads ripple and bits of their bodies seem pulled along, is nothing short of horrific. The candles provide light but the whole house feels a bit dark. And cold. 

The ballroom is no less grand, it is opulent and enormous with a domed ceiling painted with constellations. Ron follows behind Marius and Sirius into the space and immediately relaxes when he sees Blaise Zabini talking to Theodore Nott in a corner by the dessert table. “Can I go talk to my friends?” He asks Marius. Marius nods, “Go on. I’ll be right by in the corner of the hall on the left.”

Ron walks toward his housemates. When he arrives, they give him an obvious once-over. “You did well,” Zabini says. Zabini is resplendent in deep green dress robes with diamonds sewn into the collar and cuffs. 

Nott is dressed in well-fitted and obviously expensive black robes. “I expected worse,” he says, matter-of-factly.

“Ah, me too, if I’m being honest.”

They both raise an eyebrow at this but don’t pry. “Say,” Zabini says, “I hear you’re going to play a game against Lord Malfoy.”

Ron nods, “I will.”

“Win for us, won’t you? Us Slytherins have been feeling a bit ashamed of losing to you all the time. If you beat Lord Malfoy…it will be simply delicious.”

“He should suffer as we have suffered,” Nott says definitively. 

“If you win, call me Blaise,” Zabini says with a charming smile.

Theodore Nott shrugs, “Call me Theo now.”

Zabini shoots him a look. Theo says, “What? I’m tired of pretending we’re not already friends. We literally eat all our meals together and he makes me laugh which not even you can do.”

Ron feels all warm and fuzzy. “Call me Ron,” he says, softly. 

Theo grunts. “Obviously.”

“No fair,” Zabini complains, “Now I’m the third wheel.”

“Should have thought of that before you played this game,” Ron says. “Now I’ll always know you only like me because I can play chess well.”

Zabini bats his lashes at Ron, “But if you win, you’ll forgive me, won’t you?”

Ron grabs a tart from the dessert table and says, airily, “Who knows?” 

As Ron samples some chocolate mousse with raspberries, Lucius Malfoy and Draco come into Ron’s line of sight, walking toward the collection of Slytherins with purpose. Malfoy’s mother, Narcissa, is by Marius and Sirius in the left corner of the hall. 

Ron swallows. Under his breath, he says, “Grind him into dust.”

Theo’s lips twitch. Lucius is wearing robes made of emerald. Ron’s heard about it – there’s a magic technique where precious stones can be pressed so thin they become a sort of fabric capable of holding shape. Rather than rippling as he walks, the robes stay stiff and perfectly molded to the imposing figure of the Malfoy patriarch. He looks absurdly wealthy dressed like that. Draco Malfoy’s robes are similar, just cut from opal. The crystalline white robes swirl with greens, pinks, blues, and oranges. With his bright blonde hair and upturned nose, Ron is struck with the sudden thought that Draco is pretty. He does not know if it is alright to think of boys as pretty. None of his brothers have ever talked about that around him. But Draco definitely is. He also looks deeply uncomfortable. Lucius Malfoy’s hand is curled tightly around Draco’s shoulder in a way that looks proprietary. The pair come to a stop in front of the three Slytherins and they all make the proper greetings to Draco and Lucius. 

Once Ron has finished greeting, “Lord Malfoy,” Lucius finally deigns to look down his nose at him. 

“Mr. Weasley,” he murmurs, “What a surprise it was to see you end up in Slytherin. Perhaps there is some hope for your family, after all.”

Ron responds, “I would say so, sir.” He has plenty of hope for his family, especially considering he intends to beat Lucius badly. They’ll all feel pretty happy once he does that. A small bit of sweat slides down his neck. He does not want to think about what will happen if he loses. His dad will say it’s okay, but look crushed. His mum…those are not thoughts he wants to consider. 

“I hear Draco lost 50 galleons playing chess against you,” Lord Malfoy says with a smile, “Impressive.”

Draco blushes lightly and looks mortified. Ron realizes this entire exchange and the upcoming game is not all about him. Lucius does not want to play Ron. He wants to teach Draco a lesson. Ron is insignificant to Lord Malfoy. 

“I do hope you will play a match against me. I wish to show dear Draco how to do better in the future.”

“It would be an honor,” Ron says.

“Yes, indeed,” Lucius agrees. 

That does seem a bit rude, really. Ron asks, “Should we bet too?”

Lucius smiles. It is a mean sort of smile, all condescending and considering. “That would make it a bit more interesting. I would feel bad taking your money given your family’s…circumstances.”

Ron keeps his head high and refuses to get embarrassed for having less money. Lucius seems like an awful dad and Ron wouldn’t trade his dad for Draco’s for all the galleons in the world. “That’s okay. How ‘bout if I win you publicly announce that my father is the best employee in the ministry.”

Lucius’ fingers tighten on Draco’s shoulder and Draco winces. His face stays in the same expression of slightly mean civility. “Certainly. When I win, I would like you to renounce the blood-traitor beliefs of the Weasley family. In fact, why don’t you simply renounce your family altogether?”

Ron considers. The stakes are unequal. Giving up your family and announcing that someone you dislike is good at their job are not at all the same. He learned this from betting with Slytherins and Ravenclaws on chess. It’s not the first time the bet has been uneven. He’s never lost yet, but he’s never played an adult other than his parents. “Those terms are a bit unequal.”

Lucius seems supremely unconcerned. “We do not have to bet if you’re frightened of losing, little Weasley.”

The manipulation is as obvious as it is effective. “Maybe I have got a bit too much Gryffindor in me to feel scared. You’re on, Lord Malfoy.”

“Excellent. Binny,” a house elf appears, looking harried, “set up a chess table for us in the center of the dance floor.”

“Right away, sir!”

The elf snaps away and dutifully clears out dancers to set up the table. Ron says, “We’re playing now?”

“No need to dawdle now that the terms have been set.”

On their way to the table, Draco keeps trying to pull away from his dad. His eyes look panicked. Ron can just imagine him thinking something along the lines of, ‘Don’t bet against my dad!’

With confidence Ron absolutely does not feel, he says to Draco, “Don’t feel too bad about losing to me all the time. Once I beat your dad, you’ll see it’s nothing to do with you. I’m just better.”

Draco sneers, “You’re so full of yourself, Weasley.”

Lucius chuckles, “Indeed. I will enjoy this match.”

Ron feels the stakes of the game intensely when he sits down at the table. But, he consoles himself, no magic was used to swear their terms. And unlike Lucius, he does not have any honor to uphold amongst these purebloods. If he loses, he just won’t renounce his family. What’ll Lucius do? Think less of him? He’s already looked at like he’s less than dirt. He has nothing to lose by refusing to follow through on the bet and everything to gain. Once he looks at it like that, he stops feeling so afraid. 

“I’m gonna show them,” he thinks to himself, as he sees the crowd gathering to watch the chess match. “I’m going to show them all.”

They sit down on the table set up with a beautiful chess board made of pearl and onyx squares. The black chess pieces are ruby-encrusted titanium. The white chess pieces are gleaming platinum embellished with diamonds. Ron started playing on a chessboard inherited from his grandfather that only had enough pieces to play one side, not both. It was old and battered. Like everything else he owned. However, the old chessmen weren’t a drawback at all. Ron knew them so well he never had trouble getting them to what he wanted. Once he could buy a new chessboard, he did. His board is wooden with wooden pieces and he’s played with them long enough that they trust him. Wooden pieces are sensible by design. These wealthy jewel-encrusted pieces seem like they may be, well, a bit frivolous. 

Lucius takes a protesting black pawn and a white pawn and places them in one fist each, then puts his arms behind his back to switch them around and then holds out his fists once more. 

“The left one,” Ron selects. Lucius opens his palm to reveal the black pawn.

“Now see here,” the pawn protests, “I do not want a young player like that. Do it again!”

Lucius does not acknowledge the chess piece, “You will play black.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll win you over,” Ron says to the pawn. He does not acknowledge Lucius. 

Lucius starts the clock and directs a pawn to D4. Ron counters with D5 and the pawn grumbles but goes to the proper position. “A bit dull,” it says. “Rather a normal opening.”

The black pieces all murmur in agreement. “A child!” says the black king, “I am doomed.”

Lucius moves a pawn to C4, challenging Ron’s pawn at D5. “You think you’re doomed?” The pawn grumbles to the king, “What about me?”

Ron grimaces. He’s used to some resistance from the pieces, but they all seem rather defeated already. “Oh hush,” he tells them, “Have a little faith.” He directs a pawn to C6 to protect his pawn at D5. 

Lucius moves his knight to Nf3 who gallops with so much force, the whole chess table shakes. “Hey!” shouts the white bishop, “Do a little less, please.”

“‘Tis my right to ride my steed,” Lucius’ knight responds. 

Ron reacts to Lucius’ knight with his own knight at Nf6. He also gallops to his position, but more quietly than the white knight.

“Mimicry is the highest form of flattery,” Lucius notes.

If Ron is meant to feel ashamed for playing well by this comment, it does not work. “Always good to play the knights.”

Lucius moves his second knight to Nc3 which again puts pressure on Ron’s pawn at D5. “Surrounded on all sides,” it moans. 

Ron moves a pawn to E6 to protect it even more and open up additional channels of movement for his bishops and queen in a few moves. So far, he and Lucius are playing well but nothing is out of the ordinary. Ron has played many games with openings just like this. 

“No one’s taken a piece yet,” one of the audience members complains.

“Hush!” says everyone else. 

Lucius moves a pawn to E3, and then Ron moves his second knight to Nbd7. When Lucius moves his bishop to B3, Ron starts to get interested. Most of its pathways to taking Ron’s pieces are blocked by the white pawn in the way, but it is a bold move nonetheless. Ron directs his pawn at D5 to take said white pawn at C4, and his pawn says, “The bishop will take me in one move, I’m donezo,” but does in fact draw his sword and viciously attack the white pawn, who then exits the board, limping and swearing. The white bishop does then take Ron’s unhappy pawn, and Ron responds by moving another pawn down to spaces to B5 which pushes Lucius’ bishop back a few spaces. Ron allows himself to smile because now he is at the part of the game he is good at: attack. 

Instead of moving another pawn down, he directs a bishop to D6. The bishop slides gracefully, and says, thoughtfully, “I think you’re better than you look.”

At this, Lucius raises a brow. He castles, and then Ron does the same. Lucius backs up his bishop with his queen and Ron drops his bishop back. After a few more moves, Ron has one rook next to his queen, his king one square from the corner, and a white night threatening his second rook. He and Lucius are fairly evenly matched. By this point in the game when playing against other people, Ron is already pretty confident he’ll win. But he does not have that certainty. For the first time since he was about eight, he is struck with the thought that he might lose. He knows logically he won’t win chess forever, but the idea of losing to Lucius Malfoy of all people fills him with a sense of disgusted dread. “Dust,” he reminds himself. “Grind him into it.” Still, he feels a prickle of fear. He does have a knight that could take the white knight, but instead, he moves that knight down to G4 which leaves his rook open for attack. It is always sad to lose a piece, especially a rook, but Ron is thinking of end games and checkmates and he needs his knight in a better position. The rook starts screaming, “I’m going to die,” but the knight shouts back, “Winning the war takes sacrifice.”

For the first time, Lucius looks shaken. It is clear Ron did not respond the way he expected. Lucius moves his pawn to F4, in line with the knight and blocking Ron’s bishop from attacking. Ron’s castle sighs, “I live to fight another day.”

“That you do,” he agrees, “Pawn on C, take the white pawn on B4.” His pawn does so, viciously. A moment later, Lucius has a white pawn capture on B4 as well. It is another bloodbath, and the black pawn limps away shouting, “Why build me up just to take me down? Why?”

Ron says, “Bishop to B5.”

The bishop turns to look at him. “But that puts me at risk of being captured by a white pawn. A pawn! It is a bad idea.”

A little more forcefully, Ron repeats, “Bishop to B5.”

As the bishop goes on, the castle calls out, “Remember, sometimes we need sacrifices to win the war.”

“Oh shove off, you great lump,” the bishop responds, unhappily.

Lucius’ eyes widen, “What an odd choice. Foolish, you might say.”

“You might,” Ron placidly agrees. He feels like there are bubbles inside him. He sees his endgame taking place. He just took a risk, sure, but he’s beginning to feel like he’s on his path toward victory. And Lucius thinks he just made a mistake because the more common move would have been to move his queen.

Lucius moves his bishop to E2 which surprises Ron and puts his knight at G4 at risk. Ron thinks of a principle he learned from his dad when he was first learning how to play, before Ron beat his dad every time, which says that if two of your pieces are under attack, offer a third one because when it is the next player’s turn, they can only choose one. Using that philosophy, he moves his second knight to E5 which puts it at risk from two of Lucius’ pawns. Instead of protesting, the knight says, “You seemest more clever than Morgana.”

“This kid?” The castle scoffs. “Doubtful.”

“I have spoken.”

Lucius takes longer to choose his next move than he has the entire game. He looks not quite shaken, but no longer as relaxed as he was at the start. The knight at G4 is captured by the white bishop, and the knight is knocked from his horse and thrown to the ground so hard, he bounces. But far from leaving the board upset, he sashays away saying, “‘Tis sad my power was o-erswayed, yet far from rage, I am certain my player can hold defeat’s swift foot back.”

“You’re sweet,” Ron tells him. “A good knight. Now then,” he says, surveying his pieces and thinking of his best options, “Bishop to B4.” The bishop slides into position. All of a sudden, Ron’s pieces are poised for attack. The king is directly in the line of the bishop. He notes, “And that’s check.”

Lucius smiles. “So it is.” It must be a battle, Ron thinks, for him to try and look so unbothered. “King to H1.”

Internally, Ron celebrates. Lucius has put his king in the corner of the board which is a very poor position. Ron says aloud, “Knight to G4,” and watches in satisfaction as his remaining knight tears the white bishop apart screaming, “‘Tis revenge for my fallen brother!”

All Ron needs to do is move his queen to H4 to begin his winning position, but it is Lucius’ move and he decides to capture Ron’s rook. The rook takes the defeat dramatically, calling out, “I knew that I was doomed. Told you all, didn’t I?”

“Yes, yes,” Ron agrees, “You’re a regular fortune teller. Pawn to F5.” By moving down his pawn instead of capturing the knight with his king, Ron blocks Lucius' queen from being able to attack effectively. 

Lucius swallows, subtly. His jaw clenches. The veneer of confidence is cracking, and fury is brewing beneath his cool exterior. Ron thinks Lucius is a great player, so he must be starting to realize by now that he is going to lose. Ron, on the other hand, is having so much fun. This is without a doubt one of the best matches he’s ever played. 

Lucius says, “Knight to G6,” which makes Ron curse under his breath. That is the only move that can stop the checkmate Ron is sure to get because it protects space H4 from his queen. “You got it,” his queen says, “I know you do.” 

Queens are hard to win over, but once you do, in Ron’s experience, they are the most encouraging of all the pieces. “Thank you, your majesty.” He looks at the board and wonders what to do next. He got so focused on the endgame and he is so close to victory, he almost just wants to be able to jump ahead. But he can’t afford to get sloppy. Not now. “Queen to F6,” he says, which means that he can now take the knight in the next move.

With two bishops in play, all Ron needs to do is get his queen over to the H column and he will win. Lucius moves his pawn to H3 hoping to take Ron’s knight at G4 or simply block his queen’s victory, Ron isn’t sure. It does not matter, his queen captures the white knight. She is deadly, cutting down the knight in one single stroke. She glitters as he limps away holding the reins of his horse and looks supremely satisfied. “You are a little genius,” she says, quietly enough that only Ron and Lucius can hear. 

Lucius begins to look downright murderous. It is obvious he did not expect to lose, and he is running out of ways to stop his defeat. He moves his queen to E2 which forks in Ron’s knight, but Ron could not care less about that knight anymore and moves his queen to H5. 

Lucius moves his queen to D3 which means that Ron can’t move his queen to H3, which is how he would capture the final pawn and begin checkmate. “Don’t worry, love,” his queen says. 

“Oh I’m not worried,” Ron says, to the laughter of the audience who have also caught on Lucius is about to lose. Ron was raised on stories of the Malfoy family who were darker than midnight and richer than Merlin. He heard of Lucius always going after his dad again and again for no reason. He’s heard from his mum that Lucius might have been involved in the deaths of his uncles. Beating him here, in his own home, at a game he thinks he will win, makes Ron feel powerful. Ron feels like he’s doing something bigger than himself as he plays the chess match. “Bishop to E3,” he says with finality. With his bishop next to the white queen and protected by his own knight, the game is over. Although he’s not officially in checkmate, there is no way Lucuius can come back from this. They can play out the checkmate, but if he were Lucius right now, he would resign with his head held high. It is respectable to concede in a position such as his. 

“I resign,” the white king says, mournfully.

“I do not,” Lucius spits.

Draco, standing behind his father, makes a half-aborted motion to maybe tell his father to resign, or stop. He drops his hand though and shifts in place. Lucius’ calm facade has broken entirely and what’s left is a man who looks infuriated and ugly because of it. The crowd is quiet, watching and judging.

What follows is embarrassing, even for Ron. Lucius captures the black bishop with a white bishop, Ron moves his queen to H3, calling out check, Lucius is forced to move his king to G1 looking murderous, and then Ron delivers the final blow, “Queen to G2.”

The Queen lands in position, her two swords crossed over the white king’s neck. “Checkmate,” she calls out. “And what fun that was!”

Perhaps it is rather rude, but Ron can’t help it. “It was fun,” he says grinning at Lucius. “It was a lovely lesson to teach dear Draco how to play well.” Draco, standing behind his father, looks shell-shocked. Ron winks and then turns to stare directly into Lucius’ raging eyes. “And her majesty is right. Checkmate.”

Chapter Text

“Do you think I could get a puppy?” Lyra asks the next time her mother visits. Her mother’s belly is getting bigger every day.

“Whatever for?” Her mother asks, struggling to sit down. 

“For company. I’m lonely a lot.” Lyra says it matter-of-fact.

“No, dear. You can’t take care of one, I’m afraid. But how about you give your stuffie a good cuddle?”

Bunny does look cuddleable. But: “It’s not the same.”

Her mother purses her lips. “No.”

Lyra keeps asking. Every time her mother comes, every moment the birth gets closer, Lyra asks for a puppy. “I wouldn’t even care if it were ugly. If no one else loved it, I would.”

Her mother looks like she almost might cry when Lyra says this, but she stays steadfast, “No.”

“Fine then!” Lyra says, one afternoon when she’s alone after one of her mum's visits, “Then I’ll get one when I grow up.”

***

Harry and Remus get back home to Number Eight Privet Drive when the sun has long since set and the moon glows distantly behind dark clouds. The street lamps flicker. Harry sings, “Angel of Music,” under his breath. The lyrics of all the songs and the sets and the chandelier that swung so close to the audience before shattering he swore it was magic – all of it is flickering in his mind, little pieces of warmth he can half-remember but too wonderful to hold all at once. 

“So you liked it?” Remus asks, feeling around in his pants legs for the key to the front door. In winter hols, kids in the neighborhood run around until late so he can’t use alohomora for fear of a muggle noticing. 

“Loved it!” Harry responds, “I didn’t know people could sing like that.”

“They are talented, aren’t they? Ah! There it is. Just under the gum, hiding.” As Remus is unlocking the door, Harry sees a bit of movement in the corner of his eye. Dudley is running down the street with a skinny kid Harry vaguely recalls – Piers Polk-something – laughing all the way. Piers used to push Harry’s head into the toilet whenever he and Dudley hung out. Dudley comes to an abrupt stop when he sees Harry dressed nicely in slacks and a fancy winter coat Sirius bought him and probably looking happier than Harry ever looked when he lived in the cupboard under the stairs. 

“Dudley what on earth –” Piers trails off when he looks up at Harry. The shadows behind them stretch out in the dim light of the lamps. 

“In we go,” Remus says, turning to Harry and then noticing the kids staring up at the two of them from behind the porch steps. “Friends of yours?”

No one says anything for a long moment. Harry exhales slightly and turns away from Dudley and Piers, back toward to his home, “No. We don’t know each other.”

He says it loudly enough to make sure they can hear him and steps into the inviting entryway leaving the dark night and shadows out on the street. Remus comes in and closes the door behind him. “Hot chocolate?”

“With peppermint?” Harry suggests. 

Remus grins, “Is there any other way to have it?”

“Not if you ask me,” Harry says, emphatically. He tries to hold onto the feeling of the show, but it slips away as he thinks about Dudley. He’d forgotten. He’d forgotten that he used to live in a cupboard and in a house where no one wanted him or loved him.

He shuffles behind Remus into the kitchen. He sheds his coat and shoes on the way and sits on a bar stool swinging his legs as Remus deftly pulls out everything he needs to make hot chocolate. “You know your mum loved peppermint, too.”

“Oh.” 

Harry wonders if his mum ever sat the way he’s sitting right now, swinging her legs, waiting for an adult to finish fixing her peppermint cacao. He wonders what it would feel like if instead of Remus rummaging around and using magic to make the whisk dance in the pot as he finds vanilla, it was his mum humming songs from Phantom of the Opera with him. Maybe she’d kiss the top of his head when she gave him his mug. Maybe she’d teach him some spells for the home the way Ron says his mum does. Maybe she’d be quiet in the kitchen like Aunt Petunia was. He thinks she’d look pretty, if she were still here. 

“What’s wrong?” Remus asks, softly. 

“What?” Harry says, looking up. Remus sets a steaming mug in front of Harry and looks at him. His eyes crinkle at the edges. He’s got scars on his face just like Harry. 

“Your eyes are tearing up.”

“I just…I dunno. I feel a bit sad.”

Remus sits next to Harry at the counter and gently knocks his shoulder. “Want to know a secret?”

Harry nods. 

“Sometimes I just get sad too. But you know what cheers me up?”

Harry guesses, “Sirius?”

Remus smiles in a way that looks as sad as Harry feels, “Him too, sometimes. But mostly, I use chocolate.”

Remus and Harry say a cheers over Harry’s hot chocolate and Remus’ bar of candy and Harry takes a sip and decides he does feel better. He’s about halfway through his cup when he remembers something important. 

“Remus?”

“Yes?”

Harry ducks his head. “I love you.” He doesn’t want to see how Remus reacts. Marius reacted well, but the one time he tried it on Aunt Petunia she responded, “Well, stop it. I don’t love you.” Harry just thinks it’s worth saying because it’s true. 

He feels Remus kiss the top of his head. “Love you too.” He says it just like that. Like it’s easy as breathing. 

Harry is in his pajamas and on the couch with Remus curled up in the recliner when Marius and Sirius step through the fireplace. Sirius dusts himself off in such a cool way and Marius sort of just coughs. 

“How was it?” Remus asks. 

“Garbage!” Sirius says, “Everyone started complaining that a squib came and even Narcissa herself saying Marius has blood as pure as any of the rest of us couldn’t keep her stupid husband from kicking us out. Though he was just upset that Ron beat him in chess if you ask me.”

Harry stands abruptly, “RON WON?”

“Inside voice please, Harry,” Marius says, looking a bit defeated. 

Harry sits back down. “Sorry, it’s just exciting.”

“How are you, Marius?” Remus asks. 

“I’ve been better. I knew… I knew I was thrown out of that world when I was eleven. But I thought the world had gotten better. I thought I could have a relationship with my family. And they hated me. Every single person who learned I didn’t have magic. They hated me.”

“Who could hate you?” Harry shouts, a bit more quietly than he yelled about Ron. “That’s not fair.”

Marius looks tired and comes to sit next to Harry on the couch. “Life isn’t fair. I’m a bit torn up about it now, but I’ll be okay.”

Sirius says to Remus, “He got called ‘Filch.’”

Remus winces. 

“Why would anyone called Grandpa M ‘Filch?’ Filch looks nothing like him!”

“It’s how the ministry codes adult squibs who are kicked out of their families. Their last names get changed to ‘Filch.’” Remus explains. 

“I’ve never stolen a thing in my life,” Marius says. “It’s insulting.”

Harry starts. He never realized ‘Filch’ wasn’t the original last name of one of his favourite adults at Hogwarts. 

“Harry,” Sirius says coming forward to kneel in front of him, “I saw Snape and he said some concerning things.”

Marius leans forward, “No, don’t you start. That man is perfectly nice!” 

“Snivellius is the furthest thing from nice on this planet. He said that you’re working with him, Harry.” Harry shrinks back. There’s a kind of wild look in Sirius’ eyes. “Are you?”

“I mean, yeah. On potions and Chemistry. He's nice. I like him.”

Sirius shakes his head, “No, no. That’s not right. You can’t like him. You can’t!”

Marius puts a hand on Sirius’ shoulder. “Stop it, you’re scaring him.” Sirius bats the hand away. 

“He’s bad news. He’s evil. He’s smarmy. Ask to look at his left forearm sometime and see how much you like him then. I knew him when we were kids and the way he feels about you now, whatever you think he wants from you, it’s twisted. He shouldn’t be anywhere near you. You hear me, Harry?” 

Remus stands, “That’s enough, Sirius.”

“He hated your dad, he ever tell you that? Hated James. You could tell.”

“He doesn’t hate me,” is all Harry can think to say, “And I don’t hate him.” He’s shaking, slightly. Sirius isn’t yelling, not really, but Harry doesn’t like the way he’s acting and being so intense. 

“And that’s good, Harry,” Marius says. “Enough,” he says to Sirius, steel in his voice. 

“You don’t hate him? You don’t hate him? YOU SHOULD! YOU HAVE TO.”

“SIRIUS, stop right now —”

“HE KILLED YOUR PARENTS!”

“THAT IS ENOUGH!” Marius screams. Harry flinches back against the couch. 

That seems to shake Sirius and he scoots back, hands opening in a placating way. “Harry…”

“He – what?” Harry feels like his mouth is stuffed with cotton. 

“Just ask him,” Sirius says, bitterly. “Ask him.”

“You’re coming upstairs with me,” Remus decides suddenly. He stands and grabs Sirius by the ear and drags the man up the stairs until it’s just Harry and Marius sitting on the couch, Harry still shaking. 

“I’m sorry you heard that,” Marius says, pulling Harry into a tight hug. Harry buries his head into Marius’ fancy robes. “We both had a hard night, huh?”

“Did he?” Harry’s voice is muffled. He sees broken chandeliers and a beautiful woman with eyes like his in a kitchen and a man with his hair dead on the floor. “Did Professor Snape really…”

“No, Harry. We know who did that and the man responsible is dead. Your mother killed him, right?”

Then, Harry does cry. He sobs until his eyes are red-rimmed and he feels exhausted. He cuddles up to Marius as they turn on the telly to Home Alone with the volume down low. “Is it possible to miss someone you’ve never met?” Harry asks when he’s calmed down a little. 

“We can miss just about anyone. Sometimes I miss the late king even though we never once met.”

“I think I miss my parents, sometimes. Even though I never knew them.”

“Sometimes, Harry, I feel the same.”

It doesn’t make the feeling inside Harry go away but it is nice to feel like someone else understands.

***

Sirius is a dog by the time Remus has finished laying into him why he was wrong to bring up all he did around Harry. He looks so guilty, Remus finishes mid-tirade and grunts and flops onto his bed and pets Sirius when he pushes a wet snout into his hand. 

“You know, Harry told me he loved me today.”

Sirius immediately phases back and Remus is left stroking his hair, “What? He told you FIRST?”

“You’re a real handful, you know that?”

“But you love me anyway, don’t you?”

Remus feels suddenly so nostalgic for the days when they were fifteen and in love and everything was easy. When the worst thing they could say about Snape was that he smelled bad and had greasy hair. When Lily thought James was the worst and everyone Remus cared about had a leaf in their mouth so they could keep him company in the future. 

“I do. But it’s different now, isn’t it?”

They haven’t kissed yet. They haven’t even talked about anything. A decade of loss and betrayal lies heavy between them. 

“It doesn’t have to be. We can go back to how we were.”

“We can never go back. We can only go forwards.”

***

When Harry returns to Hogwarts he can’t tell if he wants to be there or not. He hugs Hermione and pushes sausages around on his plate during dinner. 

“You’re not eating nearly enough,” She admonishes. 

“Says you.”

“Says me. If you don’t eat more I’m telling a prefect.”

Harry glares at her and mulishly eats two more sausages. 

“Thank you,” she says, primly. 

After dinner, Harry wanders to Filch’s office in the hour or so he has before he needs to be back in his dorm. When he knocks, Filch looks surprised to see him. An expression of malice melts into something confused. “Harry? Did you need something?”

“Just wanted to give you a Christmas present because I missed you during the holiday.” He holds out a letter and a package filled with cat toys for Mrs. Norris. 

“That’s…thoughtful. Want some tea?”

Harry nods and enters the dimly lit, poor-smelling, cramped space. Mrs. Norris sees Harry sit down on a chair and decides that means Harry is her chair now, so she sits on him. There’s a kettle already on Filch’s desk and he locates a chipped cup to serve Harry some tea. They sip in silence for a while. “Something on my face?” The caretaker asks.

“Er. Yes. That is. Er. I learned that ‘Filch’ is a name the ministry gives squibs and I was wondering if you had another name that maybe you wanted to call you instead of Mr. ‘Filch.’ Grandpa M thinks it’s insulting.”

“It is,” Filch says quietly. “But it’s the name I’ve lived with since seventeen so it’s the one I’ve got, now. Best you get going.”

Harry nods and leaves with little fanfare, heading toward the Ravenclaw dorm room. It’s raining, he notices absently on his journey. 

***

Ron is called into Snape’s office on his first night back. Ron’s been sauntering through Hogwarts with all the confidence of a legend. The Slytherins all came up to shake his hand for beating Lucius. Third-year Adrian Pucey says, relieved, “My parents don’t mind I lost any longer. They’re just proud I played you.”

Gemma Farley tells him he should consider going to Russia to compete in the tournaments they hold in Leningrad. “Oh, wait, I actually think it’s back to St. Petersburg. But the biggest Russian wizarding community is around there somewhere.”

After feeling very large indeed, Ron falls back to earth when he enters Snape’s office. The man is staring at his stores, back to Ron. He does not turn around. 

“Thank you, sir. For the robes.”

Snape plucks a vial and holds it up to the light. Ron catches a glimpse of the man’s profile. Snape returns the vial to the shelf. “What you did,” he says, softly, “was foolish.”

“Wearing your robes? They were the best I had!”

Snape slams one of his hands into the shelves. The bottles all shake and rattle. “Beating Lucius.”

“It was actually pretty clever –”

At this, Snape spins around. His eyes are black and his lips are set in one thin white line. Ron stops, immediately. Snape looks furious and, around the edges, terrified. 

“You absolute imbecile. You made yourself a target.”

Ron swallows. “A target?”

“That man is not your friend and he’s nothing like your rival, Draco. He has killed before. He has killed children before. Did you not think of that before you humiliated him? Your family must have told you stories about his actions in the war. You must have known how personally he takes failure.”

“But – but the war’s over.”

Snape curls his lip. “If only that were true. But even then…”

“Even then?” Ron prompts, a sinking feeling in his gut. 

“That wouldn’t save you.”

Chapter Text

“Can I get a puppy?” Lyra asks again. Her mother is so pregnant she looks close to bursting. 

“No,” her mother responds. She tucks Lyra into bed and moves a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Then she strokes Lyra’s head in the way that only mothers can. It’s more affection than Lyra has gotten for a long while and she leans into it. Her mother has spent nearly the whole day with her. It’s one of the best days she’s had since getting sent to this room. “Darling, once the baby comes, I’ll have to leave you alone for a few months. You understand, don’t you?”

“No,” Lyra whispers. “I haven’t for months.”

“Oh, dearheart. You must know we do this because we love you.”

“For how long?” Lyra asks. 

Her mother’s hand pauses. “How long what, dearest?”

“How long will you love me?”

Lyra closes her eyes and feels lips brush her brow. She smells her mother’s rose perfume. 

“Always, Lyra. Always.”

***

Harry grits his teeth. His snuff box sits before him, almost smug. It is still very much a snuff box. They’ve been doing this lesson for a full week now and Harry hasn’t managed to turn his snuff box into anything resembling a mouse. Today he’ll fix that. He knows where he’s been going wrong. Mice are entirely unlike any other transfiguration Harry has done before. They’re alive. And that’s been the whole issue. Harry understands chemistry. He learned things far above his grade level with Grandpa Marius back even before he was adopted officially. He had the opportunity to study with one of the most accomplished chemists in England, maybe ever. He understands equations and the rules of substances. 

But Harry knows almost nothing about biology. When he started thinking about all the chemical properties of a mouse, he got lost. There are whole systems in play. There’s the heart, sure, and then all the synapses firing in the brain of a mouse. And beyond that, even skin has cells, and every cell has little tiny parts that need to be created, each with their own unique chemical make-up. Harry didn’t even know any of that a week ago which is why he’s been struggling so hard. 

He feels frustrated that his classmates don’t share his difficulties with this lesson. 

(He talked to Hermione about his hang-ups and she’d stared at him like he was crazy, “You don’t understand the structure of a mouse brain? Why would you need that?”

And Harry had stared right back at her, equally like she was crazy, “How can you not need that? How?”)

Frustrated, Harry asked Grandpa Marius for help, and then Harry was put in touch with a veterinarian who sent him an animal biology and anatomy book, which Harry has been studying non-stop since. He doesn’t know enough about all the parts of the mouse to do the whole thing yet, but he’s got enough knowledge to get at least one part down. He still has five weeks before the end of year exam where he will have to turn the snuffbox into a mouse. 

Piece by piece, he tells himself. You can work your way up to the whole thing. 

This snuff box is a silver one. Harry focuses on the electrons and other components, and works on transfiguring them in his head to amino acids. He has to make a complex molecule called actomyosin. The actin and myosin are put together in filaments oriented parallel to each other and to the long axis of the various muscle walls he begins to build. 

The blood is easier. It just has to have albumins, globulins, and fibrinogen. Some iron, too, but Harry and iron are good friends. He could transfigure anything into iron. He could transfigure silver into iron in his sleep.

Harry furrows his brow trying to keep absolute focus. This next part is especially tricky. Now that he has all his components assembled, he needs to put them together correctly. He envisions the four chambers, two atria, and how they are separated by an inter-atrial septum. Then two more ventricles, separated by an inter-ventricular septum. 

Once it is all in his mind, Harry finally says the charm. At once the snuff box collapses inwards and turns a shocking color of red as it begins to oxidize. A gross metallic smell hits Harry’s nose, but he cannot help but feel mildly proud. 

“What on EARTH is THAT?” Hermione screams.

“What do you mean?” Harry asks, “It’s a mouse! Or, part of it, anyway.” On his desk sits an anatomically accurate mouse heart, beating weakly. It’ll likely keep beating for about 3-5 minutes before it gives up given that it is not inside a body. 

A hint of blood smears against the side of the desk. 

“I’m going to be sick,” Lisa Turpin moans. She bends over at the waist and vomits all over Goldstein’s shoes. 

“Oh my god!” he shouts, “What have I ever done to you, Harry?”

“I’m not the one who vomited on you!” 

“Yeah but I blame you for this and for Padma’s non-Newtonian fluid. You’re dead to me.”

Lisa looks green and rests her head weakly against her desk. Goldstein looks down at his shoes and swallows back his own bile. 

Padma walks over to Harry and looks green herself, “You are disturbed,” she informs Harry. “That is plain wrong.”

“It’s a mouse heart! I’m sorry I don't know enough about everything else yet. Biological organisms are more complicated than wine, okay? I’m figuring it out more slowly than you guys but that’s no reason to be mean.”

“YOU DON’T HAVE TO UNDERSTAND THE BIOLOGY OF SOMETHING TO TRANSFIGURE IT!” Hermione screams, “I KEEP TRYING TO TELL YOU THAT BUT YOU NEVER LISTEN.”

Harry stands and screams right back, “THAT DOESN’T MAKE ANY SENSE! HOW CAN YOU MAKE SOMETHING WITHOUT EVEN KNOWING WHAT YOU ARE MAKING?”

Rather than raise her voice, McGonagall speaks evenly in a tone a whisker’s width louder than a whisper.

“That is quite enough, children.”

Everyone snaps to attention and McGonagall banishes the sick from the floor and makes her way to Harry’s desk. The heart is still beating but it has a minute at most. She stares down at it long enough that it stops beating. It is red and full of muscle and ventricles. Harry gulps, waiting for a verdict.

She scrubs a hand over her face. “Turn it back, Mr. Potter.”

Harry nods. “Yes, Professor. Right away.” Turning the mouse into the snuff box is much easier, because Harry only needs to say “reparifage,” and imagine what the snuff box looked like before it became a heart. 

The heart shakes and expands before stretching out and returning to its snuff box glory. Harry risks a glance at McGonagall who is staring down at him with an impassive expression. “Would you like to explain why you did that?”

“I only have the heart figured out so far, so I did that first. By next class I should have the skin and most of the organs down. I think I’ll figure out the brain and skin and fur in time for the final exam. The brain might still be a bit off, we don’t understand them very well. But it should still work well enough, I hope, for the mouse to act sort of like a mouse.”

“Mental,” Goldstein mutters. “He’s a right nutter.”

Terry Boot nods. 

“Shut it,” Lisa murmurs, half-heartedly. She still looks ill. 

McGonagall squints. “Are you meaning to say that you are attempting to transfigure a mouse that is exactly accurate to a living mouse, all the way through?”

“Yes? What else would I do?”

“Simply visualize the way a mouse looks, Mr. Potter. Don’t reinvent the mouse. Goodness. You’re making this so much harder on yourself.”   

“That doesn’t make sense!” Harry protests. “A mouse is a mouse. I’m not trying to make a mouse-shaped snuff box.”

“That’s exactly what you are doing. When you transfigure a snuff box into a mouse, it is still at its core, a snuff box. It should not behave like a mouse, not really.”

Harry feels tears of frustration rise in his eyes. “But that’s crazy. When I made wine, it wasn’t water, it was wine until the transfiguration wore off. It wasn’t just red water that tasted like wine. That’s like – that’s confusing. I don’t understand what you mean.”

McGonagall squints some more. “I’m sending you to Professor Dumbledore. He understands this better than I can claim to and also, he has the benefit of not currently teaching a class. Here, I’ll write you a note.”

And so Harry finds himself a scant few moments later sitting in Dumbledore’s office. The wizard is wearing lilac robes and his wispy white hair falls down around his shoulders in a way that feels story-book perfect. His eyes look at Harry kindly from behind his half-moon spectacles. “So you made a heart.” 

Harry nods, not quite trusting his voice or the man in front of him. He wonders if he is in trouble for doing his best. 

“You’re not in any trouble, Harry.” 

Harry. Dumbledore has been calling him Harry from their first meeting. Not ‘Mr. Potter,’ the way all of his other professors do, except Snape. And Snape only calls him Harry because they are working together on a paper and are closer than most professors are to their students. Harry’s not just a student, he is Snape's apprentice. 

Calling him by his first name is a familiar address, but Harry does not feel familiar with Dumbledore. He feels uncomfortable even if he cannot explain why. Maybe it’s because even though Dumbledore looks similar to Grandpa Marius in terms of age, there’s a warmth missing, or maybe just a certain absence of authenticity. 

Harry studies the phoenix perched by one window. “I just don’t understand the rules, that’s all.”

“The rules?” Dumbledore inquires mildly. 

“Of transfiguration,” Harry clarifies, “They don’t make any sense! How can you make something if you only have a bad idea of what you’re making? Wine was one thing, wood to steel was another, but a living organism? There are so many moving parts and no one else seems to care.”

“What is it that you think transfiguration is, exactly?”

“It’s turning one thing into another for a bit.”

Dumbledore smiles. “No, Harry. It’s the art of making something seem like something else for a bit. It’s a magic trick, pure and simple. You can think of it as a kind of illusion magic. A transfigured table made from a lion is still a lion. A broccoli made to look like treacle is still broccoli. Transfiguration is a trick, a mighty good one, a useful one at that, but a trick none the same. You aren’t turning one thing into another, not at all.”

Harry tries to make sense of that, but comes up short. “That’s not how I do it,” he says instead. 

“Can you give me an example?”

“Like when I make a needle out of a match, I change all the molecules so it’s really metal. Not just convincing metal. Actual metal. For a bit, the match is actually a needle. It wouldn’t like, ignite if you were to strike it.”

“Of course not.”

“But it would if it were just an illusion. If it just looked like a needle but wasn’t a needle and was actually a match, it should start burning if you strike it, right?”

Dumbledore looks thoughtful. “It’s an illusion so good it tricks even the object being transfigured.”

“When I do it,” Harry asserts, “It’s not an illusion.”

“Show me, then,” Dumbledore commands, and summons a match.

With ease and practice, Harry turns it to a steel needle and passes it to Dumbledore. Dumbledore inspects the thing, turning it round and round in his hands. He knocks it against the table. He bites down on it, once. He casts a quick charm with his wand, then lays the needle on the table. 

“Impressive,” he notes. “It is indeed a true steel right now. But it is still, on some level, a match.”

“And on what level is that?” Harry asks, getting more frustrated. “A metaphorical one? What are the rules of this?”

“You know them. We cannot create: something from nothing, life, nutritious food, beauty, the mind, or the soul.”

“Those are limits!” Harry bursts out. “Not rules. A rule would be something like, ‘in order to transfigure a snuff box into a mouse you need to understand basic facts about mice.”

“That’s certainly something you would appreciate, but I’m afraid it is not one of the rules.”

Harry stares into the man’s eyes and finds them scarily void of emotion. They just twinkle pleasantly as if Harry is not having a breakdown. “You know there’s a north American legend that the earth lies on the back of the turtle. Someone asked once, ‘What’s under the turtle?’ Want to guess what the answer was?”

Placid as ever, Dumbledore responds, “I have not the faintest.”

“The answer was, ‘It’s turtles all the way down.’ Sometimes magic feels like that to me.” 

***

Severus does not hate Harry. Severus knows this with certainty. He does not hate the boy. He tried to, Merlin, how he tried. He wanted to hate him. He wanted to curse the child and curse his own misfortune for being forced into protecting the wretched offspring of James Potter. But Severus can not hate Harry, not any longer. 

Harry is in his office, head looking down over their paper written on transfiguration of magical ingredients into muggle substances to create incredible results. His chin is resting on the table. He’s exhausted and his blinks are getting longer with every minute he spends trying to proofread their paper one last time. The two of them are sitting next to one another in Severus’s office looking over their final draft before submitting it to The Scimitar, the oldest and most prestigious magical journal in all of Europe.

 Harry’s cheeks are soft with baby fat and his eyes are unfairly large and green. He looks, in this moment with his chin on the table, much more like Lily than James Potter. With his dark hair, he could just as easily be Lily and Severus’s son. The thought is not altogether unpleasant. Severus allows himself a brief moment to wonder what that would have been like, if she’d loved him and they’d had a son together. When he tries to imagine any child they’d have together, he finds Harry’s face appearing in his mind. Maybe a bit older. A bit more sarcastic. But it’s Harry’s face he sees, when he allows himself to wonder what would have happened if he’d had a child. 

Salazar, the boy looks tired. Severus casts a quick tempus. It’s 1:34 AM. Severus feels a hint of guilt. He is in the practice of staying up late working on papers and creating potions, rolling into bed for a few hours before he must rise again to teach. He hardly sleeps. Hasn’t slept since he was a child. But Harry is a child and Severus thinks he ought to be in bed by now. A responsible teacher would have sent Harry off hours ago. 

“A father?” He thinks to himself, “ I can hardly be considered a professor.” 

“Harry?” He calls out, softly. 

The boy blinks up at him. “Hmm? ‘M awake. I can keep helping.”

Severus feels something fond burst forth in his chest so strongly it is almost violent. “You’re awake, are you?” The tenor of Severus’ voice is much lighter than it usually is. Nurturing, even. He must be getting sick. Harry nods unconvincingly.

 Severus has never been one for many emotions, but he is reminded so strongly of Lily trying to stay up with Severus in the library to prepare for exams and lying through her teeth that she was awake enough to keep hanging out, only to fall asleep over borrowed textbooks. Severus would always take off his robe and put it under her head instead of the books and pack everything up, return all the books to their shelves, then wake her just enough to walk her back up to Gryffindor. He uses a tactic he used on Lily when he wanted to avoid that particular dance, “I am quite tired, myself. It is best if I turn in. I think the paper is good enough, unless you want to keep working.” Severus yawns far more convincingly than Harry nodded. 

“Oh, no! That’s okay, er, now that you say it. I think I’m starting to get a bit tired too. I should go to bed, right?”

He looks to Severus, as if for approval. It makes Severus uncomfortable. Still, he manages to smile in a way that probably looks as if he swallowed a fly. A friendly fly. “I think that’s best.” 

Harry lingers for a moment swinging his legs. 

“Was there something you wanted to say to me?” 

Harry puffs out his cheeks. That’s yes if Severus has ever seen one. Harry gathers himself up with all the courage of a lion cub that still longs for the safety of its pride. “It’s just that Ron said you were mean to him.” 

Severus recalls his warning to Weasley. A needed one at that. “It was necessary.”

“He’s eleven ,” Harry says, eyes flashing fire. He looks so much like his mother. “You can be nicer to us! You scared Ron and you still scare Neville and –” Harry cuts off. He must notice something. “And you look proud of that!”

Severus considers. Harry is right. He is proud that he can scare children. He has authority and they should be scared of him. “What’s this about, Harry? I frightened you at first too, didn’t I?”

“Only because I thought you might beat me! Or even curse me until I couldn’t see straight anymore. That’s scary. But I know better now.”

Severus feels a tendril of something that is shaped suspiciously like grief. He does not know if he ever wants to learn all the details of Harry’s life before gaining a new guardian, but the picture painted is abysmal. He holds back from asking more questions simply because he does not wish to commit murder. There’s a limit to how many crimes Severus can commit before even Albus cannot keep him out of Azkaban. Still, Severus cannot sometimes feel like he failed Lily. To Harry, he says, “Then perhaps your frightened friends ought to take a page out of your book.”

“Only, yelling doesn’t scare me so bad. I grew up with it, right? But it scares other people. And! I read studies and all of them agree that students learn best with supportive teachers that believe in them. I can show some to you. You don’t have to be mean to teach us. We’ll learn better if you’re nice.” 

That sounds awfully like coddling to Severus, which he is not in the practice of doing. But it is also late, and Harry needs sleep. He needs to go to bed. “Alright,” he says gently. “I’ll read some of those studies later. Let’s get this paper sent out and get you tucked up to bed, hmm?”

Harry murmurs, “Okay,” shoulders coming up to his ears. He looks so sad all of a sudden. He’s shaking a bit. “If you could – could take it back, would you?”

Severus pauses for a moment, mildly startled by the abrupt question.“Take what back?”

“What you said to Ron.” Severus doesn’t need to be an Occlumens to know that’s a lie. Harry’s asking a different question than the words he’s using. His eyes stray to Severus’ left forearm. 

It’s such a big question. At the same time, it’s so childish. It’s like Lily making him swear he’ll push her on the swings ‘no take-backs!’ It’s Lily, upset at something or another and demanding he take it back. “Take it back, Sev,” she’d say. And he, as a child, would raise his hands and say, “Fine! I take it back.”

He lets out a breath and stalls for a moment. “I can’t take things back, Harry. I can only move forward and hope that the person I am tomorrow is better than the person I am today. Does that make sense?”

A tear escapes the corner of Harry’s eye. He looks beaten down and Merlin, he’s only eleven. “...Yeah.” He sniffles slightly. His lower lip wobbles. “Hey, Remus told me you knew my mum.  Do you think she’d be proud of me?”

Severus almost sneers at him for daring to bring up Lily before he remembers the child before him. He wants to kill Remus Lupin. He wants to scream at Harry to never speak of the werewolf that almost mauled Severus to death and force Harry to  never bring up Lily ever again. Severus thinks back to the horrible night, doing his best to keep his emotions at bay. He sees shattered glass. He recalls Lily’s body spread out on the ground, hair framing her face like a halo of blood. He hears Harry’s screams. And he’d reached for Lily then, hadn’t he? He’d reached for the dead while the living child screamed behind him. 

And Harry doesn’t know. He doesn’t know how fiercely his mother loved people in her life. He doesn’t know she was talented at potions and always pushing for bringing modernity into the wizarding world. He doesn’t know how proud she’d be of him, for anything he’d do. Harry doesn’t know because he never had the chance to know his own mother. The grief Severus has carried with him for over a decade bursts forth then, like water from a broken dam. His voice comes out cracked and raw. 

“Always.”

Chapter Text

Lyra’s little brother is born and her mother stops visiting her. For months. At least three. Lyra lies on her bed and paces barefoot around her room.

She tries to talk to the house elves but they never stay longer than to deliver her meals. 

If she was a different sort of child, she thinks she might have gone mad.

Instead, she doodles and doodles pictures of her puppy. 

She’s bored out of her mind one day when her door opens. Excitedly, she calls out, “mummy!”

“Not quite,” comes a silky voice. Not deterred, Lyra runs full tilt at the man in his dark robes. 

“Uncle Sev! I haven’t seen you in ages!” 

His thin hands wrap around her and she feels safe. “It has been too long. Your mother sent me.”

“Is she alright?” Lyra asks, worried. 

“She hasn’t been able to sneak any time away from your new brother, but she misses you terribly. Hence why she sent me.” Uncle Sev leans forward and tickles Lyra and she giggles, “I’m the best at keeping secrets.”

Lyra knows that means that she is a secret but she is so overjoyed to be able to talk to someone. Uncle Sev spends all day with her and tells her about Muggle Schools which are so wonderful to think about. 

“No one there has any magic at all but they learn all sorts of things.”

“Like what?” Lyra asks, excited. 

“They learn about math.”

“I’m good at math!”

“And reading.”

“I can read!”

“They even learn art.”

Lyra scampers away to produce one of her puppy drawings. “I can do that! I think I’d be perfect for muggle school!”

Uncle Sev takes the page from her and studies it. He looks a bit sad. “I think you would be. Say, this is rather good.”

“That’s the puppy I want to get someday. If you want, you can have that one. I’ve drawn loads more.” Lyra offers the paper shyly. 

Uncle Sev gives her a warm head pat. “I shall treasure it always. You know, many muggle families hang up their children’s drawings on a box that keeps something cold. I shall do something like that.”

Lyra beams. Uncle Sev doesn’t seem to care one bit that she doesn’t have magic. He thinks of her as family. 

He comes to visit much more often after that first time and accepts the things she draws for him and tells her more about muggle school. 

A few more weeks pass and then Lyra’s mum comes in when Lyra is all tucked in bed and kisses her forehead. “I missed you, darling.”

Lyra is barely awake but shuffles forward and sits up just enough to hug her mum tight around her stomach. “I miss you, too.”

They cry that night but after that, her mum starts coming over more. She talks lots about Lyra’s little brother. Lyra hates learning all about the new baby who is her brother and a perfect stranger. She feels replaced, even if she doesn't want to. He is only a few months old and has already done some magic. “Will I ever get to meet him?”

“Maybe.”

“Can I get a puppy?”

“No.”

“Can you tell me about muggle school?”

“About what?”

“Uncle Sev was telling me about a place where kids without magic are happy and learn things and I like hearing about it.”

Her mum swallows but says, honestly, “I’ll look into it.”

And after that, Uncle Sev comes around sometimes and Lyra’s mum comes around sometimes and they both put her to bed with stories of the friends people make at muggle school. Lyra starts to feel better. Maybe not yet, but someday she’ll leave this room and be around people without magic, like her. She thinks she’ll like them. She thinks they’ll like her. It’ll get better, someday. 

****

Harry feels an itch beneath his skin after his conversations with Snape and Dumbledore. Magic is this uncomfortable mass of swirling power and there are no rules. Maybe there never were. He finds himself disgusted with all his magic textbooks. He spends more and more time in the library, desperately trying to find answers to how it works. 

Hermione often sits with him while he studies. “You know that you’re trying to make it all muggle, don’t you? It’s magic, Harry. Let it be magic.”

Harry grunts, frustrated. “I want things to make sense! Is that so wrong?”

Hermione blows a stray piece of hair off her forehead. She looks at Harry like he’s a puzzle she almost knows how to solve. “Of course it isn’t. But you’re going to have let that go.”

“Doesn’t it bother you? That there’s all these things we can’t explain?”

Hermione laughs then, slightly. “Harry, there are always going to be things we can’t explain. Look around at this library! There’s so much we can explain, and that’s what I love.”

Harry lets Hermione talk to him about Gramp’s laws and moodily retreats into his own mind. If there was just something, just a hint, of knowing how it all works and what is happening in transfiguration, Harry would feel loads better. He wants the rules and the how. 

But there’s nothing. Limits, he can find. Things wizards can do to manipulate the world are everywhere. But the basic answers of, “How does it work?” are absent. Nobody knows. All the distinctions between charms and transfiguration and defense are made up. It’s kind of like how subtraction and addition are called different things, but you can add negative numbers to positive ones and at that point, is it addition or subtraction? The labels are stupid. It’s all arithmetic. 

It’s all magic. There are no rules. Just axiom after axiom. Unproved, unprovable. 

Magic is built on the back of a tower of turtles so high it should topple over. 

So Harry stops trying to study magic. Maybe later, once he can come to terms with the turtle tower. Instead, he goes back to the library night after night with Hermione and Ron, and pulls out his anatomy book. He gets to work on studying the brain and ignores Ron and Hermione trying to stage an intervention. 

“It’s gross, mate.”

“You really, really, really don’t need to know all that.”

He does. “If magic has no rules, I’m going to do it my way.”

“And what way is that?” Ron bursts out one evening when Harry is drawing a very accurate duodenum. “The creepiest way possible?”

“The way where I make rules that make sense.”

On the day of the transfiguration final exam, McGonagall takes a deep breath during Harry’s turn as if trying to steal herself. 

“Alright Mr. Potter,” she says, placing the snuffbox on the table in front of him with a quiet thud, “Transfigure the snuffbox into a mouse.” She winces on the word, ‘mouse.’ “And please do make sure it is a whole mouse.”

Harry nods. He has been practicing this for so long, his mind is ready. He has all the little parts of the mouse built up already and visualized in his brain. He knows which atoms need to become different atoms, which molecules he needs to use to build each individual component, he knows what a mouse should look like on the inside and how all of that connects to the outside. “I’ll do my best,” he says, seriously.

He knows he’s been pushing himself too hard these last few weeks. He knows that what he’s doing isn’t normal. He feels like he’s teetering on the edge of a breakdown. He wonders if he’s already there. He casts the charm, working on making sure every component of the mouse is transfigured accurately. He needs every synapse to be in the right place. Even if no one knows how they work yet, mouse brains have been imaged. And Harry needs to make sure this mouse he’s building is perfect. 

He feels himself shaking. A bead of sweat rolls down the back of his neck. There’s a pressure that he feels building inside his head like a migraine made out of everything except pain. He breathes out. 

The snuffbox shudders and contracts and turns into a mouse. It’s a cute thing, all white-fur and pink-nosed. Harry feels his shoulders drop and feels suddenly exhausted. He feels wetness on his chin and goes to rub it. His fingertips come away bloody. 

“Huh?”

“Oh my heavens, take this Mr. Potter, put pressure on it now,” his professor says, producing a handkerchief from nowhere and very gently guiding Harry to put it against his nose. It’s bleeding, he realizes. “Magical exhaustion from a simple end of year exam. Harry…”

“Just look at it,” Harry whispers, proud. His mouse is on the table scurrying around and clearly stressed. It’s perfect little whiskers twitch. It looks one moment from jumping off the table and escaping to the safety of the walls in Hogwarts. 

McGonagall seems to realize exactly that and erects a small barrier to keep the mouse in. 

“Put cheese somewhere,” he asks her. “I want to see what it does.”

She mutters something under her breath but summons a small cube of cheese and puts it in a corner from the mouse.

The mouse immediately goes to the food and eats it. McGonagall flinches. “They don’t normally…eat. I have no idea what will happen now, actually.”

“It’ll poo it out. I made a fully functioning digestive track.” Harry sniffs and takes away the bloody handkerchief. He’s fine. And he’s proud of himself. He’s made at least one thing using magic that makes sense. 

“I’m sorry, you did what?” The professor pauses a moment, regarding the mouse more intently.  Harry’s mouse acts exactly like a real mouse. McGonagall squints  at the visibly beating heart, the expanding lungs. She seems to notice the way the mouse doesn't merely look like a rodent but is one. 

She shakes her head but gives him full marks. “You know you cannot keep doing this.”

Harry smiles back at her, frustrated and full of teeth. “Watch me.”

The mouse squeaks, the vocal cords holding well and the sound coming out the way it should from a regular mouse when it is stressed. 

McGonagall stares at it, askance. “I worry, you know. Magical exhaustion is a concern. You’re not supposed to get it from simple transfiguration which means what you’re doing is so beyond what you should be doing. It is not good for a wizard to reject magic in such an extreme fashion.”

Barely batting an eye, Harry turns his upset and stressed out mouse back into a snuff box. A small of block cheese rests right beside it. “I’m not rejecting it. I’m doing it, aren’t I?”

“What you’re doing, I’ve never seen.”

“I’m doing something that makes sense.”

McGonagall takes off her spectacles and pulls out a handkerchief to polish them. “I have never seen a child so thoroughly unimpressed with simply using their imagination. That is the core of transfiguration, Harry: dreams and the will to make them happen.”

Harry lets that sink in for a moment, testing it in his mind. “So it really is, then.”

“Is what?”

“Turtles all the way down.”

***

Dreams and the will to make them happy. Harry wonders when he became so fixated on everything making sense. He has dreams and he likes things to be silly and fun. He likes making up wild stories and getting hugs and eating chocolate chips in front of the telly. 

“What’s happening to me?” He asks in almost a whine. He’s in Snape’s office just drinking tea because McGonagall was so disturbed by his final exam she identified which professor he was closest to and forced them to have a meeting. 

“Give me more context.”

“I feel so not okay and grown-up these days.”

“I think you are exceptionally talented and a bit sad.”

Harry takes a sip of his tea and thinks about it. Is he sad? He might be scared. He thinks it may have changed when Sirius told him Snape killed his parents. Maybe it changed when he learned this world hates Grandpa Marius simply for being born without magic. 

That’s it. Probably. “If I didn’t have magic, I’d still be someone worth caring about.” Harry says, determined. 

“Yes. Of course.” Snape is used to Harry’s complete non-sequiturs by now. 

Harry looks up into Snape’s dark eyes. “But would you care about me if I didn’t?”

Snape is quiet. Considering. “If you were a squib I would not know you. This is a school for wizarding children and I am a teacher. I would hardly come to find you in your home.”

Harry swallows. Maybe he wants everything to make sense perfectly because if he understands the rules then he can understand why he has magic and stop being so afraid that every connection he makes, every person he meets, every step towards his future he makes is so conditional on something he doesn’t even fully understand. He doesn't even know if he thinks magic is a good thing to have or use. “No, I know that. But what if my mum hadn’t died? And you were a family friend. And I was a squib. Would you still care about me?”

Snape’s face does something incredibly complicated. It looks a lot like self-hatred and then utter despair. It smooths down into something more polished but looks pained around the edges. “Not enough,” he says, quietly. 

Harry nods, once. His stomach feels like it’s sinking. “That scares me,” he admits, voice breaking. 

Snape doesn’t make him feel better. He says, “It should. And if you want to try and fix it – the way the world looks at squibs, I will help you. You need to grow up a bit more first. If you still feel like this when you are seventeen, come to me and I promise you, we will make a difference.”

Harry doesn’t understand. “Why?”

Snape smiles, rueful. “I have more sins to atone for than I can count. Sometimes I think I changed more than the world did. It needs to catch up.”

***

When all the exams die down, Harry is ready to get on the train and go home. Instead, he finds himself with packed bags sitting in Dumbledore’s office. His head hurts and he feels so homesick for pocket squares and growing your own crystal sets. He and Hermione are going to see another show in London. Harry might learn how to crochet from Remus. He wants to be back in his house on Privet Drive so deeply, it almost hurts. 

“You must be wondering why I asked you to be here.”

Harry has felt exhausted since he made the mouse. He feels like he did something when he made it that he shouldn’t have and he feels unsettled and he just wants to go home and get hugs. That’s all he wants. He doesn’t want to be here in this office with Dumbledore. “I guess,” he mumbles. 

Dumbledore gives him a kind, grandfatherly look. It makes his eyes twinkle but doesn’t make him seem genuine. It feels calculated. It’s all too much. Harry is overwhelmed and tired and freaking out and… he starts crying. 

In the middle of Dumbledore’s office with three hours to get on the train, Harry breaks down sobbing. Once he starts, he can’t seem to stop. His nose starts bleeding and Harry watches with a kind of distant horror as his teardrops and blood splatter onto the floor. 

A portrait lets out a wounded noise, “The poor dear.”

Dumbledore mutters a charm or two, and Harry’s face clears of snot and tears and blood. The charm(s?) settle over him, itchy and almost overly warm. It’s more efficient than the handkerchief McGonagall gave him. Harry doesn’t like it.

He still sniffles somewhat. 

“Are you alright, my boy?”

“No,” Harry responds, tears slipping down his cheeks. “I want to go home.”

“I am excited to have you return home but I need to tell you some difficult news.”

Harry has a feeling of dread immediately wash over him. “What is it?”

“Do you remember Professor Quirrel?” Harry nods. “He came back into the castle last night when I was away for the evening and stole something. I have reason to suspect that Quirrell was possessed by Voldemort. The item he took could potentially lead to him coming back this summer. It is imperative that you do not leave your home for the whole summer. You will be safe if you stay there.”

Harry’s heart starts jackhammering. His palms feel sweaty. “Vol-Voldemort?” He repeats. “He’s coming back?”

Dumbledore looks grim. “I believe so.”

“Why was something that could bring him back even at Hogwarts?” Harry asks, freaking out. He wants to leave. 

“There were barriers in place. I initially assumed there would be better defenses than there were.”

I assumed. It’s almost an admission. It sounds like Dumbledore kind of did a bad job and that’s why Voldemort might be coming back.

Harry can’t do this anymore. “I want to go home,” he repeats. He doesn’t care if he sounds childish. He feels it right now. “Please.”

Dumbledore sighs, “Go on then. Let me know if there is anything I can do to help.”

Harry feels his lower lip wobbling. He stands and curls his hands around his bags and heads for the door of the office. He needs to get out. He needs to go home. He just wants to feel normal again. 

***

Marius and Sirius sit gingerly in the beautiful cottage Narcissa has found for this meeting. There is one day until Harry comes home and Marius is using the time to meet more of his biological family. The cottage is somewhere in a highly private magical part of England. It has views of rolling hills from the windows. The interiors are decorated in tasteful blues and purples. It’s calming and lovely and Narcissa is shaking. 

“They’re your family,” Marius says as a comfort.

“I have not spoken to her for over a decade.”

‘Her’ refers to Marius’ cousin Andromeda, Narcissa’s older sister. Sirius gave Marius the breakdown. 

(“Married a muggleborn, got disowned, had the best kid ever. You know how it goes.”)

Sirius grins. “You’ll love Nymphadora. Promise. Best Black daughter yet.”

Narcissa, if possible, pales even further. There’s a knock at the front door and she stands immediately and walks over to it as if preparing for a funeral. Then the door opens and two people step inside, a girl with bright pink hair and a woman who looks strikingly similar to Narcissa. 

Andromeda regards her younger sister for a single moment before bringing her in for a crushing hug. “‘Cissa, I missed you.”

Narcissa seems to melt into the embrace. Her hands come to grasp her sister tightly. Her fingers leave indents in Andromeda’s shirt. “You left me,” she cries out. All at once, Marius feels like he is intruding on something terribly private. “You left me.” It becomes clear that Narcissa is weeping. “You left me and I needed you.”

Chapter Text

Coming home is nothing like Harry expected and yet exactly what he expected. He is picked up by Grandpa Marius at the train station and folded into a hug so full of love Harry can feel it bursting. The hug is more careful and more desperate than he remembers. Grandpa Marius is overjoyed to see Harry, and yet, he is more sad than Harry remembers.

The drive back to #8 Privet Drive is a quiet affair. Soft Vivaldi plays on the speakers. Grandpa Marius and Harry have been on many drives like this before, comfortable in each other’s company without needing the accompaniment of words. But today, Harry shifts in his seat. The words, “are you okay?” sit on the tip of his tongue and he cannot seem to push them out. 

Sirius greets them at the driveway and takes Harry’s trunk for him. Up the street, Aunt Petunia cranes her head over the fence to stare at Harry as he walks up hand in hand with Grandpa Marius to the front door. Harry stares right back at her for a moment and thinks, fiercely, that he has never been luckier that the house he used to live in is not the one he is going back to. If she turns away first or he does, he cannot say. He enters the house and pulls off his shoes, one at a time, and places them in the cubby in the entryway. He has done that numerous times before. The mundanity of the house – with its simple carpets and stationary stairs and non-moving pictures – is comforting.

In the kitchen, Remus is cooking supper. A few pots and pans wash themselves in the sink. He is humming under his breath. The melody is melancholy. Sirius carries Harry’s trunk up the stairs to his room. He hasn’t said a word yet. Mr. Marius releases Harry’s hand only to tug him once more into a gentle and near-desperate hug. “Welcome home.”

Harry buries his face in the chest of this man, the first person to ever love him. He feels overwhelmed all of a sudden and clasps Grandpa Marius’ back as hard as he can. “I missed you.” Standing in his home, with Mr. Marius’ pocket square tickling his nose, the words don’t feel big enough. 

Grandpa Marius presses a kiss to the top of Harry’s head before finally pulling away. He asks, with just the barest hint of a smile, “Homesick, were you?” 

“So much,” Harry answers. “Who ever thought eleven was old enough to leave home?”

Grandpa Marius goes to the living room to sit down on their beige couch and Harry follows behind him. Harry shakes himself, remembering all at once that Grandpa Marius was kicked out of his family at eleven and says, quickly, “I’m sorry – I didn’t mean it – I wasn’t thinking –”

“Eleven is young, isn’t it?” Marius cuts Harry off, “It’s alright, Harry. Did you like school? Do you want to go back to school next year?”

“Don’t I have to?” Harry asks, hesitantly, “It’s the best magic school in the UK.”

Marius shakes his head. “Between Remus, Sirius, and the money we all can put together, we could tutor you at home if you wanted. Sirius and Remus know it better than I but there is a way to get official approval from the ministry to teach a wizard at home. If you want that, we can look into it.”

Harry considers it, and then considers it some more. Grandpa Marius looks pale and the lines in his forehead read like grief. Harry finds himself almost disinterested in the idea of homeschooling and instead asks, “Are you alright?”

Grandpa Marius looks startled and then says, “No, but I will be. Don’t worry, dear.”

“What happened?”

“I learned something about my family. It is… it is the most tragic thing I’ve ever known.”

“What is it?” 

Grandpa Marius shakes his head, once. “If you think eleven is too young to go away for school, eleven is certainly too young for me to tell you now. Just know that even if Sirius, Remus, and I are all a bit quieter these next few days, it isn’t because we love you any less. I at least love you dearly and am so glad to have you home for the summer.”

Harry offers up an uncertain toothy grin. “Me too. And I love you too, yeah?”

“Of course. Shall we watch a bit of telly until Remus calls us to supper?”

“Sounds good.”

So Grandpa Marius turns the TV on and Harry sits near him and is rewarded with an arm around his shoulders and a quiet, “I have to stock up on Harry cuddles for the cold autumn if you go back to school.”

And while the Beatles sing on the screen in front of him, Harry thinks seriously about it. About going back to Hogwarts. There are things he doesn’t like: the lawlessness of magic, the casual way it treats danger, Dumbledore.  There are things he likes: his friends, the books, the papers he gets to write with Snape. He likes the castle itself and the view of sunrise from the Ravenclaw common room. He likes being able to be himself, his weird magical self, around people who maybe don’t get him all the way, but at least get it. 

He likes, most of all, that Grandpa Marius says “if” and not “when” because that means Harry has a choice. Harry likes having choices. 

At some point Sirius comes and joins Harry on the couch as a dog. Harry pats his head a few times. 

Something big must have happened. And something bad, for all the adults in his life to be acting this way.

Supper is eventually finished and they all head to the kitchen to see Remus carving up a marvelously stuffed chicken. 

“Oh, Sirius,” he says quietly when he sees the large dog, “couldn’t stay human today either?” Sirius lets out a muffled wine and tucks himself between Remus’ legs as he attempts to walk from the counter to the table, plates floating along behind him. Remus trips a tad and sighs. “Come on baby, just let me get to the table. Then you can slobber over me to your heart’s content, alright?”

Sirius detangles himself with another whimper and watches morosely as Remus joins Harry and Grandpa Marius at the table. As soon as he sits and the plates settle on to the table, Sirius is back at Remus pressing his whole face onto Remus’ lap. 

‘Baby,’ Harry thinks. Sirius and Remus certainly weren’t calling each other that when Harry left after Christmas. 

“So,” Remus says, seeming the most alright out of the adults at the table, “let’s talk about transfiguration.”

“Hmm?” Harry says, mouth full of stuffed chicken. 

“Minerva sent us some highly concerned letters and I think I have a sense of what might be going wrong, but I thought I’d hear it from you first.”

“Nothing is wrong,” Harry asserts. “Did she tell you about the mouse I made? It was perfect. ”

Remus grimaces. “Yes, I heard all about it. Impressive. I’m also categorically unsure if what you’re doing can really be considered transfiguration at this point. It might be something else. She also talked to me about that.”

Harry shouts, “It is too transfiguration! I just do it more accurately than everyone else. I give it rules.” 

“Ah, rules,” Grandpa Marius says, “very important, those. But are you sure you have the right ones?”

Harry deflates, “what?”

“Magic has rules, Harry. It just also has axioms,” he says.

Remus nods, “Exactly. A lot of magic is just like one plus one.”

Harry frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” Grandpa Marius says, “what is one plus one?”

“Two. Obviously.”

“But why?”

“Because if I had one thing and then another, and I put them together, I’d have two of them.”

Grandpa Marius tuts. “That’s a circular definition. Why, Harry?”

“What do you mean? I can show you right now. See if I take this grain of rice and put it next to this grain of rice, now I have two grains of rice.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean why?”

“Why is it that every time that you add one thing to another you end up with two?”

“That’s just how the world works! You can see it!”

Grandpa Marius nods at Remus. Remus says, “Exactly. That’s just how the world works. You can see it, too, every time you add something to another. But one plus one is an axiom. In magic, it’s like that too. You can transfigure a mouse without knowing everything about a mouse, because that’s just how it works. And you can see it work every time. Does that make sense?”

Harry runs it through his mind. It somewhat does, and somewhat doesn’t.

“What if I decided I wanted something that looked like a mouse – even – even acted like a mouse – but I wanted to be made out of only carbon? Be carbon all the way through. Would that work?”

Remus frowns now, “What? What do you mean?”

But Grandpa Marius is grinning, almost wild. “Harry. You know what this means.”

Harry grins back. “We’ll have to experiment!”

He feels much better all of the sudden. He’s going to run actual experiments and then maybe he’ll start to get a sense of what he can and cannot do with magic. “Wait, don’t I need to not use any magic over the summer?”

“Easy fix on that,” Remus says, “You’ll just have to borrow either my wand or Sirius’.”

Harry starts. “Is it that easy?”

“It’s that easy,” Remus confirms.

***

The experiments Harry runs are, in a word, unhinged. He makes his fully carbon mouse but it doesn’t run. He has a hard time imagining it being anything other than stationary and vaguely reminiscent of graphite, and that’s what he gets. A mouse shaped sculpture made from graphite. 

He tries again, and gets something that moves but looks all wrong. 

He’s getting tucked into bed like a child by Grandpa Marius when he has a sudden thought, “Hey, do you think if I made a mouse out of all sodium atoms and I put in water it would –”

Grandpa Marius claps his hands excitedly, “We’ll need a real lab for that one.”

A real lab they do not get, but a note and an owl yield a warded room somewhere in Cokeworth and a supervising Professor Snape. 

“I cannot believe I am wasting my time away on you,” Professor Snape says, as soon as Harry materializes in the room holding the portkey. 

Harry takes a chance and decides to dart forward and give Snape a quick hug before darting away, laughing breathlessly. “Missed you too.”

Snape’s arms hover in the air even after Harry’s moved away, as if he’s unsure of how to use them. He drops them and then acknowledges everyone else.

“Mr. Black, how good to see you” he says, inclining his head toward Grandpa Marius. In a far cooler tone of voice he says, “And Mr. Lupin.”

He does not acknowledge Sirius who is in the form of a growling Padfoot. “Let’s get started then with your abominable mouse creation.”

“This time it won’t be anatomically correct!” Harry says proudly, “it’ll be something else all the way through.”

“I’ll take your word for it. The incantation?”

“Oh here, use my wand,” Remus says, sliding his wand to Harry. Harry goes to take it, already deeply familiar with Remus’ and Sirius’ wands, but Remus’ hand is slapped away. 

“No, best to use mine,” counter Snape’s silky voice, “it is best attuned to this space.”

“Oh, er, sure,” Harry says, cautiously taking Snape’s wand from the man’s long fingers. The wood is polished and the wand itself is long, and willowy. When Harry holds it in his hands, he feels a ripple of something almost…protective. It feels powerful and intimate to hold someone else’s wand, and for some reason holding Snape’s feels monumental.

Remus’ jaw drops. 

Harry tries to focus on the spell. He pulls a snuff box out of his pocket and focuses on imagining the mouse he made McGonagall but every molecule of the snuffbox becoming sodium rather than all the molecules he needed that time. He imagines how the mouse would run, and tremble, and want cheese. He says the incantation.

When he is done, he feels a bit light-headed but overall okay. There is in fact a mouse on the table. It runs around and looks right. Harry smiles at it, satisfied, and hands the wand back to Snape.

“Oh it does look like a mouse,” Snape notes. He seems thoroughly impressed. “Excellent work for a first year.”

“Now’s the fun part,” Harry says. “We'll see if it worked.”

Snape looks at it, “It is indeed a mouse. It worked in that regard, certainly.”

“But is it the right atom?” Grandpa Marius asks.

“How good are the wards against destruction?” Harry asks. “We might need a protective bubble or something. Also could someone conjure some water?”

Snape and Remus cast a containment bubble at once around the mouse. Snape conjures a bucket of water and hands it to Harry “What exactly–”

Harry dumps the water onto the mouse. It explodes spectacularly. Boom! There's a sound like a bomb (a friendly one!) and then smoke and small mushroom cloud. The air inside the bubble catches fire. Sirius’ ears go flat against his head.

Harry feels something settle in his chest. Even if he can do absolutely ridiculous things with magic, the laws of chemistry and all the science he learned with Grandpa Marius still hold true.

“What in the Merlin?” Snape asks, staring at the burning air. “What did you do?”

“I made the mouse sodium. And sodium reacts to water like, well, like that.”

Snape shakes his head, “That was disturbing. And one of the most remarkable things I have ever witnessed.”

Harry and Marius record the reaction and wait a few hours for the transfiguration to end. When Harry gets older and more powerful, his transfigurations will last longer. But there is a rule he understands in the magic, and that is that transfiguration is never permanent. It is nearing sunset when the contained bubble of sodium hydroxide and hydrogen gas changes back. The snuffbox returns in tiny splintered pieces so fine they resemble sand. A puddle of water stains the floor. 

Snape looks at Harry before they head out and says, simply, “I look forward to working again with you this year.”

Harry beams. “I do too! See you in autumn,” and grabs the portkey, feeling the twist in his navel and getting pulled home.

***

Sirius is only back in human form after Remus fed him dinner as a dog, then washed him in the tub as a dog, then brushed his teeth as a dog, and then finally got into bed with the giant black thing tucked all around him. 

At some point as Remus’ breaths were beginning to lengthen and his mind was starting to slow down, Sirius slips back into his regular body, naked as the day he was born. He somehow curls around Remus even more like this, his arms tucking under Remus’ ribs and making sure both their legs are hopelessly tangled. He hooks his chin over Remus’ shoulder, his curly hair brushing against Remus’ cheek. “Back with me, love?” Remus asks, endeared even if he shouldn't be.

“I still don’t understand it. She was – she was younger than Harry. Younger than Harry . And she never, and they just, and I never got to meet her. I’d have loved her, wouldn’t I? If they’d just asked me I could have taken her and I’d have never gone to Azkaban because I’d have had a kid and she’d be okay and we’d be okay and we’d have –”

Remus tilts Sirius’ chin up so he can press a soft kiss to his lips. It’s a bad angle because they are almost too close to one another. It’s perfect because it’s Sirius and he’s alive and as familiar as every scar on Remus’ body. They’re a part of each other, even if they hurt each other too, sometimes. He kisses Sirius until the man stops trembling and then presses their foreheads together. He wants better answers than the ones he has. The best he has is this one, “You would have. You were too young and still you would have. And all we can do now is make sure it doesn’t happen to anyone else.”

Sirius shudders. “Her name was Lyra and no one but a few people even know to miss her.”

***

It’s still seared into Marius’ eyes even when he tries not to think about it. Narcissa weeping by the door and Andromeda at a loss. Sirius’ young cousin, Tonks, with hair going every color of the rainbow and hovering, uncertain. 

The accusation, “You left me!”

The question, “I thought you wanted me to? I thought you were happy with Lucius.”

The response, jagged and painful, “How could I be? They killed her. They killed her.”

It was Marius then who had come to kneel down by Narcissa and asked, cautiously, “What? Who?”

“They killed her and –”

“Who did they kill?” Andromeda had asked. 

“They killed her and I –”

“Who, Narcissa?”

“I let them.”

They had eventually settled together on the floor, Sirius flanking Marius and Andromeda holding her younger sister in her arms, Tonks slightly sitting away from everyone, hair finally settled on blue. 

“I can’t understand what happened if you don’t talk to me,” Andromeda said after a few minutes of Narcissa sitting silently. 

“I had a daughter,” Narcissa said, the words echoing like a gunshot. “She was a squib.”

Marius feels his heart constrict and a need to get sick rise. “Was?”

“They told me it was her or Draco. But I knew -- I knew if I seemed like I might try to save her they'd kill us both. And I should have run, I should have just taken my two babies and run but I didn’t and –”

Tonks gasps. It’s Sirius who says, “and they murdered her, didn’t they?”

“All I asked for was one perfect last day.”

***

The morning is perfect.

Lyra’s mother wakes her up with a kiss on the forehead, which she almost never does. Lyra gets to stay in bed for a little bit while her mother simply rubs her back, as if she is memorizing every detail. They eat breakfast together, just the two of them, and her mother does not talk about the little brother even once. 

They talk of the things Lyra loves. They talk of how soon the leaves will change and Lyra will get to see the maples turn golden outside her window. They talk of how much Lyra would like a dog. Her mother smiles in a way that seems faker than anything Lyra’s ever seen and Lyra is promised a puppy. “If you wait until tomorrow morning, my darling, I promise that you shall have one.”

Lyra says, questioningly, “I thought I’d never get one? You said no so many times before.”

Her mother cups Lyra’s cheeks. “Today dearest, there is nothing I will not give you.”

Lyra thinks about all the things she’s wanted over the years. She remembers the days before she was put in this wing of the house, far away from where anyone but her mother and the elves could see her. She remembers flashes of running around outside. “Could I have shoes?”

Her mother closes her eyes and for a moment, her bottom lip wobbles. “Just for today, then.” 

“I want to go on a walk outside with you.”

Her mother’s eyes open and she pulls out her wand with the same fake smile kept in place. It is unfairly beautiful. Even if her face is lying, her mother’s words sound true. “There is nothing in the world I would like more.”

Lyra’s mother points the wand at Lyra’s favorite stuffed animal, a bunny Lyra named “Peacock” because she thought it was funny. Peacock is turned into a pair of white boots with pom-poms.

Her mother helps her put them on, even though Lyra could put them on herself. She takes Lyra’s hand and leads her outside for the first time since Lyra moved rooms and instructs a house elf to, “Make sure everyone else is kept away.”

Lyra and her mother stroll through the gardens and Lyra says hello to every rose as she walks. She skips along and lets her smile grow and grow as she smells the fresh air. 

Her mother decides a picnic is in order and they eat lunch outside. Lyra gets her favorite sandwiches and she eats them under the golden sun. 

When it is afternoon, her mother says, “I think it’s best we head inside. I would like to help you get ready.”

Lyra asks, “Ready for what?”

Her mother turns her face to the sky. “To meet your dog, my darling.”

Lyra stops walking for a moment. “But I thought I’d get one tomorrow morning.”

Lyra’s mother lets out a shaky exhale. “Yes, but I did say there was nothing I could deny you today.” She pokes Lyra’s nose, as if in teasing. Lyra doesn’t laugh.

Back in her rooms, her mother lays out the most beautiful blue dress Lyra has ever seen. Lyra takes a bath first, and then puts the dress on. It’s lacy and frilled, and Lyra has never felt prettier in her life. She twirls in front of her mother. 

“Don’t I look cute?”

Her mother nods, bottom lip trembling again. “The cutest,” she whispers. “Come here now, my love, let’s see what we can do about that hair.”

Lyra is sat in front of a mirror, her mother’s sure fingers combing out her hair and braiding it into two long pigtails held by bows. 

As she works, Lyra says, “Can you tell me again about the muggle world?”

Her mother says, “We can just call it the place where no one has magic, dearest. It's still part of our world. And it's quite nice, too. I’m told that there are many schools there, and the children learn things like how to count and how to read and write. They play in great big parks during lunch time and they go to visit each other’s houses.”

Lyra asks, “Do you think I’d like school?”

“I think you would,” her mother whispers. 

“Can I go there? I want to go.”

“Tomorrow then,” her mother promises. “You’ll go to the best school. It’ll be your first day tomorrow and I am sure you’ll make lots of friends.”

Lyra swings her legs. “And I’ll see you after?”

Her mother presses her lips to the top of Lyra’s head. “There now, all done. Let’s have a look.”

Lyra looks in the mirror and sees her reflection. The dress brings out the blue of her eyes and her blonde hair looks shiny in the two braids. Her mother’s face is still in the fake smile. 

“How is it?” Lyra asks. 

Her mother draws Lyra close and folds all around her in a hug. “Perfect. You’re perfect.” Her mother pulls back, but keeps both her hands on Lyra’s shoulders. “You know I love you, don’t you, darling?”

Lyra hasn’t always known it, but she’s known it today. It’s been the best day of her life. It feels like it doesn't matter so much today that she doesn't have magic.  She's still the same Lyra she always was, and her mother loves her anyways. “I do. I love you too.”

Her mother nods and once again cups Lyra’s face with her hand. She brings her face close, and they rub noses. Her mother hesitates for a moment, hands shaking against Lyra’s face. “My darling girl. Come now, Lyra, my heart, it’s time for you to meet your dog.”

Lyra tries to smile, but she feels like something is wrong. Her mother hasn’t called her by her 'my heart' since she before turned six. “Okay,” she says, hesitantly. 

Lyra’s mother takes Lyra’s hand and they start walking in the house toward the ballroom. As they walk, the shoes turn back into Bunny, the stuffed peacock. Lyra picks him up with her free hand. Her bare feet slap against the floor. Her mother squeezes her hand tight, like she’s afraid to let go. 

When they enter the ballroom, Lyra is led to the center of the room and her mother lets go of her hand. She misses the warmth already. Lyra’s father is by one wall with several of his friends Lyra vaguely remembers from when she was much younger. Uncle Severus is there too, eyes looking only at the floor.

Lyra’s mother goes to join Lyra’s father, and Lyra tries to follow, but finds her feet have stuck.

At the front of the room there is a very odd looking man with red eyes and dark black robes.

“As was promised, we will remove the stain from this family,” he says in a bored voice. 

Lyra’s father bows his head. There’s a wrinkle in his brow. “We are honored to publicly show our commitment to magic by formally severing any connection to this blight on an otherwise bright history.”

Lyra clutches Bunny close to her chest and stares at her mother, pleading. She doesn’t want to be here. She wants to go back to her room and drink some tea and maybe read more about the place where there isn’t any magic. Lyra’s mother stares back, eyes unblinking. The smile on her face is twisted and looks painful as if she smelled something rotten.

Lyra understands then why she got everything she wanted today. A long goodbye, she supposes. Lyra decides in the moment that she hates magic and she’s glad she never had any if this is what it does to people. 

She whispers, “So that’s why I never met many adults like me.”

Lyra turns away from her parents and stares back at the man with red eyes.

It was a perfect day. Nothing can take that away from her. She wiggles her bare toes against the marble floors. For one day, she got to wear shoes and go outside. Her mum and her had a picnic. In a few weeks, the leaves will change colors. Maybe she’ll get to see them when she’s in the sky. Maybe she’ll play with her puppy and do things like going on walks far away from any houses. Maybe she’ll get to play under the maple trees with kids from school and there won’t be any magic. She thinks she’ll like that.

Yeah. She’ll like that a lot. 

She’s wearing her best dress too. It’ll be easy to make friends. 

The man has been saying something for a little while to all the other people there but he finally looks at her. He says, softly, “It is kind to put animals down.”

Lyra stares back at him and does her best to look like her mother. She wears a fake smile because she will not let her last expression be scared. 

“I am not an animal,” her young voice rings out, “And you – you are not kind.”

It is the last thing Lyra Malfoy ever says. She closes her eyes because she doesn’t want to hope someone else will close them for her after… after. 

Because Lyra’s eyes are closed, she does not see her mother watching the whole thing with the fake smile finally falling from her face. Lyra does not see her father raise his wand and point it at her heart.

She thinks she sees bright green grass and the promise of something better before she topples backward, a stuffed peacock dropping out of her hand and her pigtails slapping against the ground. 

Her bare feet look so small as her body lies quiet.

The body is burned instead of buried and scattered in the wind. The scent of burning hair lingers.

In the evening, Lucius lies beside his wife. Her lower lip trembles. 

He goes to kiss her, kiss her unshed tears away, but she pulls away from him as if burned.  

“She was only eight,” Narcissa says. “She was only eight.”

Lucius says nothing, just watches as his wife takes a deep breath and plasters a fake smile on her face before leaving their rooms. On her side of the bed, she leaves two hair bows and a beautiful, tiny blue dress.

Lucius stares at them for a long time before he takes out his wand and cuts them again and again until nothing remains but tiny strips of fabric that fall down around him like rain. 

They never speak of it again after that first night. They never kiss again, either. 

End of Part One: Forgotten

Chapter Text

Part 2: Of The; Belonging (Longing to Belong)

There’s no one moment where he decides to stop being miserable. He believes he still is miserable, even now. It’s more that he just decides, in small increments that add up, that he wants to try to feel better. Content maybe, if not happy. He needs to change. No, maybe that’s not right either. 

He wants to change.

So he finds himself asking Harry to connect him with that squib guardian of his, and then he finds himself, one summer afternoon two weeks before the start of term, getting coffee in muggle London. 

He had thought back when he was younger that the muggle world would be full of monstrous and ugly individuals with sharp teeth. Then he thought it would be terribly dull. It is a bit dirty, he supposes. But it is far from disgusting. It is filled with people who all look rather sensible. It is teeming with life. A boy outside with not a lick of magic wears sneakers that light up as he takes a step. A group of schoolchildren in smart school uniforms eat ice cream as they walk. In this cozy cafe, a couple sit on a loveseat and quietly chatter about something or the other. 

The fear he lives with every day that even an eleven year old could accidentally maim him with a stray spell is just… gone. No one here looks down their noses at him. No one looks at him with pity. No one looks at him at all, except for the waitress who has green hair, blonde roots, and a professional smile. She gives him the coffee he ordered, and giggles, “you look just like my gramps,” before flouncing away. It is nice, in muggle London. And that thought scares Argus more than the idea of a stray spell ever has. 

“What was it for,” he wonders, waiting for Marius Black to arrive. “What was it all for if the world outside Hogwarts was always going to be better to me than the world inside it?”

***

The warmth from Grandpa Marius’ hug is still lingering when Harry puts his luggage above him in the train carriage. He waves to Grandpa Marius and Remus and Sirius as the train pulls away, feeling lonely all of a sudden even though he is in a compartment with Hermione, Ron, Padma, and little Ginny Weasley. 

Hermione is sitting next to him and gently catches his hand out of the air where it’s still waving to his family, even though Harry can’t see them anymore. Hands entwined, she says, “it’ll be okay. Winter hols aren’t that far away.”

Harry feels the distance to Christmas like a yawning void. “I feel homesick already, is that silly?”

“No,” Hermione says, firmly. “It’s a good thing.” She says it with such finality Harry is reminded that she is the only person on the train who knew him back when he lived with the Dursleys and came to the school for the gifted with Dudley’s bruises scattering his body like constellations. 

“Right.” 

They smile at each other and tune in to Ron asking, “What house do you think you’ll sort Gin?” 

Ginny Weasley is the kind of confident Harry is sure he never was at any age, but especially eleven. He met her a few times over the summer and at first thought she was shy but once she warmed up to him, became entirely disabused of the notion. She is a spitfire of a girl and the kind of person Harry is sure will be truly frightening when she grows up.

She purses her lips to think about it. “I’m going to get Hufflepuff.”

Ron bursts out, “Hufflepuff! Why?” 

Ginny says, “I’m loyal. And Ron, you’ve gotten all this attention for not sorting like everyone else. It looks nice.

Ron turns red. “WHAT MORE ATTENTION DO YOU NEED?”

“What do you mean?”

“YOU ALREADY GET ALL THIS ATTENTION BECAUSE YOU’RE A GIRL! YOU DON’T NEED ANY MORE.”

Ginny stands up and yells back, “WHAT IF I WANT IT, HUH? WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO ABOUT IT RONNIKINS?”

“DON’T CALL ME THAT. I AM YOUR BIG BROTHER!”

“Alright, that is enough.” Hermione says mildly. “No need to rupture my eardrums.”

“Sorry,” Ron says. 

“Yeah, sorry,” Ginny says. “He’s just such a git. Imagine having him be your brother.’

Ron shouts, “Hey!” right when Harry says, “That sounds nice, actually. I feel like it would be fun to have Ron as a brother.”

Ron deflates and says, slightly emotional, “ Mate. You can’t just say things like that.”

“I think you should sort wherever suits you best, Ginny,” Hermione says. “You’ll only get attention for a few minutes but the novelty of that has already worn off because of Ron. Best to do whatever you think will make you happiest for the next seven years.”

“Yeah, and it took Ron like an hour to convince the hat to put him in Slytherin. Please be faster. It kept trying to put him in Gryffindor and if I’m being honest, I was getting hungry while I was waiting,” Padma says. 

“It’ll be Hufflepuff,” Ginny asserts. “You’ll see.”

***

Harry is seated with all his Ravenclaw friends and watching the sorting when McGonagall calls out, “Ginny Weasley.” He and Hermione straighten up and catch Ron’s eye to give him an encouraging thumbs up.

Ginny walks up the stool. The hat is a full five centimeters from her head when it calls out, “Gryffindor!”

There is some confused clapping from the Gryffindor table, a triumphant hoot from Ron, and a standing ovation from the twins. 

“Hey, that’s not fair,” Ginny protests. “You didn’t even see what’s in my head.”

The hat grunts. “Don’t need to. I know you Weasleys and I am not letting what happened last year happen again.”

Dumbledore says, “just confirm it, please.”

The hat sighs as McGonagall lowers it fully onto Ginny’s head. It has touched her for less than a second before it again declares, “GRYFFINDOR!”

Ginny pouts but accepts it and goes off to the table which more confidently claps to welcome her.

“And balance is restored,” Goldstein declares. He’s Harry’s least favorite Ravenclaw in their year. “Can’t believe Weasley managed to argue his way into Slytherin in the first place.”

“Then you’ve never seen Ron play chess,” Harry responds. 

The last student is sent off to Hufflepuff and Harry looks down at his empty gold plate. He realizes that he is quite hungry. The chocolate covered pretzels Grandpa Marius packed him which he shared back on the train seem like they were eaten ages ago. Professor Dumbledore gets to his feet.

He beams at the students, his arms opened wide, as if nothing could have please him more than to see them all there. Harry recalls the professor’s placid expression when Harry was struggling with understanding the rules of magic, on the verge of a breakdown, and feels immediately uncomfortable . 

“Welcome," Dumbledore says, as if he is a lord holding court, “Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet I would like to say a few words and give a quick announcement. First, here are the words; Oolong! Hubber! Telescope! And then the announcement: Argus Filch is taking the term off to do some personal business so Rubeus Hagrid will be filling in as the caretaker. Thank you!”

He sits back down and the room erupts into thunderous applause. “Good riddance,” Roger Davies, Goldstein’s best friend, says, “So glad that squib is out of here now. Always made me feel a bit off to be around his sort, if I’m being honest.”

Harry squares his shoulders and asks, coolly, “And what’s wrong with being a squib?”

Davies squirms. “It’s just different, isn’t it?”

“Is it? Tell me how.” Harry stares out at Davies, eyes just ever so slightly narrowed.

“You know what?” Davies says after a pause, “Nevermind.”

“Wonder where he is, though,” Padma says. 

Lisa Turpin nods emphatically. “He’s always felt like Peeves to me. Like he just came with the castle. Wonder what he’ll be doing when he’s not here. Feels weird that he could leave even if I guess it makes sense. I’m so curious.”

“Me too,” Hermione admits. “I just hope he’s happy. Harry, do you have any ideas?”

Harry has all the ideas. Harry put Argus in touch with Grandpa Marius and knows that he’s begun exploring the muggle world to decide if he wants to come back to Hogwarts at the start of next term or try to make a life somewhere else.

It’s quite a respectable thing to do. Harry did the same thing over the summer and even while he feels like it’s worth giving Hogwarts another year, he completely understands being unsure about it.  But Harry also feels like it’s not his news to share, not even with Hermione. “Nope,” he says in a tone that sounds unconvincing even to his own ears, “No idea where he’s at.”

***

Severus sends a missive to ask Harry to his office after the banquet. Although he saw the boy not even a month prior when they worked together on his disturbing exploding mouse, he feels almost as if the child has become a stranger once more. When Harry knocks and then opens the door he is noticeably taller than he was when he first entered Severus' classroom. He’s much more grown now than he was when he was just an infant weeping in a cradle after being touched too closely by death. Even so, he’s still young. Harry Potter, all boyish cheeks and bright eyes. He does look immensely like his father, a fact which makes Severus feel a degree of unpleasantness even now. But there’s a certain hesitance in the way he holds himself, a certain caution he uses with adults, a certain earnestness his father never had. 

And his eyes... his eyes. Severus finds he cannot look at them too long or they remind him too greatly of Lily.

“Professor,” Harry’s voice comes out quiet. “You asked for me?”

Harry is still standing in the doorway. He looks unsure of his welcome. For all that over the summer in Spinner’s end, the child had no respect for Severus’ personal space and that all of the last term at Hogwarts they were perhaps friendly, it seems Harry has reverted to being wary back in the confines of a new year. 

Severus cannot quite bring himself to open his arms for an embrace or outwardly tell Harry that he is welcome, but he does try to appear less imposing than his usual demeanor and says, “Are you going to stand there indefinitely?”

Harry breathes out a sigh of relief and shuffles more fully into the office, shutting the door behind him. Snape conjures two comfortable chairs and positions them across from one another before taking a seat in one. Harry follows his lead and sinks into the other. 

Harry fidgets in his seat. “Am I –” he trails off, then looks down at the floor. “Am in trouble for something, sir?”

Severus wishes he were shocked at Harry’s conclusion, but finds it perfectly in character for the twelve year old. He often reverts to assuming the worst about himself and adults. Severus has heard enough from Narcissa through way of Marius to draw some conclusions on the way Harry was treated back when he was under the ‘care’ of dear Petunia. 

Harry was never treated as a prince. 

“No, Harry. Quite the contrary, in fact.  I am sure you recall us submitting a paper to The Scimitar. They sent us a lengthy response I thought you might want to read through.”

Harry lights up and the last remaining pieces of tension bleed out. “Yes please!”

Severus reaches into his robes and produces the lightly bound pieces of parchment and hands them to Harry. “There you are.”

Harry takes them with a little nod and then reads through them, a furrow in his brow. It smoothes out as his eyes scan about a third of the way down the first page. “They want to publish us!” he burst out with the surprised joy of youth. “They’re going to publish us!”

Severus responds, “They are.”

Ecstatic, Harry says, “We did it! Oh Merlin, we did something!”

Dryly, Severus remarks, “In general, people tend to do something or the other most times.”

Harry levels Severus with an unimpressed stare, and there he is, the boy Severus worked with over the summer. “Be a debbie downer if you want to, but I won’t let you rain on my parade.”

Severus is entirely unsure of how to respond, so he simply does not and summons summer work from his NEWT students which he gleefully tears apart as Harry continues reading the response from the peer reviewers.

“They think our paper is revolutionary. They call our findings genius. ”

“They do. Keep reading.”

Severus can tell when Harry has reached the final page where the peer reviewers titled a section, “On the Topic of Genre: Categorically the Methods and Conclusions are More Consistent with Alchemy.”

Harry looks up. “Why are they calling the oscillating potion ‘a promising breakthrough in the field of alchemy?’ Wasn’t this just a potions thing?”

Snape puts down the paper of Hufflepuff’s Eleanor Birchgrove, it is abysmal, and gives Harry his full attention. “What do you know of Alchemy, Harry?”

“Isn’t it just when you turn lead into gold?”

Severus shakes his head. “Any base metal, actually. And it also seeks out a universal cure. The importance of alchemy is twofold in modern understandings; transformation and healing. At its core, however, these two seemingly unrelated goals are tied together by a single string: the pursuit of permanence.”

Harry’s face gets the look it does when he thinks hard about a topic. When he gets older , Severus thinks in passing, he’ll need to get better at hiding his emotions. He’s entirely too easy to read. 

“But I don’t understand how the potion we made fits into either of that. It’s just transfiguration. Nothing about it is permanent.”

Snape says, “I think you do. If you read further, you’ll see our peer reviewers believe our oscillating potion is alchemy because we managed to combine three potions that do not ever mix into one superior healing potion. Creating an all-cure is one of the most important aims of alchemy. It has been considered impossible thus far. But the peer reviewers think this is one of the closest attempts they’ve ever seen. That the potion itself is impermanent is irrelevant, the potion remains in its form long enough to be consumed and those positive impacts on the consumer do not disappear. That is, to an extent, a form of alchemy.”

Harry blinks, digesting that. He has a stubborn look on his face.“But isn’t alchemy one of the hardest disciplines in magic?”

“It is. It requires precision, magical knowledge, and science. It is one of the most rule-based and limited magic forms.”

“Then it can’t be what we made! The potion is based on a primary school level experiment for muggles.”

Severus attended primary school in the muggle world and privately disagrees with Harry but outwardly he says, “Do you dare to disagree with the peer reviewers?”

Harry says, hesitantly, “No. And alchemy does seem cool. Do you think – well, permanence! I like the idea of permanent magic with rules. I like the idea of transformation that works and makes sense. Do you have any books on alchemy I could read?”

Severus scoffs. “Try again.”

Harry’s eyes move to scan over the shelves full of potion ingredients, cauldrons, and books of all shapes and sizes, some of them sedately situated and some of them tied in place as they tirelessly work to free themselves of their bindings. 

Harry looks embarrassed. “Oh, right. Of course you do. Er. May I borrow one?”

Snape allows his gaze to soften, “You may. I’ll find one for you.”

Harry’s eyes sparkle. “Thank you so much!” 

Severus can’t bring himself to be gracious so he instead stands and scans his shelves to find the best introductory book on alchemy. From behind him he hears Harry ask, “Do you think I could ever learn alchemy?”

Severus picks the book and dusts it off for a moment, “Unfortunately, it is a course only offered to sixth years if there is enough demand and this year, demand was insufficient. It hasn’t been taught in centuries.” 

“Is there any chance I’ll be able to take it when I’m a sixth year, though?”

Severus turns around and sits, sliding the book to Harry. “Unlikely. Alchemy is the most challenging of any of the magical disciplines. The most exacting. It relies upon precision, meticulous understanding of the magical limits and the chemical realities of substance and matter. While the sum of most potions are greater than the sum of their parts, alchemy seeks to take each part and create a whole so transformed from the starting point, the individual components cease to matter altogether. When done correctly, alchemy can create wealth beyond comprehension, panacea, eternal youth, and immortality. When done incorrectly, it easily consumes the would-be alchemist. It is no easy thing to master nor even to graze the most easily digested piece of its surface.”

Severus sees some light leave Harry’s eyes. “That’s alright,” he says with palpable disappointment. “It’s probably too difficult for me to learn, anyway. 

“No,” Severus says, and the confidence and firmness with which he says it surprises him. “You are entirely wrong, you absolute imbecile.”

Harry’s eyes snap up. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You have one the best minds for alchemy I have ever seen at this school. You must think little of me if you would suspect I would ever let that go to waste. I reached out on your behalf to try and find you someone to study with.”

Harry has the beginnings of a smile playing on his face. “You did? Thanks. Did you - did you find someone?”

Severus feels smug when he says, “Indeed I did. You will be taught every third Thursday by someone.”

Harry’s beginning of a smile stretches wider. “Really? Who?”

Severus leans forward. “Nicolas Flamel.”

“He’s on Dumbledore’s chocolate frog card!” Harry exclaims, breaking into the most breathtaking grin Severus has even seen, perhaps except from Lily. Harry rushes forward off his chair and throws his arms around Severus’ shoulders. “Thank you, thank you,” he says, before pulling back, still beaming.

Severus can feel his own lips twitch and pull into a smile. It’s still there, small and pleased when Harry is sent up to his dorm. 

Severus returns to his grading, thoughtful. He’s still miserable, surely. Has been since he was sixteen, he supposes. But it feels lighter.  He’s not sure he can remember the last time he smiled.

He’s missed it.

Chapter Text

Coffee in the muggle world tastes just as it does in Hogwarts. Argus sips his latte out of an uncracked mug in the shop. His cup back at Hogwarts is years old and two breaths away from splintering into broken ceramic. Here, in muggle London, the barista added foam on the top of his beverage in the shape of a leaf. It’s beautiful. No magic went into it. 

Argus decided to stay in the shop even after his conversation with Marius Black concluded. The man has left him with several pamphlets on “adult education” and options for how to make a living in this world without traditional education experiences. 

Argus finds himself unnaturally bitter. He didn’t have enough magic for the world he was born into. He wasn’t ever able to attend Hogwarts as a student. He doesn’t have enough education for this world either, the one where beautiful things can happen without wands. 

“What did I do so wrong to deserve this?” He wonders, a familiar refrain. He walks out of the shop and into the bustling city, an unchipped mug of half sipped coffee left behind. His boots splash in shallow puddles.

***

Harry’s second year of transfiguration begins with McGonagall staring warily at him and instructing the class to turn beetles into buttons. She demonstrates turning her beetle, a sleek and black creature, into a sleek and black button. It is the kind of handsome button one would fasten to a coat with a spot of thread. Harry is, naturally, immediately unimpressed. 

Now that he understands the rules of transfiguration are the rules of any illusion – none of the substance is really changing – only how it appears, like how a magician can make it look like he is walking on water by using corn syrup instead of water, Harry is feeling far less confused. But he also feels like if there are no constraints of what he is working with, no laws around how matter functions, then he wants to be as outlandish as possible. 

He doesn’t need to focus at all on the matter of his beetle. The matter of his beetle will be the same either way. This isn’t alchemy , he thinks quietly to himself. Just transfiguration. 

The word “button” is wonderfully vague. Harry was raised in the muggle world and knows several options of buttons. “Professor McGonagall?” He asks, raising his hand.

She purses her lips. “Yes, Mr. Potter?”

“Does the button we make have to look like yours?”

McGonagall looks at him with deep concern. “No. But it must be a button. A blue one would be more challenging than a black one, but would be alright.”

Harry grins, “Perfect.”

Hermione stares at him, askance. “You’re not going to make a weird zombie button or something, are you?”

Harry is still grinning when he turns to her. “No. Where would the fun in that be?”

Harry imagines a button for a lift. He thinks of a simple steel circle with a black arrow facing up in it. He imagines being able to push that button down and then the sound it makes. He imagines the chime and the button blinking into a light yellow color to indicate the lift is coming.

“Showtime,” he thinks. He casts the spell and the beetle appears to turn into the lift button. Harry knows the beetle is still there, if immobile. It only looks like an elevator button. But it isn’t. 

Hermione looks over and stills. Then she laughs. “That is a button, I suppose.”

Draco, who has managed a wiggling coat button, wanders over and stares in confusion. “What’s that supposed to be, Potter?”

“Muggle,” he responds. “I used to love pushing these when I was little.”

“Pushing them?” Draco repeats. “What does that do?”

“Try it,” Harry encourages.

Hermione looks spooked. “No lift will come, will it?” She stares above her as if she believes Harry capable of creating a lift with no cables ready to crush her to death.

“Don’t be daft,” Draco admonishes, “The only lifts are on level eight of the ministry. Not that you’ve ever been.” With no fear, Draco boldly pushes Harry’s button. It lights up. “Oh,” he says, pleased, “That is fun.”

Harry sighs, disappointed. “There was supposed to be chime.”

Hermione stares at the floor now, as if daring a lift to come crashing through it to take occupants up. It does not come, and she relaxes. “That is very good, Harry. I’d have never thought to do it like that.”

Lisa says, “No fair. I want to push it.” She pushes the button, and the light goes off.

“Oh fun!” Padma says. She pushes it. The light blinks on. She pushes it. The light blinks off. “How’s it doing that?”

Crabbe and Goyle join Draco to push the button. Then Davies comes as well. Soon, most of the class has abandoned their half-transfigured coat buttons to push Harry’s lift variety button. The students familiar with the muggle world seem nostalgic. The students raised in the wizarding world are endlessly enamored. 

McGonagall strides over to see the commotion and stares down at Harry’s button, which is currently faintly glowing as if a lift is on the way. The students shuffle back to their desks. “You and I had different working definitions of buttons,” she says. She looks Harry over for signs of exertion. Finding none, she picks up the button and sniffs it. “And it doesn’t seem quite like metal.” She smiles. “Much better than what you were doing last year, three points to Ravenclaw. Well done.”

Harry’s button turns back into a beetle before the end of the class. Illusions can’t be maintained forever, after all. 

***

What an absolute idiot. The diary writes. Your defense professor is an imbecile. A disgrace.

“I completely agree,” Ginny writes back even if it’s not quite true. Lockhart is pretty fun to look at and her mum read her the textbooks and borrowed copies since she was little. She loves the story of when he took down the banshee. But Tom doesn’t like Lockhart much, that’s been made clear from when Ginny started writing in the diary at the start of the year. She’s not quite sure how she ended up with it. It was just in her with her books when she began the year. 

I do not understand how he even got the post. 

“See?” Ginny says, showing the book to Harry. “He really hates Lockhart.” 

Harry is staring at the book like it has two heads. He was helping her with her potions homework because Merlin knows none of her brothers could do it since Percy is too important this year for her. He told her so on the train. Percy sucks, sometimes. But that's okay because Harry is the smartest at potions in all of second year, everyone says. He takes classes with fourth years and is, “Totally Snape’s favorite student, ever. It’s honestly unnerving,” according to Penelope Clearwater. Ginny needed help on the essay and figured Harry was the best person to ask because he is a) nice, b) she likes him a lot, c) is smart, and d) gets Weasley sweaters on Christmas which means he has to help her. 

She asked him to help her when he was sitting with Neville for dinner and he came up to the Gryffindor common rooms after and while he was reading her draft, she began writing to Tom under the table. Harry immediately noticed and asked her about the diary, and Ginny began explaining it. “Well, he’s really nice. He doesn’t dislike anyone. Actually, no, that’s not true. He doesn’t like Professor Lockhart. He thinks Lockhart isn’t very smart. Very not smart, you could say. But he’s nice aside from that!”

Harry had paled and made her write to Tom. Which lead to this moment of Harry leaning over the diary. “That doesn’t look right,” he says, softly. 

“Tom’s just lonely.”

“I would be too, if I got put into a book. That’s what he told you, right?”

“Yeah! Poor thing.”

“Yeah, I wonder if we can’t help get him out.”

Ginny smiles at that. “Get him out? I’d love that!” She imagines kind, handsome Tom as a real person and hugging her just the way he says he would if he could in the diary. 

“Definitely,” Harry says. “Why don’t you give it here Gin, and I’ll fix him for you.”

Ginny grabs the diary. “No. Why can’t I do it myself?”

“Ginny.”

“You just want to take it from me, don’t you? You won’t even get him out, will you? You’re going to steal him! You’re going to steal him!”

Harry holds his hands up. “Nope. Nevermind. Let’s go back to your paper.”

They return to correcting her paper. Ginny keeps a white-knuckled grip on her diary. The idea of Harry taking it away is horrible. She hates that he even saw it.

She relaxes when Harry leaves without bringing it up. She relaxes until the next morning, when Professor Dumbledore himself pulls her into his office and asks about the diary. Despite a valiant effort, she can’t keep it hidden and ends up handing the diary over.

“You can’t trust things that think if you can’t see their brains,” He tells her solemnly.

“Nothing is wrong with Tom!”

Dumbledore looks at her sadly, “I am sorry, my girl. He may have seemed like a great friend to you, but I am afraid this type of object works by gaining trust and then draining the souls of its so-called friends.”

And that, that is scary enough for Ginny to feel sick. “Tom wouldn’t.”

“You did not know him, child. He would not have hesitated.”

Ginny is sent to the infirmary to deal with exposure to black magic. All her brothers come to visit her. The attention isn’t bad, she supposes, even if being in bed all day is boring.

Then Harry comes. Sitting up in bed she glares at him. “You took away my friend.” It is easier to be mad at him than deal with whatever Tom was. 

“I know, but he wasn’t really your friend, Ginny.”

“He was! He was. He was my only real friend since I got here.”

Harry pulls up a chair and sits next to her. “You’ll make real friends.”

“What if I don’t?” As soon as she says it, Ginny realizes she is really afraid of that. "I mean, what if no one likes me when they don't have to?" Embarrassingly, her lower lip wobbles.

“Want to know a secret?” Harry asks. Ginny nods. “Back when I was a little kid –”

“You are little!” Ginny interrupts. Harry cracks half a grin.

“Littler, then. I didn’t have any friends. Everyone I met was mean to me.”

“But why? You’re so nice!”

Harry rubs the back of his neck and looks sad for a moment. “I dunno, really. They were bad people, maybe. Made me think there was something wrong with me.”

Ginny forgets she is supposed to be angry at Harry, “There’s nothing wrong with you!”

Harry smiles at her. “There’s nothing wrong with you, either. I promise, people will want to be your friend. Heck! I’m already your friend.”

Ginny sniffles. “You are?”

“I am.”

She finds herself crying. “I miss mum and dad. I want to go home.”

Harry just sits there while she cries and listens when she talks about all the things she misses: her mum’s roast and hugs, her dad’s jokes and silly teapot that doesn’t really work, the clock on the wall, getting tucked in at night. “I’m such a baby,” she concludes, lamely. 

“The infirmary got you feeling all types of things, huh?” Harry says, good-natured. “You’re not a baby. I miss home too, sometimes. That’s normal. It gets better, Ginny. I promise.”

***

Going to Dumbledore to express concern about Ginny’s diary is the worst thing Harry’s done since coming to Hogwarts. He hates the walk to Dumbledore’s oversized office. He hates walking past the repurposed closet that was used to be Argus’ space. 

Harry is let into the office without even knowing the password which makes Harry feel uncomfortable. Can every student get in so easily , he wonders. Or am I special?

When he enters, Dumbledore says, calm as ever, “Ah, Harry. What a wonderful surprise. Would you care for an ice lolly?”

“No, thank you.”

“Pity. What can I help you with?”

And so Harry explains the diary and Ginny and watches as Dumbledore looks a good deal less calm. “Yes, that is important. Thank you for coming to me with this. I will make sure to deal with it and help Miss Weasley.”

“Thank you,” Harry says, relieved. 

“If I can ask,” Dumbeldore inquires, “What made you come to me?”

“What do you mean?” Harry asks, “You’re an adult. I thought you could help.”

Dumbledore looks oddly disappointed. “And so I can. Thank you, Harry. I hear you will be learning Alchemy with Nicholas Flamel tomorrow. He’s an old friend of mine.”

Harry looks longingly at the door to the hallway. “Oh?”

“Indeed. Well, I shan’t keep you. Off you go, now.” 

Harry needs no further instruction and gratefully leaves.

The next day, Harry begins lessons with Nicholas Flamel. They meet in the astronomy tower after dinner. Snape sets the lesson up but does not come. When Harry comes into the office, Flamel is already in the tower. He sits at a low table on a cushion. There is an empty cushion across from him and a block of ice, the size of a rubix cube, in front of him.

Nicholas Flamel is old. He is old in a way Harry has never seen before. He is wrinkled only at the eyes and smile lines. From far away, he might look younger than Grandpa Marius. But from up close, his crows feet are deep. His deep brown eyes hold a sort of wisdom and exhaustion Harry’s never seen in eyes before. His skin isn’t elastic in the slightest. It looks almost papery. His hair is bleached white as though all color died long ago. His eyebrows and eyelashes share the same shade. 

He says nothing and Harry does not either. He carefully walks to the empty cushion and lower himself down, hesitant to break the peace of this moment or speak first to Flamel. Harry feels smaller than he has since his room with cupboard.

“Make me a mouse.” Nicholas Flamel demands by way of introduction. His voice is deep, gravelly, and measured. The accent is no doubt posh but it sounds just ever so slightly different from the queen’s English. Older. 

Stars twinkle overhead in the tower. Flamel pushes the block of ice towards Harry. There is an unspoken edge to the demand. Show me you are worth my time , Harry imagines the man saying. 

Harry squares his shoulders. “Of course.” Compared to the snuff box, transmutation of water into the required building blocks of life is far easier. He focuses intently and reimagines the hydrogen and oxygen as the chemical makeup of a mouse, all the proteins in the blood, and then the various systems – the synapses and the nerves and the digestive tracks. He surely misses a few but hopes sincerely for the best.

He casts the spell and uses all his energy to maintain it, working to transform the ice into the form he wants. When he is done, his nose again trickles a bit of blood. A mouse with slightly cold paws scurries around the table then jumps off and runs to one corner of the room before Flamel wordlessly summons it back and plops it into a conjured terrarium. The mouse burrows into the dirt and squeaks. 

The man blinks. “Ah. Have you considered gold often?” Flamel absentmindedly uses his hand to wipe the blood from Harry's face.

“Gold?” Harry responds, feeling disconcerted by the utter lack of respect to his personal space. The man's hand feel coarse against his skin. Once the blood is gone, Flamel removes his hand.

“Yes,” he says, more firmly. “Gold. I think you are already prepared for it.”

“What do you mean I am prepared for gold, sir?”

The alchemist seemingly shakes himself and then looks at Harry with the most unhinged smile. “For alchemy, of course! There are three main aims of the discipline: gold, medicine, and eternal life. Of these, gold is the easiest. A handful can manage it every century. Not Dumbledore, of course. That one is only good at transfiguration. No mind for alchemy at all! But you, well. I think we’ll start with gold and then go on. I imagine we’ll be up to cures by the end of next year. I’ll be dead halfway through our second year together, of course, but there's no reason you have to stop when I’m gone.” 

“I’m sorry,” Harry says feeling rather discomfited by the casual mention of death, “Did you just say you were going to die in two years?”

“Two and a half, give or take three months,” Flamel responds cheerfully. “Very exciting.”

“Why?”

“Why? Simply because I want to. And also, just because. Alchemy has rules. That is how it works. And here is the first rule as I feel generous: everything ends.”

Harry says, “What about the philosophers’ stone? Isn't that supposed to make people live forever?"

Flamel smiles. “What about it? That stone is really just a rock. A fancy rock. But a rock. All that begins must end. Even, for example, a rock will find its end. The rock may go from place to place unchanged. But it finds itself in an ocean and with time, turns to sand. From sand it turns to dust.”

Flamel takes the mouse from the terrarium and wordlessly transforms it into a pale dust. He inhales it deeply. “From dust, to breath.” 

He exhales deeply through his mouth and a hundred butterflies, wings fluttering vibrantly fly out. “From breath, to life.” 

As they fly around the room, Harry watches with growing horror as their wings stop beating and they fall, one after the other, to the ground. Flamel stares right into Harry’s eyes. “And from life, of course, to death.”

Chapter Text

Argus goes to Kensington Central Library. As much as he seeks to leave his experience in the Wizarding world behind, he thinks perhaps being around a large number of books will feel familiar. He has spent more than half of his life in a school. He knocks into as many people's shoulders as he can as he follows a map to get to the library and yells at people as if they were the ones to hit him. 

People glare but there are no wands drawn. It is just him, and his boots, and people who are just like him. He is nasty and not afraid.

The library is as foreign as it is familiar. There are adults that are inside reading, more of them than there are children. There are studious men and women in smart sweaters and high collared shirts sitting in nooks and writing in notebooks. 

There’s an advert for adult education classes. Argus picks it up. It’s a night class. 

“Accounting, Finance, and Other Essential Skills,” he reads out in friendly letters. Boldly, the advert claims, “It’s never too late to start.”

***

“Being immortal, Harry, is like singing a song you can only half-remember but know you loved once.” 

“That doesn’t sound very fun,” Harry says. He and Flamel are sitting at the edge of the lake. It is raining, softly. It is cold. The raindrops drip down around them, splattering on the surface of the lake with steady plinks. The collar of Harry’s robes are soaked. Harry and Flamel made gold earlier in the evening from silver, and then came out to the lake.

“No one becomes immortal for the fun of it, dear.” 

“Then, why?” 

“Well, for me, it was just to see if I could. For my wife, it was because she loved me and didn’t want me to be alone. It is not good for man to be alone.”

“Why do most people do it? Same reasons?”

“Ah” Flamel says, lighting a random raindrop far away on fire just to prove that he can. It sizzles as it hits the water, and for a moment a whole ripple goes up in flames. In the middle of the lake, a ring of fire burns. The rain picks up and a gust of wind comes, bringing with it a wave. The wave swallows the fire until not even a flicker remains. "Fear of death, I suppose.”

Harry focuses on one raindrop just a little above his head and works on imagining the water looking exactly as it looks, behaving exactly as it does now, but being made of only methane. He says the spell to change the chemical, and then quickly says, "ignis" and does the correct wand-motion. The single raindrop lights on fire, but extinguishes as soon as it lands on the wet ground.

“Are you afraid of death, Harry?” 

Harry pulls his knees up to his chest. “If I don’t want to die, is that the same thing as being afraid of dying?”

Flamel sighs and stands, all his bones cracking. He reaches out an old, withered, paper-thin hand. Harry takes it. Being around Flamel makes Harry feel simultaneously so young and so old. “That depends, child. Is it that you do not want to die, or is it that you want to live?”

**

As the frost of winter spreads over autumn, the nights get longer. It is not so late, only an hour or two after dinner, but the sky has been black for hours already. Harry is in the Slytherin common room with Ron and Draco. After the troll first-year when the Ravenclaw students took the Slytherins with them for the night, the two houses have remained close. It is not so odd for a Ravenclaw to show up in the Slytherin common room or vice versa.

What is odd to Harry is how close Draco and Ron seem to be getting. The two partner for potions and often sit together at meals. They still bicker, but it feels lighthearted. Harry’s not even sure they notice. 

Harry offered to help them with their potions assignment for Snape because they are struggling immensely with the concepts behind cleaning solution. 

“Classic boys,” Hermione had offered when they asked Harry for help during dinner. “Can’t clean to save their lives.”

Affronted, Harry had said, “Hey, ‘Mione, I understand cleaning very well.” 

Hermione  had ruffled his hair as if he was a kitten. “Yes, but you are not a classic boy.”

And so, after dinner, Harry walked with Draco and Ron to the Slytherin common room and explained the reasons why the ingredients in the cleaning solution worked together. His audience had included Crabbe, Goyle, and Blaise Zabini. After everyone felt better about the assignment, except maybe Goyle, Harry had simply stayed and talked to Ron and Draco.

There is a natural lull in the conversation and Harry draws his knees up to his chest. It's something he's been doing more and more lately. Making himself small, that is. “Do you ever worry if your parents love you?”

Draco and Ron startle and look at Harry, confused. Ron asks, “What’s brought this on?”

“Just wondering.”

Ron shrugs. “This is deep for a Tuesday night. But nah, not really. Reckon Mum’d love me even if I were a banana and she’d protect me with her life from any brothers trying to eat me.”

Draco curls his upper lip. “A banana. Really, Ron? A banana? That’s the best you could come up with?”

“What’s your problem with it?”

“It is so silly. My mother would love me even if I got poor marks!”

“That’s nothing! Fred and George get bad marks all the time and ‘course mum still loves them! Had to come up with something else.”

Draco says, “What if you were a cannibal?”

Ron says, “Then she’d find dark wizards and feed them to me after cooking them just the way I like!”

“Ew,” Harry says, quietly. “That’s gross.”

“Oh, would she? Well, if I were one my mum would love me and help me eat a normal diet. She wouldn’t just…enable me.”

“My mum would try to do that first, obviously, but if it failed she’d still feed me. She cooks food for me herself, you know. Bet you’ve got house-elves.”

Draco gets red in the face, “HOUSE-ELVES HAVE NOTHING TO DO WITH LOVE.”

Sensing a real argument on the way, Harry interjects, “what about your dads?”

Ron and Draco both blink.

Ron says, “My dad loves me too much to stop. He couldn’t, not for anything. Might get sad if I did anything too barmy but he’d love me all the same.”

Draco looks thoughtful. “My father comes from a noble house. He shows love differently than my mother. I think he might not be proud of me no matter what, but there is a type of love that he will always have for me.”

Harry plucks a thread from his robe. “What if you were a squib?”

Ron says, “I already said my parents would love me no matter what, Harry,” even as Draco says, “If I didn’t have magic, I wouldn’t be me.”

Harry asks Draco, “What do you mean?”

“‘Course you would be,” Ron confirms. “Magic is not what makes you a ponce.”

Draco shakes his head. “Magic is intertwined with souls. If I had none, I would be someone else.”

Ron says, "Muggles have souls, Draco. You'd still be you even if you weren't a wizard.”

“I would not.”

“You would.”

“I would not be me without magic!”

“Yes, you would be, Draco! You're you whether you can use a wand or not."

“That is not true and you know it. You are lying. You are lying to me! I am who I am because of magic and there is nothing you can say or do that would change that, alright? I never have to think about being a squib because I am not one. I will never be one. My parents love the me that I am. Do you understand?”

Ron pulls out his wand and places it on the ground in front of him then puts his hands up. “Alright. I understand. It’s alright, Draco.”

Draco grimaces. “Don’t talk to me like I’m a child.”

“We’re all children,” Harry says. “Especially compared to Flamel.”

“Yes, how is studying with him?” Draco asks, clearly grateful for the opportunity to change the subject. 

“Wild. He’s very intense.”

Ron snorts. “Yeah, I bet. He’s like 500 years old.”

“What has he been teaching you? My father is wondering if he’d take me on as well.”

Harry winces. “Erm. We did make some gold but we've been working on making a permanent sodium mouse. I made one two weeks ago that's still going! Think you could do that?”

Draco cocks his head. “Permanent? Transfiguration is never permanent.”

Harry shrugs. “Yeah, but alchemy has to be. That’s like…the thing Snape and I are working on now a little bit with Flamel. Making that oscillating potion permanent so we could brew it and distribute it without it becoming volatile whenever the transfiguration wears off. It's not an issue if it's given to someone right away because they metabolize it and by the time the transfiguration wears off the solutions aren't meaningfully in contact but we couldn't like, sell it commercially or distribute it all right now.”

“Permanent transfiguration is not possible.”

Harry shrugs again. “Not if you do transfiguration, sure. That’s why step one on the panacea journey is making a permanent sodium mouse. If you can even make a temporary functional sodium mouse, Flamel might want to take you on too.”

“And how do you do that?”

“I’d recommend reading a mouse anatomy book and then the basic chem book Granda Marius gave me, I could loan it to you.”

Draco is quiet for a moment. “This is going to be about how you made that disgusting beating heart last year, isn’t it? Only worse?”

Harry says, “Better! That was only one part of the mouse. You’d get to make all of it. But use sodium. Well, use all the normal parts but make them be sodium. I’m not explaining this well.”

Ron says, “I think maybe you’re the only of us cut out for alchemy, if I’m being honest. Chin up Draco, there’s always the family business.”

“Land ownership?” Draco asks dubiously, “I suppose I could always try it.”

Ron bursts out laughing. “Was there ever another option?”

Draco stares down at his hands. “IwantedtoworkwithdragonswhenIwaslittle.”

“What?” Harry asks.

Quietly, and flushing, Draco responds, “I wanted to work with dragons when I was little. Stupid, I know. Alchemist or nobleman is much better.”

“That’s not silly at all!” Ron says, “My older brother Charlie works with dragons. I’ll ask him to talk to you next break.”

“You really shouldn’t —“

“But I will."

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“You didn’t ask me to not.”

“I’m asking that now.”

Ron grins, “Go on then, Malfoy. Say, ‘Weasley, I do not want to meet your brother who works with all kinds of dragons, even Norwegian Ridgebacks. Please never allow us to meet.’ Go on, say it.”

“Does he really work with Norwegian Ridgebacks?” Draco asks. 

“Aha! You do want to meet him. It’s happening. You can’t stop it.”

Harry smiles. “Can I come?”

“Sure! It’ll be a party.”

Draco sniffs. “If Harry is going, I suppose I could keep him company.”

Neither Ron nor Harry call Draco out for his reasoning of meeting Charlie and they fall into silence once more.

Harry thinks back to all the things he’s heard about squibs and the way Draco acted earlier when he asked about them, if in a roundabout way.

“I know it wouldn’t be you, if you were a squib. But would your parents love that someone else, d’you think?” Harry asks, using Draco’s words. 

Draco’s shoulders curl up. “I don’t want to talk about this. What brought this on, Harry? It is rather out of nowhere.”

Harry stares out into the crackling fire in the common room. The greens and deep wooden colors are soothing. There’s still a slight chill in the air, despite the fire. “I don’t talk about it a lot. But, er, before I lived with Grandpa Marius I lived with my muggle family. They, well, they didn’t really like me much. So once I moved in with Mr. Maurice I used to ask him a lot. Questions like those, I mean. ‘Would you love me if I was rice?’ ‘Would you love me if I was a criminal?’ ‘Would you love me if I hated you?’ I guess, I wanted to know where the line was.”

“The line?” Ron asks, “what line?”

“The line where he’d stop loving me. I just wondered if other kids do that too. Wonder. Or if that was maybe a me thing.”

Draco awkwardly pats Harry’s shoulder. “It’s not just you, scar head. I believe most people wonder that sometimes.”

“Gee thanks. Remind me to tell you I hate that nickname.”

Draco’s face brightens. “You’re welcome, scar head.”

Harry throws a pillow at Draco’s face. It hits and then he and Ron laugh, and then the night devolves into a pillow fight. 

The next morning comes too soon and the three of them troop to breakfast together, pick up Hermione, and head to Defense against the Dark Arts.

Harry blinks sleepily as Lockhart goes on a tangent about how he overpowered an evil snow horse in some Icelandic Fjord with nothing but his splunk, smile, and a magical sword he was gifted from a grateful elf he helped save back in chapter four of the textbook Harry hasn’t read. 

“Harry! How would you take down the Nykur?”

Harry is too tired for this. He stayed up half the night with Ron and Draco. Even beyond that, he’s bone-deep tired. He keeps spending more and more time with Flamel. He’s got potential, or something. His transmutation is getting better and better every day. More permanent. His sodium mouse from two weeks ago is still behaving like a mouse and is still made of pure sodium. It wants water so Harry gives it something that acts like water but is made of chlorine. He finds it mildly amusing that his mouse’s waste product is table salt.

“Harry?”

“Hmm? What did you say?” It’s not just all of that, either. He’s been having dreams of flying in a way that feels frightening. He’s been dreaming of drinking the blood of unicorns and the elixir of life and in his dreams he feels powerful and hungry. He’s woken up a few times with his scar bleeding and his head hurts sometimes, randomly.

Lockhart claps his hands together. “What would you do to take down the Nykur? The icy horses that lure unsuspecting children like you onto their back so that they can drown them?”

Harry turns to Hermione, “Is it made out of actual ice?”

She nods. “Ice, magic, and bone.”

“Mostly ice?”

Hermine nods again. “90% ice.”

Harry shrugs. “I’d light it on fire.”

The entire class goes still. Lockhart coughs. “I’m sorry, I must have misheard.” 

“No I mean, Nykur are amortal, right? The Nykur that’s trying to drown me? It’s like a malicious raindrop. So I’d just light it on fire. It’s not like it’s alive so it’s not like I’m killing it. Easiest way to deal with it, I think.”

Lockhart says, “You can’t light ice on fire. Creative approach, logically unsound. See, the way I did it–”

“You can, though,” Harry interrupts. “Light a Nykur on fire.”

Lockheart glares, upset at the interruption. “It is not possible to light ice on fire.”

“Sure it is,” Harry responds. “If you just change some things around.”

“No, no! Ice is water, Harry. One cannot simply light water on fire.”

“You’re wrong.”

Lockhart’s face sets. “Five points from Ravenclaw.”

Harry shrugs and drops it. He tunes out the rest of the lesson. When the class is dismissed, Hermione hisses, “You are getting seriously worrying with the things you say. I do not think Flamel is a good influence, brilliant though I am sure he is.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, no you are not.” Hermione bites her lip, “but can you really light water on fire?”

Harry nods, and starts gathering his things. “Yeah! It’s mad cool, actually. So you know how water can’t catch fire but methane can?”

Hermione nods, grabbing her things too. “Sure.”

Draco and Ron are waiting for them at the front of the classroom and fall into step as Harry launches into his explanation. “So what you need to do is transmute half the oxygen to carbon and the other half to more hydrogen and essentially kinda do some transfiguration around the edges so the water still behaves likes water but then you can light all the methane you just made on fire – and when you’re really good you can –”

Harry is cut off by a large and stately eagle owl flying toward Draco. Draco looks up at the eagle owl. “Rincewind? What do you have there?”

The owl delivers a letter to Draco. “It’s from my mother,” he says brightly. “She already sent me a package this morning with chocolate. I wonder if she is missing me.”

Draco opens the letter and pales significantly. 

“What?” Ron asks, “What is it?”

Draco turns wide-eyes on Harry. “I am supposed to spend winter holidays with you this year. But I am to tell father that I am going to France. I need to send a letter tonight, begging him to let me go.”

Ron asks, “Why?” 

“I – I am not sure. Mother has never asked me to lie to father before. And, forgive me Harry, you are not the kind of person we typically spend holidays with.”

Hermione pulls Draco into a hug and he accepts it, but his arms remain slack by his sides. 

Harry thinks about his scar and his dreams and remembers explanations of the blood wards his mother made for him and the chance of Voldemort’s return. 

Draco pushes away from Hermione. "No, I'm fine. I just – I just don’t understand.” 

Harry’s voice is grim. “I do.”

***

Narcissa is not a passive person. She was taught to be passive. Cradle-raised to be submissive, feminine; she was always supposed to grow into the perfect woman and perfect wife. 

Her oldest sister Andromeda was raised to be a leader and became a blood traitor. 

Her older sister Bellatrix was raised to be ruthless and became a psychopathic maniac.

Narcissa was the youngest and her parents raised her to be a people-pleaser. She was raised to be lovable and beautiful and elegant and little else. She was to be smart but not threatening. Powerful, but not in a way that stands out. She was the bridge between her older sisters because they could both, in their own ways, find love for her. 

Her beauty was of paramount importance. Lessons from her mother always centered on how to maintain a perfect appearance. “A smile will be more powerful for you than a wand. Wield it wisely. Think whatever you need to, but always act pleasant. Your role is not to be the centerpiece. Your role is to give birth to the next generation and raise them to be better than you ever were. Remember that, Narcissa.”

But for all of the lessons Narcissa was taught, for all of the ways she acted when she was freshly married, she was not a passive person.

She was patient. And patience and passivity never seemed to be the same thing to her.

When the marks on Severus’ and her husband’s arms turn black again, she swallows back the bile in her throat. 

Voldemort comes to the manor at night, as though he truly is a nightmare and not a man. But he is a man, Narcissa reminds herself silently. He is no god and no demon but a wizard, and Narcissa knows how to take care of wizards. 

When she feels him against her wards, she goes out to the front of the house and greets him with a deferential smile. “My Lord,” she says with a slight curtsy, “What an honor to see you again.” 

Voldemort is tall and thin, draped in dark robes. He places a bony white finger under her chin and tips her face up until she is forced to look in his blood-red eyes. 

The 12 years he has been supposedly dead have done little to diminish his otherworldly appearance. He looks surprisingly young, with dark hair and a tall nose and not a wrinkle anywhere in sight. He is pale to the point of looking parchment-white, almost dead. His hand is freezing against Narcissa’s skin. 

“Narcissa,” he croons, “did you ever doubt my return?”

She feels the prodding against her mind and allows him to slip in easy as a knife into butter. She pushes boring thoughts at him, things to make her seem frivolous. 

A memory of her putting on a lavender dress and wondering it is too fancy. An image of her choosing chocolates for Draco. A charm she made to alert her whenever a guest went into a place she did not want them. She can feel Voldemort growing bored and he starts rifling through her memories searching for something, and giving Narcissa time to hide the things she’s thinking now and the visits with Marius, and her shocking hatred of the man in front of her. 

Voldemort stops at the memory of Lyra’s death. Narcissa can feel the phantom pull of her smile collapsing, hear the sound of Lyra toppling backward, smell the burning hair. 

She can also feel an echo of Voldemort’s satisfaction and amusement as he replays the scene. 

Guileless she says, “I have never doubted you.”

Voldemort releases her chin and grins. “Lucius did marry well. Shame about your first child, but then again, it was not a child. Draco seems much more promising.”

Narcissa curtsies again and murmurs, “Thank you, my lord,” before bringing the man inside. 

She says little as her husband falls to the feet of Voldemort and kisses them. She says nothing as they toast over expensive firewhisky. She says little more than is needed as a host when Voldemort calls all the death eaters. 

She does not say that Voldemort will never mark Draco. She does not see that he will never even see Draco. She says nothing.

But she stays around as the death eaters talk about their plans. She fills up water and whiskey glasses and she plans. She is beautiful but not the centerpiece.

She looks passive. But she is not and has never been passive. She is patient. 

And when the night is over, when the first week of Voldemort living in her house and eating her bread is over, she goes out for the weekend with a vague excuse of shopping. Not her husband nor his lord pay her any attention. 

But she does not go shopping. She instead sends several letters.

On Sunday she knocks on the door to number eight, Privet Drive. Marius welcomes her with a hug and guides her into his living room where Sirius, Remus, Severus, Andromeda, Nymphadora, and Albus Dumbledore are congregated. 

“Voldemort is back,” she says by way of introduction. Gasps go throughout the room at how easily she says the name. But the man in her home may be dark but he is no lord to her, not anymore. With the title of "Dark Lord "unspeakable to her, "He who must not be named" feeling too long, and "you know who" feeling too childish, Voldemort is the only name that remains. "I need your help to kill him.”

Dumbledore smiles, softly. “Yes, I read your letter in full. Forgive me, Narcissa, for my doubt, but this is rather a jump from your allegiances fourteen years ago. Tell me, what changed?”

Narcissa stands straight. She is elegant, feminine, and beautiful. “He is responsible for the death of my daughter. And for that,” her eyes gleam with a hint of the Black madness that runs through her veins, “I will see him suffer. ”

Chapter Text

“What’s your deal, then?” A woman with dark hair, a lip piercing, and bright red lipstick, asks around gum in her mouth. She has deep frown lines in her forehead. She looks about 45, maybe 50. Filch thinks he sees half a dozen children he oversaw in detentions reflected in her face. He finds it almost cathartic that this person has no power over him and has no wand to curse him with, no powerful family to get his pay docked. 

“What’s it to you?” Argus grumbles. Even if she is powerless, he is suspicious of anyone who shows him interest.

“Just trying to make conversation,” she says, then pops her gum. Filch finds it disgusting. “We all got deep reasons for being here.”

“What’s yours then?” He asks, glancing at her ill-fitting leather pants and silly cheap looking chains clipped to her pockets, “clinically bad style?” 

The woman stares, wide-eyed. The lines by her eyes crinkle and she laughs. Other people in the room turn to look at her. Her laugh is loud and deep. Argus can’t help but smile a little too, pleased if not begrudging. 

“Well, alright mystery man, keep your secrets. Fuck if I care enough to ask again.”

As she turns away, Argus finds that he wants to keep talking to her. “I was in a cult,” he shares, struggling to think of any other way to explain Hogwarts. “I escaped only recently. I don’t know a lot of things.”

She immediately snaps her attention back to him, jaw dropped open, gum visible. “No shit! A cult, really?”

Argus nods. He leans forward, conspiratorially. “They all thought they were magic. Tried to ride around on broomsticks.” It’s fun to think of Hogwarts that way. He likes to imagine that all the Wizards were the strange ones, the bad ones, and he was nothing more than a normal person trapped with a bunch of madmen. It almost feels true.

She laughs again, less loudly. A little concerned, maybe. “Right mental I bet they all were. Were you born into it?" 

He recalls flashes of a grand home and true smiles and then anger and cold and bare feet. “I was.”

“A cult,” she says, as if tasting the word. “Wasn’t on my bingo card.”

Argus asks, “And what was?” If only to hide the fact that he does not know what ‘bingo' is.

She starts chewing her gum again. “Alcohol abuse. That's why I’m here. Hey, what’s your name?”

“Argus,” he says, a tad hesitantly. It’s been ages since someone asked him his name. Decades, even. He just lived in the castle and everyone hated him and no one ever asked who he was or why he was there. He’s missed it, he supposes. He’s missed being someone people meet. He is silent a tad longer than he should be. There’s something one should ask in a situation like this. “And what’s yours?”

The woman’s face brightens. “Hetty.”

It’s so mundane. Argus finds it comforting. He also enjoys the light conversation they have until the class starts discussing the “cult” he was raised in. She thinks him not being allowed to wear shoes once he turned eleven is ‘right evil.’ She asks him a lot more questions about what his life was like after that and goes on and on about how awful the people in the ‘cult’ are.

“So why did they take away your shoes?”

Argus thinks his lie is over. “There’s a test they do and if an eleven year old doesn’t get high enough marks, they take his shoes away and don’t let him go to school.”

“Doing that to a child because you didn’t get high enough marks on some test? That’s horrible. When you were eleven you said?”

It makes him feel vindicated. Normal people realize that the way he was treated was not correct. He feels believed. He feels human. And then the adult education class is starting.

The first lesson helps explain the British currency system which Argus also finds deeply helpful. He leaves the class with Hetty, and she comes over to the flat he’s renting to help him learn how to use the landline. Mrs. Norris takes to her immediately, weaving in between her legs.

“You know, until you told me you didn’t know what a phone was, I did not believe you were in a cult. But I’ll be damned if I don’t show you how to be a person here. I’ll be like… your sponsor. I’m going to help you.”

Argus stares at her like she is crazy and is filled with a deep sense of distrust. Nobody takes to him this quickly. No one has ever wanted to help him, not ever in his whole life. “And why’s that?” His voice comes out hard and angry.

Hetty shrugs and writes down her home phone number on a piece of paper she produces from her purse. “My dad died before I got sober, and he had a hell of a life himself. He was found when he was eleven, barefoot and wandering around in Edinburg. Reckon he was from your cult. He never got adopted – just aged out of the system and did his best to get by. Can’t go back in time and help him out, but feels like he’d want me to help you. Make it a little easier on you than it was on him.”

****

Flamel and Harry are in a room on the seventh floor of Hogwarts that always has exactly what they need. Dumbledore showed it to them. They need to walk back and forth three times and think of what they will need, and the room will make it happen. It is Harry’s new favorite part of Hogwarts. It is the best magic he’s ever seen and he wants to make something like it one day, when he’s older.

The room today has high vaulted ceilings and numerous potions ingredients and glass cauldrons. They are brewing liquid gold from lead and the lead is slowly turning into gold in a cauldron situated between them. Every now and again, Harry stirs the cauldron with a glass rod.

“Have you ever killed an hour, Harry?” Flamel asks quietly. 

Harry considers. He’s spent hours in class waiting for the class to be over. He looked at clocks and doodled and hoped time would end. He spent countless hours trying to waste time and amuse himself when he was stuck in the cupboard. “Yeah, I guess I have.”

“Everyone who lives to be older than 6 or so has done so. It is a murder that comes from some combination of giving up, nonchalance, not caring, and a resignation that getting past it is all you can hope to accomplish.”

Harry thinks about killing an hour in defense class because of how terribly dull Lockhart is. He writes chemistry equations in the margins on his parchment. He shares a smile with Ron about how crazy the man is. He giggles with Lisa Turpin about how shiny Lockhart’s hair is. It does not feel like suffering. It does not feel like murder. It feels normal. “Sure,” he says, if only to be agreeable.

“Have you ever killed a day, Harry?”

“Er, maybe?” Harry thinks again of the cupboard, of days spent in darkness. It is not a comfortable memory and he feels immediately disquieted. He does not like this conversation. “Not in a long time though.”

“Have you ever killed a month?”

“No.” Harry hopes his one word response will be enough to end the conversation. He tries to change it. “Do you think the gold is ready yet?’

Flamel leans over to inspect the liquid gold. It looks to be the right color. Harry is a little proud of it, if he’s being honest. “That looks right. Take it off the heat and let’s see if it keeps its color until tomorrow.”

“Alright then,” Harry says, and extinguishes the fire under the cauldron. 

“Have you ever killed a year, Harry?”

Harry feels a little unsettled. He does not like that the conversation came back. There's clearly something Flamel is building up to, and Harry thinks it will be something he does not want to know. “No. I haven’t.”

Flamel sighs, a sad sound. “I think that is all immortality becomes. You kill the hour, the week, the month, the year, the decade even. You do nothing of value and yet, there is no evidence: no weapon, no blood, and no body. The only clue might be the shadows beneath your eyes or a terribly thin line near the corner of your mouth indicating something has been suffered, that in the privacy of your life you have lost something and the loss is too empty to share.”

***

“ Immortality,” Voldemort croons, “is power. It is an unstoppable vitality. It is magic that will never see its end. It is mine.”

Narcissa sits on a cream colored armchair near one of Malfoy’s manors impressive marble fireplaces, separated only a few paces from Voldemort. He stands boldly in the center of her formal drawing room. His arms are outspread and his red eyes shine with the mania of a true believer. Narcissa bites the inside of her cheek. She does not say, “And when the sun burns out?” She does not ask, “When the universe comes to its end, will you outlast it?” She does not remind Voledmort something any pureblood child is taught, “There is no magic that lasts forever. Immortality is the venture of fools.” She says nothing. But she thinks all of it. And in thinking it, she finds she is no longer afraid of the manic man standing in her drawing room. He is a fool if he believes himself immortal. It is a foolishness she can use. She looks at her husband, kneeling at his lord’s feet like a dog, and thinks he is a fool too. Her left forearm is unblemished. Her husband can think whatever he likes but he is branded. Narcissa is not. She is free. 

She stands quietly. Her lilac silk robe does not so much as flutter. She walks out of the drawing room with her head bowed, as if in respect. She makes a show of instructing house-elves in the corner of all the death eater’s eyes. Her servants begin carefully replacing the firewhisky of the men in her home. Narcissa looks like a dutiful wife. She does not return to her place near the fire. She does not return to the drawing room at all. She simply walks sedately to the library. No one will think twice about it. She has no place in the room of Voldemort’s most faithful. Perhaps, if anyone thinks about her, not that they will, they will assume she is going to read a storybook. Or perhaps a recipe book. Something frivolous.

Narcissa instead peruses a section Draco will never be allowed to read. Her son is too soft for the magic she dabbles in. 

“Immortality,” she muses. “But which kind?”

In the end, she settles on two titles to review for the evening. Le Sommaire de la Pierre Philosophale by Nicolas Flamel and Magik Most Foul by Godelat. 

***

Harry loves watching the castle prepare for the Winter Holidays. Boughs of Holly find their ways onto classroom doors. Glittering snowflakes are added as decorations on the walls. Enchanted candles float merrily in the halls. Winter in the castle makes him generally good natured. 

So good natured, he almost forgets how much he dislikes Lockhart. He is, however, reminded of said strong dislike whenever he enters the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. He, Hermione, Ron, and Draco are all together in the classroom.

Lockhart says, with a flourish, “And that is how I saved the Welsh princess from almost certain death.”

“Do you reckon he believes all this?” Ron asks. 

“Three sickles says he doesn’t believe one word,” Draco responds. 

“No dice,” says Ron. “Can’t afford to lose that one.”

Draco gives Ron side-eye. “You won three galleons just yesterday off chess with Pucey. What are you on about?”

Ron shrugs. “I’m just a man, saving for my future.”

Hermione turns to glare at all of them. “Shh!” Under her breath, she whispers, “And Ron you are many things, but a man is not one of them.”

Harry can’t help a small laugh. 

Ron looks affronted. “Think that’s funny, do you?”

Harry smiles guilelessly at Ron.“Kinda.”

“Shh!” Hermione says again. 

“Of course,” Lockhart drones on, “This was not without even greater perils than I initially expected. After saving the princess, I was forced into the wilderness as I was pursued by a bear –”

“That’s Shakespeare!” Harry whisper-shouts. “‘Mione, I literally read this with Grandpa Marius over summer hols. It’s from The Winter’s Tale. This is… plagiarism!” Harry spits the word as if it is dirty. Harry firmly dislikes Lockhart which is rare because Harry endeavors to avoid firmly disliking anyone if he can manage it. He tries to “assume positive intent,” because it is one of Grandpa Marius’ big values and makes Harry a happier person. Plagiarism, however, has no positive intent. Grandpa Marius once had a chemistry paper plagiarized and published by a professor before Grandpa Marius could get any credit. The message of the story from Harry’s perspective is that plagiarism is Very Bad.

“There’s no way he read Shakespeare, Harry. It is surely a coincidence,” Hermione responds. 

“It was just me and a friend I picked up along the way, two lads that thought there was no more behind,” Lockhart continues. 

“Word for word,” Harry says, motioning under his desk. “Word. For. Word.”

Hermione frowns. “You might be onto something. The line does sound familiar. I was named for the play’s Hermione, after all.”

“Maybe he thought none of the Wizards would have read Shakespeare, but I swear on my life none of what he’s saying is true.”

“Oi! Oi! OI!” Draco and Ron shout in unison.

“Is there a problem?” Lockhart asks. 

“Nope,” the two respond. Lockhart cocks his head, swipes a hand through his hair, and keeps on telling his story, “The silence of often pure innocence succeeds when speaking fails. And so –”

“You can’t just say that, Harry!” Draco says, as soon as it is clear Lockhart is paying them no attention.

“Say what?”

“That you swear on your life,” Ron says, “You can never do that. Might end up in a vow. You have less sense than a battalion of enchanted banana peppers.”

Draco looks at Ron with an expression of confused delight. “A battalion of enchanted banana peppers?”

“What are those?” Harry asks, also trying and failing to make sense of the comment.

“You know,” Ron says, “When it’s pizza night and there are nine pizzas for each of your family members and your mom enchants the banana pepper battalion to do their banana pepper dance and make their way to your pizza but they’re so stupid because they don’t have brains, so inevitably one of your brother ends up with two peppers and you don’t get any, and you think, ‘wow these peppers have no sense.’ You know?”

Draco is fully grinning. “No, Ron. I don’t. I would go so far as to say, none of us do. I am an only child.”

Hermione says, “Me too. Also, my parents are muggles.”

Harry grins. “I am also an only child. No banana peppers battalions needed for my brothers.”

Ron turns a scarlet red. “Ah, right. Forgot about that.

“But I’d love to come over sometime and see them. Sounds like fun,” Harry adds. 

Ron perks up, “Really?”

Harry nods. “Really.”

“I suppose I might be interested in seeing it,” Draco agrees.

“If you’re all going, I could be convinced,” Hermione says.

Ron squares his shoulders. “The battalion will be even more fun with all of you in attendance.”

Lockhart walks to stand in front of Harry’s desk. Harry’s heart drops. “Alright, Mr. Potter, if you insist on ignoring me I assume that is because you feel that you already know everything.”

Harry feels anger bubbling up. He feels singled out. He feels upset at the stupid class. “Well, I did read the end of a Winter’s Tale. I do at least know that ending.”

Lockhaet pales. “A-and what is this ‘tale?’”

“A Shakespeare play much better than your textbooks.”

“Detention with Filch,” Lockhart says. "Make that two detentions."

“Filch is actually not here right now,” Harry says. “Wanna try again?”

Lockhart looks rather constipated and angry. “Five detentions with Snape ,” he says, as if this would be a great punishment. The class snickers. 

“Thank you,” Harry responds calmly. He stares Lockhart directly in his eyes. “I look forward to them.”

Lockhart seems incensed. Harry leaves the classroom feeling lighter. Hermione knocks his shoulder. “You really should stop bothering Professor Lockhart.”

Ron ruffles Harry’s hair. “I disagree. He’s a bloody marvel when he goes after professors.”

Draco laughs. Harry’s glad to see Malfoy returning to being more himself. After Harry told him he thought the dark lord was back and that was why they were going to need to spend winter holidays together, he’d gone quiet. A few weeks have passed and Draco seems to have gotten a little better. He writes letters all the time, but seems less lost, if a little more intense.

“Wanna play exploding snap tonight?” Harry offers.

“Always,” Draco responds immediately. It’s his favorite game.

“I’m in,” Ron says.

“If I must,” Hermione says, “but I’ll be studying at the same time.” 

Harry skips a little as he walks. He loves his friends.

***

“I believe the dark lord may have returned. Why don’t you and father just kill him? Fight him? I think I should at least write to Father. I don't see what could go wrong. Is Father under the Imperius again? I can help!”

Narcissa reads Draco’s letter as she sips her morning tea. Voldemort and her husband are across the table from her. Her demeanor does not change, despite the company. The charm work on all her mail is impeccable. It will appear like a letter from a French cousin if anyone looks at it.

Her poor son is getting increasingly frazzled while she stays firm that he must lie to his father. He is twelve now. It is not so old, but not so young.

She takes a breath and summons parchment and quill.

Dearest Draco,

You must trust me. I know I ask for much without giving you anything to believe other than my love. There is a conversation we will need to have that is best held in person. I promise I will tell you everything before the end of your Winter Holidays. Trust in your mother before then.

Love,

Mother

After Narcissa sends the letter off to Hogwarts, she excuses herself from the table and walks through her manor, noting the marvelous high ceilings and gilded decorations. She takes a familiar path into a less grand wing of the house, past the servants quarters, and opens the door to a small room. 

Narcissa opens the window to let in some light. She rolls up her sleeves and dusts off the windowsill by hand. She sweeps the floors. She pats the bed and then takes a seat, gazing softly at the stuffed peacock sitting on the pink quilt. It looks almost as if Lyra could be out for the day at school, soon to come home at any minute.

“He’s old enough,” she says to no one in particular. “To meet you.” The room is quiet. A tree rustles in the distance. Draco’s twelve now. He’s older than Lyra ever was. 

Chapter Text

Argus sends his resignation letter with a stamp instead of an owl. There is a post office box that will deliver to the wizarding world, if you know the right number. He writes his resignation on printer paper, not parchment. He inks it using a ballpoint pen instead of a feather. It feels sensible. He posts it then walks back inside his small flat in Brixton, feeling all at once relieved and unsettled.

He built a life for himself brick by brick in the wizarding world. He hated every moment of it – the dreams of one day having magic himself that were crushed every day, the students that mocked him, the passive kindness of a headmaster that never extended toward true support. He hated that being allowed to hold a job and work was considered a mercy. It felt as if he was only allowed to feel gratitude, even as he was worked to the bone and given little pay. But still, it was his life. Sending the resignation blows down the entire brick house he built. He ends everything he's ever known with nothing more than a pen, a piece of paper, and a stamp.

“I’m never going back,” he says softly. Mrs. Norris winds around his legs. Outside one of his windows, he sees signs of the first snow. A lone car passes on the street. He hears the sound of his furnace clicking on and brews himself a cup of tea using the kettle and a sensible English Breakfast teabag, not a child or house elf in sight. He adds one sugar cube from a tin and milk from his refrigerator. He sips the tea, slowly. The furnace clicks off, sensing the flat is warm enough. A small smile makes its way onto his face. “I’m never going back.”

***

Breaking News - Bellatrix Lestrange and other Death Eaters Escape from Azkaban

December 19

Rita Skeeter

In a brazen escape, Bellatrix Lestrange, Antonin Dolohov, and Augustus Rookwood assaulted six aurors, snatching their wands and casting Unforgivables before making a dramatic escape.

The injured aurors, Gawain Robards and Alastor Moody, were first treated at a local ministry clinic before being transferred to St. Mungo’s for further treatment. The other four aurors were murdered in the escape. Their names were: Cerberus Langarm, Savage Brown, Cormac O’Brien, and Aesop Sharp.

The incident occurred at approximately 2 AM earlier this morning. Details of how the prisoners escaped are unclear at this time. They were assisted by two other assailants. Alastor Moody alleges one of the assailants was Peter Pettigrew, a man previously thought dead. After Sirius Black’s exoneration two years ago, the revelation that Pettigrew lives is upsetting, but not surprising. Recall dear readers that Pettigrew is responsible for betraying the Potter family to the dark lord. The other assailant was not identified. Moody and Robards agreed it was a tall, thin man, with red eyes.

The only man with red eyes that has an interest in former death eaters has a name too terrible for me to write. 

The ministry has launched an extensive manhunt, increasing patrols and sending a delegation of dementors to Hogwarts as it is possible that Harry Potter will become a target.

Uncomfortable questions remain in how mass murders escaped the most secure wizarding prison, who exactly aided them, and how safe we are.

The main question I am left with is one I had hoped to never ask: has You-Know-Who returned, and if he has, can The Boy Who Lived save us again?

***

“Merlin,” Draco murmurs, setting down the Daily Prophet. All around them, the great hall is erupting into chaos. “He’s really back.”

Harry feels like he will throw up. “What am I supposed to even do? I’m twelve. I don’t know how I helped the first time!” He feels helpless. He doesn’t know the depth of all that Voldemort did, but he knows that it was bad. He knows Bellatrix Lestrange is evil. The escaped convicts killed five highly trained, adult aurors. How is Harry supposed to do better than they did?

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hermione says. She is pale and there’s a light sheen of sweat on her forehead. “This Skeeter lady is insane. She probably thinks it will sell better if she calls you out.”

Ron looks ashen. He says, in a thin voice, “Antonin Dolohov murdered my uncles.” 

Harry hasn’t spent a lot of time thinking about the wizarding war. His parents died before he ever knew them and he never met them. He wasn’t raised by people who missed them. He understands the loss a little better now because Remus and Sirius talk about his dad, sometimes. But Harry looks at Ron and thinks that the war was a very scary thing indeed. Whole families were torn apart. Harry’s family was torn apart, even if the only family he knows has Grandpa Maurice, Remus, and Sirius, and they’re all still here. But in another world, he would have had parents. And Harry will never get to live in that world, because a war and Voldemort stole it from him.

“This is madness,” Draco says. 

It feels like Hogwarts has gone mad too – students are screaming and crying. Lisa Turpin shouts, “We’re all going to die!” Gemma Farley at the Slytherin table is quietly telling students to “say nothing. You owe them nothing,” as a few Hufflepuffs scream that “Slytherins are probably rejoicing, murderers the bunch of them!”

“Shut it, you lot!” Cedric Diggory, a Hufflepuff Harry admires and knows because he plays Quidditch, thunders at his housemates.

“WE NEED TO FIGHT!” Oliver Wood roars. “WE NEED TO FIGHT YOU-KNOW-WHO!”

“I want to go home,” Cho Chang cries. There is chaos at every table. Every house is coming unglued. 

“Do you reckon Harry could defeat you-know-who?” Harry hears something like that coming at him from each corner of the hall. He feels like he can’t catch his breath. 

“Harry, are you okay?” He hears Hermione ask, as though she is underwater. Or maybe he’s underwater. 

“Potter will save us,” he hears someone say with confidence. 

“Potter will die in two seconds,” he hears someone else say.

“I’d take the under,” another person responds. 

“Potter will end this,” “Potter, will fight him,” “Potter is no match.”

There’s screaming. It’s so loud and so hard to inhale. “Are you alright?” He hears again, even further away. He stands abruptly, and runs out of the great hall. He’s not thinking anything other than he needs to get away. He sees Dumbledore stand up at the front of the room from the corner of his eye, but he does not slow down.

“HARRY!” He hears someone scream. 

He does not stop even as he skids into the hallways, and he keeps running, past the portraits and past the staircases. He runs out onto the quidditch pitch and collapses to his knees. It is freezing out. He can see the tips of grass frosting over with ice. He can see his breath come out in white puffs, each one rapidly after the other.

He doesn’t feel the cold. He hears a ringing in his ears as he tries to catch his breath. It feels like he’s dying. He feels horrified. “What’s wrong with me?” He thinks. 

He startles when he sees two polished black shoes appear in his line of vision. He flinches at the touch of a hand on his back. 

“You are having a panic attack,” comes Professor Snape’s calm and measured voice. “I am sure it feels very frightening, Harry. Focus on the sound of my voice. You can hear it, can’t you? Maybe you can also hear the whistling of the wind in the trees. Can you hear that?” 

Harry can’t breathe. He can’t think. He doesn’t know.

“My voice, Harry,” Professor Snape repeats. “I am speaking to you about the wind. It is a tedious subject. I do not generally endeavor to speak of the weather. Can you hear the sound of my voice, boring though the topic may be?”

Harry nods, realizing he can. Something about the pure disdain dripping from Professor Snape’s tone as he speaks of the wind is calming. 

“That is good. What can you see? The sky, perhaps? The moon?” 

Harry tries to think of what he can see. He inhales and feels his lungs expand. He exhales. “I see your shoes,” he says, softly.

Snape chuckles, lightly. “My shoes? I suppose you are looking down.”

Harry feels a little better, but his heart still beats at what feels like a kilometer a second. He raises his eyes and sees Snape crouched down by his side. “I’m sorry,” he says, feeling all at once embarrassed. “I don’t know why I… well.”

Snape says, “I get them too sometimes. Sometimes the stress in our minds feels so great our bodies decide to join in on the experience. It is nothing to be ashamed of.”

Harry feels like that is decidedly not true, but doesn’t have the energy to argue about how he is too old to be running out of breakfast in full view of all his classmates. “If you say so.”

Professor Snape stands up and offers Harry a hand. “I assure you, any child would be more concerning if they did not react to this morning’s news.”

Harry takes the hand and stands, slowly. He doesn’t want to talk about today’s news. The ‘panic attack,’ though embarrassing, feels like a safer topic. “I felt like I was dying. Like I was having a heart attack and I couldn’t breathe.”

“Sadly, that is normal.”

“I wish it wasn’t,” Harry mutters.

They walk back towards the castle in companionable silence, the frosted grass crunching softly under foot. Harry feels a chill creep onto his neck, and the ice on the ground grows.

“That’s odd,” he says.

Snape looks down at him, “What is?”

“Just started feeling cold all of a sudden.” 

“Hmm,” Snape says. His brows furrow. “Merlin.”

Several things happen all at the same time. Snape pushes Harry behind him abruptly and draws his wand. A being with skeletal hands and a dark hood descends from the sky.

Harry hears a high, cold laugh. A woman screams, “Take me instead.” The cold spreads and then Harry is tipping backwards and falling towards the grass.

“EXPECTO PATRONUM!”

As his eyes close, he sees a flash of silver.

***

Winter holidays are subdued and strange. For one thing, Draco is not going home. He rides the train in the car with Harry, Hermione, and Ron. Harry is pale. He got caught out by some dementors and was in the hospital wing overnight. He's been pale ever since. All the hubbub around the Azkaban breakout hasn’t really died down either. It can't, not with the dementors drifting around Hogwarts because the ministry supposes that Harry is a target. And of course, Harry responds especially badly to them even if they are there, theoretically, for his protection. It would be hard to be Harry, Draco thinks.

Draco gets to the platform and is picked up by Harry’s grandfather – Marius Black. A squib.

Harry smiles huge and wide and runs full tilt at Marius as soon as he sees him. Draco hasn’t seen Harry smile in days. Harry crashes into the man, and Marius holds him as if Harry is the most precious diamond in all the world. “I missed you,” the man murmurs. He speaks like Draco’s mother speaks, softly and full of adoration for his child.

“I missed you more,” Harry mumbles into Marius’ chest. 

“Don’t be silly, dearest. This is not a competition. We shall have to admit we simply both care for each other.”

“I suppose,” Harry says. He pulls back but looks younger all of a sudden. His cheeks are fuller and his eyes are brighter. Draco is struck with the uncomfortable feeling that he would not have the same reaction to his father. He remembers Grandfather Abraxas somewhat, and the man was colder than ice. He made Draco stand up straight and cared little for him on an emotional level. It was always, “How is your magic progressing? Your manners are lacking.” Draco was frightened of him. Neither his father nor grandfather would have ever said “I care about you,” as simply as Marius just told Harry. Marius said it like it was as easy as breathing. Draco didn’t know men could say something like that. 

It’s because he’s a squib. It is out of order for a child of magical parents to be born without magic. Anything he says will be out of order too. He is nothing. 

Marius makes eye contact with Draco, and smiles invitingly. “Hello there,” Marius says to him. He looks kind, and old. Draco sneers internally. The man in front of him has no magic. His father pushed him out during the last yule ball. He is as worthless as a muggle. “Are you ready to go?”

“I am prepared to journey to your domicile.”

Harry glances at him, askance. “Why are you so formal?”

Because I’m uncomfortable and my mother always told me to be polite when I am the most uncomfortable, Draco thinks but does not say. Because your grandfather is a squib from my family and is a dark spot in our history and reflects poorly on all of us and I hate him for it, Draco also does not say.

“I always communicate in this manner,” is what he actually utters.

“Suuure,” Harry responds. “Sure you do.”

“Sod off, Potter.”

Harry grins. He seems so happy, standing on the platform with Draco and Marius. “That’s the Malfoy I know and love.”

Draco feels punched in the gut. “Know and Love.” The easy affection from a male acquaintance friend is just here – out in the open. 

“I say ‘off we pop’ then,” Marius determines. “Let’s go boys.”

Marius grabs Draco’s trolley from him and begins pushing it. Draco makes a half aborted motion to take it back. “That is my trolly, Mr. Black.”

“Call me Granda Marius, dear. We’re family after all.”

Harry pushes his own trolley and says, “You’re a guest for the holidays. Expect to do as little work as possible. Guests get special privileges.”

Draco has never been an overnight guest anywhere. Perhaps that is the etiquette. “Don’t your houselves carry things for you?”

Harry laughs. “Houselves? Your liege, I am afraid we have none.”

Draco stops walking, abruptly. “NO HOUSELVES? Who does the cooking? The dish washing? Who does your laundry?”

They exit the platform and walk into muggle London. Draco stares in confusion as people walk all around him. They look normal. They wear clothing like the muggleborns wear on the weekends. There are no robes, just trousers and skirts. 

They all seem like people, and normal people.

Marius walks a little faster and Draco runs to keep up. “Remus does the best cooking, but I can microwave TV dinners. We all rinse dishes and the dishwasher does the majority of the washing. The laundry Sirius handles, but we use the machine.”

“What kind of machine?” Draco asks.

Harry laughs. “A laundry machine, silly.”

Draco feels out of step. “What’s that?”

“We’ll show you,” Harry says with confidence. “You’ll love it.”

Draco isn’t so certain. They walk past all the train platforms and into an area where there are strange looking carriages without any horses. Just passenger carts with wheels. Draco lets out a relaxed exhale. Muggles are so silly, he decides. They must think they need to push carriages themselves and don’t know they ought to have horses draw them. The trolleys are loaded into a luggage compartment, Marius calls a ‘boot.’

“Which one of you boys wants the front seat?” He asks.

Harry pushes Draco to the front right door of the carriage. “Normally I’d say, ‘I bags the front seat,’ but since it’s Draco’s first time in the car, it’s all for him.”

“Good lad, Harry,” Marius responds, as if being proud out loud of a child is an appropriate thing from a male relative. 

Draco gingerly sits down in the leather seat of the carriage and looks on in confusion as Marius gets in beside him and behind a wheel. 

“Is Harry going to push us the whole way there?” He asks, concerned. 

Marius leans over and ruffles Draco’s hair. “No, dear. The car can push itself.”

Harry opens the door behind Draco and gets in. Marius puts a key into a small hole by the wheel and turns it. The carriage makes a small sputtering sound and then begins to role, indeed by itself. 

Draco tries to fix his hair. “How’s it doing that?”

Marius gets a maniacal gleam in his eye, “Gasoline and engines. When we get home I can teach you combustion.”

Draco sits up straighter, “I am sure there is nothing muggles study that I do not already know.”

Harry laughs loudly in the back. “Yeah sure, man. Bet you know all about fusion and how the sun works, eh?”

Draco sniffs. “The sun works because it is warm.”

Marius says, in a gentle tone, “It does, yes. Do you know why the sun is warm?”

“Because it’s the sun,” Draco says, definitively.

“Surely it’s not because the hydrogen is converting to helium and releasing energy in the process,” Harry says, in a sarcastic tone of voice, as if he said something ridiculous in plain English.

“I am not sure you are using real words,” Draco responds.

Marius makes a turn and then sighs, “Harry, don’t be rude. Draco, if you are open to it, there are some things I should love to study with you.”

“Again, you should know there is nothing I will not already know.”

Marius shrugs, slightly. “Maybe so,” he concedes. “But you may be surprised.”

"Unlikely."

They lapse into easy silence as the English countryside rolls by. 

***

The first few days living at Harry’s house are hard for Draco. He and Harry need to share a room, and he is on a small mattress that rolls and can be folded up and fit in a closet. There is no magic anywhere. The water doesn’t boil itself, it needs to be plugged into the wall. It uses electricity. 

Harry and Marius are unstoppable in teaching Draco things about the muggle world and he feels like his head is going to explode with everything he’s learned about fusion, combustion, and alternating current. 

He thought he knew everything there was to know about muggles – that they are stupid, ugly, and inferior – but he has been hit with the uncomfortable feeling that he was wrong.

Harry shows him how to run a load of laundry and Draco treats the whole thing as if he is being kidnapped, but when he puts in the detergent and then presses the button, and all the clothes start spinning, he admits he feels accomplished. 

Hours later, the clothes are done, but they are wet. They do smell nice. “What am I supposed to do with wet clothing?” He asks Harry.

Harry takes a handful of the clothes. “Hang them up to dry, of course!” And Harry brings Draco to the clothes line outside on the balcony and helps him hang up the clothes. It’s tedious work. It helps Draco keep his mind off the fact he won’t see his dad for Yule break and won’t see his mum until boxing day. 

“This is stupid,” he complains while hanging up clothing with Harry. Why don’t muggles have spells to dry everything instantly?”

“They don’t have magic at all,” Harry says, without judgment. “And we, or er, they, make all these inventions so they can get by just well. Isn’t that a beautiful thing?”

Draco shakes his head, “No.”

Harry says nothing, but the silence is loud and uncomfortable. Draco concedes, “Well, the washing machine is cool, I guess.”

“There are dryers, you know. Machines that dry the clothes.”

Draco explodes, “Then why don’t you have one?”

Harry says, “It’s just not a thing, really. They have more in America.”

“That’s dumb. America is worse than Britain. I’m offended that they have better machines than us.”

“They don’t. Get this, I heard they boil their water on the stoves mostly. Like, they barely know about electric kettles over there.”

Draco nods, satisfied. “That makes sense. Silly Americans probably would make a worse cup of tea in more time than any muggle here in Britain.”

“Absolutely.”

Something occurs to Draco, "Hey, why am I helping with your chores? I thought I was a guest!"

Harry shrugs. "You were. But now, you're family."

And that feels warm and upsetting, all at the same time.

Some things about the muggle house aren’t so different from Malfoy Manor, really. Obviously, everything is much smaller and less expensive, but the showers are the same, they just have more knobs. The floors are floors. The walls are walls. The chairs are just like normal chairs. The electric lights are even better than candles, though Draco hates to say it out loud. 

The best part of being home with Harry is undoubtedly Sirius. When Draco first saw him, he felt so relieved. A Black relative and a wizard!

He shyly introduced himself and called Sirius, “Mr. Black,” but the man wearing a leather jacket with hair that looked so long and cool gave Draco a half smile and said, “please, Draco, call me ‘uncle Sirius.’”

Sometimes, when Harry and Marius are studying something or the other, Sirius will take Draco out on his motorbike. “These are the best muggle inventions,” Draco shouts into Sirius’ ear when they’re speeding along. 

“These and condoms!” Sirius shouts back.

“What are condoms?”

“I’ll tell you when you’re older,” Sirius responds. 

The two of them hang out loads and Draco decides he wants to be just like Sirius when he grows up, only richer, blonder, and a Slytherin. 

Draco isn’t sure what to make of Remus, but the man is pleasant enough and makes Harry happy. He cooks amazing chicken and steak and likes studying just as much as Marius. 

When Christmas comes and Harry is already downstairs, Draco decides it is hard to be without without his parents. He cries in the morning alone in the room before going downstairs. Harry is sipping hot chocolate in his pajamas and sitting in the living room by the tree. Draco tries to put a smile on his face, but just feels desolate being without his parents on the day. 

“Where’s Marius?” He asks Harry, not seeing the man anywhere. Remus and Sirius sleep in sometimes, but never Marius.

“Picking someone up,” Harry says, mysteriously. “They should be home any minute. Want to play Egyptian rat slap?”

Draco loves Egyptian Rat Slap even more than Gobstones, but he refuses to let on about it in any official capacity. He has appearances to upkeep. The card game has no magic but the stakes feel so much higher than they do in Gobstones.

Draco cracks his knuckles. “Always. You’re going down.”

The two of them are sitting on the floor in a long face off with two kings on either side when the front door opens. Harry’s back is to the door, but Draco is in full view of it. Marius comes through first and then it’s –

“MUM!” Draco is up in a blink and running towards her and she’s running to him and she catches him about the waist and pulls him close.

She smells of rose and gold and love. “Darling, happy Christmas.”

“You came!”

“Of course I did. Had to sneak away to do it, but there was no way I was going to celebrate Yule without my family.”

“We are so happy to have you,” Marius says. 

They all settle on the sofa and his mum produces iced cookies on a polished silver platter from her mokeskin pouch. “These are Draco’s favorite holiday cookies. Cardamom is the special ingredient.”

Harry grabs one and bites into it, and grins. “This is great, Mrs. Malfoy.”

“Please call me ‘Aunt Narcissa,’” his mum requests, “we are all spending the holiday together, after all.”

Remus and Sirius come down the stairs not long after, and look delighted to see Narcissa. The group of them make Christmas together and Draco loves every second of it. They all laugh and talk and his mum not only brought cookies in her pouch, but also magical Christmas crackers, and gifts for everyone. The day is filled with laughter and warmth from the fire, and there is no one telling Draco to sit up straight. 

At the end of the night, Marius says, “I’ll bunk with Harry tonight. My room is ready for you both,” so Draco and his mum go the master bedroom and pile together into Marius’ large bed. Draco hasn’t shared a bed with his mum in ages.

He feels little, all of a sudden. He feels like there is nothing better than mothers, even if he should be too old for such thoughts. “Thank you for being here,” he says.

“There is nothing I would not do to spend happy time with you, love.”

The day has been so beautiful but there is someone missing. The warmth and joy gives Draco the courage to ask hard questions. “Why can’t I see dad this break? You said you would tell me. Is it because of the dark lord?”

His mum lets out a sad sound. “The dark lord has returned, that is correct. That is only part of it, though. Truthfully, I do not believe your father is a good person. I do not trust him with you.”

Draco sits up, shocked. “You don’t trust him with me? Why not?”

His mum sits up as well. “I brought something to explain everything, but I was thinking I would show you tomorrow. These are not happy things.”

Draco feels his heartbeat speeding up. “No, I want to know now. I don’t want to keep having it put off. I don’t want to wait.”

His mum gives him  a sad smile. “Very well.” She pulls out a full sized pensieve from her pouch, then puts her wand against her temple. A silver strand goes from her head into the pensieve. 

“Come along, darling,” she says. “There’s someone you need to meet.”

Draco leans his head over the basin and finds himself with his mum in a small room. He recognizes the scene from the window as Malfoy Manor’s grounds but he’s never seen the room. There is a small girl with blonde hair and silver eyes sitting on the bed swinging her legs and humming. She looks a lot like Draco.

She’s adorable, Draco thinks. He is stuck with a strong feeling that she is family. The door the room opens and his mother walks in, but she is younger than Draco ever remembers her being. 

“Lyra, darling,” she says, and the girl, Lyra, gets off the bed and runs to her.

“MUM! You came back!”

Draco states, surprised and trying to understand what he’s seeing. “Is this real?” He asks, haltingly.

His mum, the mum with him watching and not the one in the memory, stares at Lyra. She is crying, softly. “It is a real memory.”

“I have…” Draco trails off, confused. “I have a younger sister?”

His mum shakes her head. “No. No. Lyra was born before you.”

Draco is even more confused. “I have… an older sister? Where is she?” All at once, Draco pushes away from his mother to watch Lyra more closely. She has good posture and a kind face and Draco loves her immediately. He spent so long wishing and wishing for a sibling. He would have taken a younger sibling, but deep down, he’s always wanted an older brother or sister who would take him under their wing and be there to cheer him on. Every wish he’s made is coming true now. Every moment he felt jealous of his friends for having siblings is foolish now. He has an older sister. She is better than everyone else, he can tell just from this one memory. “Is she in France? Can we go get her?”

His mum comes and hugs him tight. It mirrors the way the memory version of her is hugging the girl, Lyra. “We can’t.” Draco can feel that his mum is crying harder now, she is shaking all around him.

“We can’t? Why not? We can go get her…”

“She was born without magic,” his mum says. “A squib.”

Draco understands, then. His sister is a squib, like Marius. Marius isn’t so bad. “That’s no problem,” he tells his mum, comfortingly. He pats her back in reassurance. “Muggles are actually very smart. They know about fusion and combustion and electricity. They have laundry machines and kettles that plug into the wall that make great tea. I am sure we can track her down and give her all her memories of her family back, and then just get some things added to the house to make it easier on her.”

Draco sees it so clearly. His older sister probably had her memories wiped when she was eleven and was cast out into the muggle world like Marius. Once they find her, they can just install electricity at the manor and then there’s no reason she won’t be able to be just as independent and happy as Marius. It’ll be great fun. “She’ll love Granda Marius too! They’ll be such great friends.”

If anything, his mum only cries harder. “She’s not in the muggle world, darling. She’s not in this world at all.”

Draco struggles with the words. “Where else could she be? Mars?”

His mum pulls back and stares at Lyra once more with what can only be described as longing. She is quiet as the scene continues and the girl brings a drawing of a puppy and shows it to the memory version of Lyra and Draco’s mother. 

It’s amazing. She’s amazing, Draco decides.

The memory mother and the mother standing next to Draco say at the same time, “What a beautiful drawing, love.”

Draco’s sense of unease grows as his mum makes a move as if to try and hug the memory of Lyra and then catches herself. She wipes a tear and makes a truly horrible face, as if swallowing her tears, before she turns back to Draco. “We can’t find her because she was murdered.”

Draco feels everything he built up in just a few moments – the relief of not being an only child, the excitement of meeting his sibling, the love he grew so quickly and strongly – shatter.

“No,” he says softly. “She can’t be. I – I love her.”

Chapter Text

Argus goes to Diagon Alley one last time after his resignation is finalized. Dumbledore made no effort to keep Filch on retainer. He simply thanked Argus for his service and wrote, “Your Christmas bonus this year is a bit larger, to express my gratitude.”

Argus goes the bank to collect his earnings. When he was 17, he earned two galleons per week. He knew, even then, it was hardly more than what a house elf earned. When he was 25, he began to earn 3 galleons per week. He earned 4 once he was 40, and never a sickle more. He spent very little of his money. He spent it on clothes and a few books. Cat toys and food were always his largest annual expense. Room and board provided by the school helped him to save his meager earnings. Even so, it always bothered him how much less he earned compared to the other professors -- even compared to Hagrid. It felt as if magic was the only thing anyone could ever value. He, a squib of a great house that would never claim him, was worthless. He collects his few thousand galleons and places them into a muggle backpack he purchased at shop near the library. He declines the service the goblins offer him to convert each galleon to “5 pounds, for a fee of 8 sickles and 2 knuts per each galleon.”

He thinks that he will just see if there is some way to do it himself in the muggle world. The less time he spends near magic, the better.

A few days later, he invites Hetty over for dinner. He thinks nothing of the large pile of gold in his living room. Argus learned somewhat by necessity that he enjoys cooking and baking quite a bit. He discovered the glory of making things with his own hands when he decided going out to restaurants was cost ineffective.

Hetty arrives right on time and Argus serves her a shepherds pie he is quite proud of. Argus poses an existential question to the woman. She has continued to assist him in learning the ways of the muggle world. He finds her company is not altogether unpleasant. She feels a bit like family to him, not that he remembers it all that well. “I’m still not quite sure what to do with myself. I can’t quite figure out what job I ought to do.”

“Well, what do you like?” She asks around a bite, “This is great, by the way.”

“I like cats and baking. I dislike people.”

“They’ve got cat cafes in Japan, I hear. Maybe open one?”

Argus stares at the woman. “And what is a cat cafe?”

“Not sure, just read about them in a travel magazine.” 

Argus says, “I doubt I can afford to travel to Japan to learn more myself. I collected all my earnings, and it is hardly 5,000 galleons.”

Hetty cocks her head. “What is a galleon?”

“Gold coin,” Argus supplies. “One is worth 5 pounds, and 25,000 pounds is just about the year’s rent and groceries.”

Hetty still looks quite confused. “Got one I could look at?”

Argus nods, and goes and gets one for her. “Here it is.”

Hetty turns it over in her hands, bangs it on the table, then bites down on it. She looks up Argus with wide eyes. “Is this solid gold?” Her voice is a bit strangled.

“Well, yes,” Argus says, self conscious. “Of course.” All galleons are pure gold, any idiot knows that. He would hardly have a counterfeit in his possession. 

Hetty begins to laugh, a bit hysterically. “You need to get these assessed, buddy.”

Argus says, hesitantly, “I do?”

“Solid gold in the real world is worth way more than 5 pounds.”

“How much do you think each galleon is worth?”

Hetty shrugs. She is still giggling, still slightly hysterical. “At least 300 pounds each, easy.”

Argus looks towards his pile of barely 5000 galleons. “Ah,” he says, distantly. “Yes, that is rather different.”

***

“I am not an animal. And you – you are not kind.”

Draco thinks he will hear those words, echoing in all corners of his mind, for the rest of his life. He saw memory after memory of Lyra before exiting the pensieve, shaken to his very core. He is sitting on Marius’ bed with his mother, the two of them facing each other and the only light in the room coming from the dim night stars beyond the half drawn window curtains.

His mother explains everything as best as she can, that she was told, “It was her or you, darling, and I knew that if I took her and ran they’d find us and they would kill us and then there would be no one left to protect you. I thought she was dead no matter what and at least if I went along with it, I could save one of my children. I was wrong to give up but…”

Draco sees imprints of it on his eyelids. His older sister, young and confident even when faced with death. He sees his mother, and her fake smile falling. He sees the Dark Lord and even the memory of the man fills Draco with rage and hatred unlike anything he has ever experienced. 

And he sees his father, raising his wand, the same wand he used to light candles with when Draco was scared of the dark, to snuff out the light of his daughter. His father looked over to Voldemort for approval when it was over and seemed almost relieved. “Squibs are like stains,” he’d told Draco once. Maybe that was what it felt like to his father. Like scrubbing away a stain.

Draco knew his father was a different sort of man than Ron’s father, but he always believed his father was a good man. A strong man. A man who could provide for his family and be a little cruel, but not the kind of man who could kill a child. Draco always thought if he’d been a squib, he would end up like Marius. He never supposed his father would have scrubbed him away. It feels unfair to learn just how conditional his life is on magic. 

I am not an animal. And you - you are not kind.

Would Draco have been so composed when he was facing his death? He doesn’t think so. His mother is still talking about why Draco’s father is dangerous. As if Draco doesn’t know. As if watching his father murder his sister isn’t enough to convince him of that.

“I understand, mother,” he says softly, into the quiet darkness of the room. “I never want to see my father again.”

His mother says, hesitantly, “Never is a long time, darling. There may come a time when you want answers only he may give you.”

“I don’t think there is any answer to the murder of my sister that I will want to hear.”

His mother falls silent then. She still looks like his mother – beautiful and cold to others but never to him. She still smells like his mother, like roses dipped in gold. She still sounds like his mother. Even when she was explaining that Lyra died because he was loved more than she was, even then, his mother sounded just like she always had. A voice of honey and silk, rich and sweet. But she doesn’t feel like his mother, just now. She feels like a stranger. The mother he knew would never let any member of her family, let alone her child, be slaughtered.

“I told my friends once that you would have loved me just the same if I were a squib,” Draco says, wistfully. He remembers the conversation with Ron and Harry vividly. He thought it was such a strange thing to talk about. He misses the confidence with which he’d exclaimed his mother would love him no matter what. “I told them – I told them: Of course my mum would love me just the same.” Draco feels that his world is ending. “But I see now that I was wrong.”

His mother makes a wounded noise, like she is being stabbed. “Draco honey, never. Don’t think that. Never that. I loved her and I love you and —”

Draco cuts her off. “Please,” he pleads, voice breaking, “please don’t try to make it better.”

He gets under the covers and tries to sleep, taking comfort in the familiar warmth of his mother on her side of the bed even though he wishes she felt different now that he knows his worst family secret. When sleep eventually finds him, it is restless and filled to the brim with Lyra.

Boxing day dawns sleepy and late, a muted sunrise spreading over the muggle neighborhood of Surrey. Draco wakes with tears in his eyes. His mother is out of the room and he hears the muffled sounds of conversation in the parlor below. Draco fishes in his trunk and selects black trousers and a black shirt, then slicks back his hair with a practiced hand. He feels like he ought to dress as though he is grieving, because he is. He takes a deep breath and pads down the stairs. Marius is fixing himself a cup of coffee and Remus is making hot chocolate. Sirius and Harry are sitting on the sofa, tossing a ball carelessly, and talking about something that must be lighthearted. Sirius has a direct view of the stairs and sees Draco first. “Morning, sunshine,” he says in a low rumble.

“Hello,” Draco says, morose. It looks like his mother is gone. He does not know if that is good or bad. 

“Narcissa had to return but she sends all her love,” Marius says. “Are you quite alright? You look peaky, dear.”

Draco swallows and goes into the kitchen, sitting down on a barstool by the island. He does not quite know what to say. He wants to lie, but he does not think it would be particularly convincing at this moment. Marius and Sirius are family, so maybe they deserve to know. But Harry is young and unlike Draco, he does not need to hold something so heavy. “I, er, I learned something last night,” Draco decides to say. He notices that everyone but Harry snaps to immediate attention. Marius’ expression becomes impossibly sad. Draco presses on, “I feel –” he struggles for a word big enough. Sad is too common. It is bigger than that. “I feel a sorrow greater than anything I have ever known.”

Harry and Sirius are up from the couch in an instant and right by Draco. Harry asks, “Draco, what happened?”

“I actually don’t want to tell you, if that’s okay?” Draco says.

Harry, sweet Harry, doesn’t pry at all. “Of course that’s okay. Want to play exploding snap later?”

Draco shakes his head. “Not really.” Harry’s brow furrows. He is worried and wears it on his face so obviously. 

Sirius throws an arm around Draco’s shoulders. “Families are hard, kid. Trust me on that one.”

He knows. Draco is certain of this. Sirius knows. And if the look Marius is giving him and the fact Remus is fixing another cup of hot chocolate, one for Draco, is anything to go by, they know as well.

“Sirius? Can you –  can you take me somewhere? I just feel like I need to get out of here.”

Sirius looks down at Draco with determination. “For you, kid? Anything. C’mon, I’ll lend you a leather jacket.” 

In a few more minutes, Draco is wearing a leather jacket six sizes too big and has a helmet strapped to his head. Sirius swings onto the motorbike with practiced grace and Draco slides on, behind him. “Let’s get out of here, yeah?” Sirius asks, rhetorically. They kick off and speed out of the suburban development and onto the motorway. As they drive, Draco feels the weight of it hit him. His father is a murderer. His mother let it happen. Draco had a sister and she died. She died when she was only eight. His father killed her. It feels like in one night, he lost his entire family. Draco begins to cry on to Sirius’ back. He might be shaking and he might be loud, but the noise and vibration of the motorbike masks all of it. The English countryside speeds by as he cries.

They get off the motorway and pass a few more streets and then come to a stop on the banks of a pond with two swans gliding in the water and a few trees that look hundred of years old. Sirius and Draco remove their helmets and go to sit on the grass by the pond. The wind rustles the grass. A birdsong can be heard in the breeze, melodic and sad. The water splashes.

“My parents were bad people,” Sirius says into the tranquility of the morning. “Truly bad people. And I had a brother too. He might have been a bad person and he might have just gotten caught up in something he couldn’t have gotten out of. I guess I’ll never know for sure. But I know that if my parents had been better people, he’d still be here. I get it – I do.”

Draco sniffles, and rubs at his eyes. “How do you – how do you live with it? Having parents like this. Having – losing – having had a brother or sister and never getting to see them? I just, I feel like I knew her. And I don’t. Didn’t.”

Sirius blows out a long breath. “Asking the hard questions, I see. You know, things like ‘why couldn’t my parents have been better people?’ ‘Why did my brother have to die?’ Those questions – man, they still haunt me.”

“Yeah,” Draco says, watching as one swan cleans its wing, “I get that.”

Sirius looks up at the grey sky. “It’s easy to get stuck on those questions. There aren’t great answers, I think. I don't have any for you, I'll be honest. All I have is what I used to tell myself: ‘It starts with me.' What I mean by that is kind of hard to explain. It meant a lot to me. It was like, being a better person, being a kinder person, those changes had to start with me. So maybe that’s how we need to live it. By doing better and being better people than our parents. The Malfoy family being a source for good in the world, I think that starts with you, kid.”

I am not an animal. And you – you are not kind.

Draco nods, trying valiantly not to cry. “I want to be a better person. I want to be kind. But I want my parents to be like that, too. I don’t want it to start with me. I wish – I wish it would have started with them.”

Sirius gives him a long look. “I wish that too. And hey, maybe this is the wrong time to say it, but I think your mum is trying. Maybe too late, but she is trying.”

Draco does not respond to that. He doesn’t know quite what to feel about his mother. 

“You ever want to talk about this, kid, I’m all ears. We’re part of the same fucked up club. Dead sibling, shitty fathers. You know, it’s invite only. Very exclusive.”

Draco says, “You’ve got a dark sense of humor.”

Sirius grins at him, “You could call it Black.”

Draco gives a small smile back. They sit and look at the swans for a long time. 

***

Narcissa Malfoy returns to Malfoy Manor on boxing day, head held high and fake smile firmly in place. In the quiet of her own mind, she is worried that she has lost her son forever by sharing his sister with him. In the part of her heart she keeps quiet, she grieves for the Draco who looked at her like she hung the moon and stars. She knows that even if she gains his forgiveness, he will never look at her like that again. But Narcissa is good at compartmentalizing, and her need to make Draco safe and manage the crisis in her home outweighs all her inner thoughts. She walks into her the grand manor with her hair in a delicate French twist and wearing resplendent gold robes.

The halls smells like blood. Narcissa walks towards the smell with measured steps, working to put her own mind behind a barrier so strong not even the dark lord will know her true feeling if he stares into her eyes. At the end of a long hallway, a collection of Death Eaters litter one of her parlors. There is a flame burning merrily in the fireplace, a tray of Christmas cookies by the hearth, mistletoe hanging from the ceiling, and the mangled corpse of a woman on the cream colored carpet. The Death Eaters are sipping firewhisky. The Dark Lord sits on a chair with Bellatrix at his right and Severus at his left. Lucius is sitting next to Severus, in a less favored position. How that must irk her husband, Narcissa supposes, with vindictive satisfaction.

“Poppy,” Narcissa murmurs, and the elf pops into existence. “Be a dear and clean up, would you?” she commands, looking purposefully towards the woman's corpse. Then, quiet enough no one can hear her from this far, she whispers, “And please locate the woman’s family if you can and give them the body. If she has none, bury her. And take the rest of the week off.”

Poppy trembles but nods, determined. “Yes, mistress.” Poppy is a good elf – she came with Narcissa from her childhood home. The Black elves have always been more loyal and competent than the Malfoy elves.

Narcissa sweeps into the room and is the picture of grace. “Who would like some refreshments?” she asks by way of greeting. Bellatrix’s eyes light up. Poppy vanishes the mess of the woman and takes the corpse, disappearing with a quiet crackle.

“Oh, Cissy, I would love some. Can you have a cheese board sent up?” 

Narcissa smiles. “Of course. Pippin!” A male Malfoy elf materializes. “My special cheese board, quick as you can.”

He bows low, “Of course, mistress.”

Narcissa settles on the armrest of Bellatrix’s chair. “I heard the most interesting thing when I was out shopping.” That was her excuse to escape on Christmas -- she wanted to get some special edition clothes for the holiday. Not one person suspected otherwise.

“Oh?” Voldemort asks, suddenly looking towards her. “Do tell.”

“I heard that Harry Potter wrote a paper published with Severus. In the Scimitar.”

The Dark Lord relaxes. “Oh yes, Severus told me all about it. The young whelp believes himself gifted and an alchemist, but he is no great talent. Severus wrote the thing himself and is allowing Potter to develop false confidence. He will be unable to grasp even basic potions concepts, due to needing to spend all his time on ‘research.’ Quite ingenious, if I do say so myself.”

Narcissa sighs. “Alchemy. The only piece I find remotely interesting in the discipline is immortality, but you already have that, my lord.”

Voledmort looks well satisfied. “Indeed I do.”

Narcissa looks directly into her sister’s eyes. “Isn’t it our good fortune that we never need worry about our lord growing old and infirm with age?”

Suspecting nothing, Bellatrix agrees. “It is the best gift we could have ever been granted.”

It is barely a struggle to slip into Bellatrix’s mind. Narcissa is a gifted Legimillens and there are few minds she is more attuned to than her sister’s. She spent her whole childhood predicting Bellatrix’s moods and desires.

Bellatrix has some rudimentary walls in her mind, but they are weak from years in Azkaban and would likely never keep out someone with a gentle approach like Narcissa’s methods of mind reading. 

Narcissa easily finds the memory she wants. The conversation of immortality has brought it to the front of Bellatrix’s mind. Narcisssa sees a cup and can taste the dark magic radiating off of it. It is Helga Hufflepuff’s goblet.

“My lord,” her sister breathed in that moment, “I will keep it safe for you. Thank you for bestowing this upon me. I will give my life for you.”

Narcissa follows the thread as softly as she can so as not to alert Bellatrix anything is amiss. She sees her sister place the cup in the Lestrange vault. Narcissa exits Bellatrix’s mind as carefully as she entered and adopts a countenance of reverence. “Indeed, sister. And look, here is the cheese board.” Narcissa gets off the armrest and takes the tray from Pippin, serving the Death Eaters the best cheeses and meats money can buy like a dutiful wife. And all the while, she is planning on how she will get into the Lestrange vault and destroy the goblet.

***

He grinds the myrrh with hyssop and spreads the spices over a red stone. It begins to smoke, slightly. He holds it with one hand over a chalice, and the stone begins to drip a liquid into the cup. The liquid spills from the stone for a minute or two before it stops. The chalice is filled to the brim. He sets the stone down and then takes long sips of the liquid, feeling revitalized with every gulp. It tastes of magic, raw and powerful. It tastes of vitality. Around the edges, it tastes like copper and lemon. 

When he sets the chalice down, he is transformed. Metamorphosed. He can no longer sleep without feeling haunted and hunted. A side effect, he understands, of drinking unicorn blood. The stone renders that small issue meaningless. The elixir of life is strong enough to keep him from needing any sleep.

He uses the night well. Feeling much stronger, he sweeps out into the manor and calls for Lucius. The man comes at once and kneels at his Lord’s feet, with the deference expected of a Malfoy.

“Abraxas never bowed as deeply as you, Lucius,” Voldemort says. “You are a great deal less powerful than he, pity though that may be. I never would have wanted to him to grovel like you must to keep an ounce of my favor.”

“My Lord,” Lucius begins, “I am blessed to be in your service.”

“I am sure you are, but the question I ask now is if I am lucky to have you. Tell me, boy, where is my diary? I do not feel its presence here.”

“The diary?” Lucius is beginning to sweat.

“Look into my eyes.” Lucius looks up, his blue eyes wide with terror. Voldemort tears through his mind with no care of how painful it must be for his follower.

Rage fills Voldemort as he sees the diary being placed with a Hogwarts student and taken out of safety.

“You foolish child,” Voldemort utters. "I will make you regret this as long as you live.

"Please, forgive me," Lucius begs. Voldemort watches, dispassionately.

"Oh, dear child, you must know that will not convince me to treat you better. Crucio," he croons.

Lucius screams, high and loud. 

In the safety of Privet Drive, Harry gasps awake and sits straight up. He feels his heart beat fast with fear. His head hurts fiercely. He blinks as something dark drips into his eyes. His hands fly to his scar. "What -- what on earth?" His fingertips come away bloody.

Chapter Text

Filch takes his galleons to the Royal Mint in the Tower of London to see if they will buy his gold. The man helping him looks quite suspicious but is more than happy to buy the galleons.

“Are you in the mob?” the agent asks, while examining his 300th coin of the day. The agent is very thorough with each coin, making sure not one is counterfeit. “No one really has gold like this any more. Won’t judge you, promise.”

Argues says, “Er, no. I’m not in the mob. This is family money. My parents didn’t believe in soft currency.” It is technically true, even if Argus rarely considers the people who used to be his parents any longer.

The man shrugs. “I’ve heard weirder.”

At the end of the day, Filch is left with several checks and a directive to open a “checking account because for god’s sake man, you are asking to be robbed otherwise.”

***

Harry is not used to bleeding from his head. He thinks it is rather concerning, and he finds the nightmares that preceded the blood rather concerning as well. He also finds the pain to be blinding. It is a sharp, stabbing pain over his right eye. The pressure of the headache makes him feel like he needs to keep his right eye shut tight. The blood clumping wet on his eyelashes makes everything worse.

Harry is reminded of back when he was nine. The Dursleys went on holiday in Spain and left Harry behind. ‘What great luck,’ he’d thought. And then he went and caught the flu and threw up all over Granda Marius' guest room covers in the middle of the night. Harry tried to hide that he was sick as best as he could so as not to alert Marius. He cleaned everything up, clammy and limp. He managed to strip the bed, do the laundry, and even started hanging the sheets and the quilt out to dry before Marius woke up and came to investigate what Harry was doing.

“Goodness gracious, you look pale as paper sweetheart. What are you up to, hmm?” Marius had asked, patient and concerned.

Harry had explained in small sniffles that he threw up (so sorry!) and that he cleaned it up and he really didn’t want to be a bother or a burden and please don’t send him away to Miss Figg.

Marius had gently hushed him, and pulled him into a hug. Harry had never been hugged, and he was used to being kept tightly shut in the cupboard if he were ever ill. Being brought into the living room, delivered soup and tea, and then having new sheets put on the mattress for him and a pot put out by his bed in case he needed to vomit again all felt like a dream.

The only thing that made Marius angry was that Harry hadn’t asked for help.

“But you were asleep,” Harry explained, unsure of how to make sense of Marius’ concern. “I would be wrong to wake you up. It’s a rule.” The Dursleys had made it very clear that Harry was to never, under any circumstance, wake them up.

Marius had smoothed Harry’s hair back and given him a sad smile. “That might be a rule in your house, but in my house I have a different rule. If you are ever sick, or having an emergency, or even if you are so uncomfortable you can’t sleep, you must come to me. Do you understand?”

At the time, Harry thought Marius was strange indeed, but he still said, “I understand.”

Harry takes a deep breath. Draco is still sleeping in the other bed in the room. The alarm clock on the bed reads 4:03 AM.

This is an emergency. Harry slowly tip toes out of bed and out of his room. He goes to the room at the end of the hall and takes another deep breath. He carefully opens the door to Granda Marius’ room and pads over to the bed.

“Marius,” he says, softly. “I think I need help.”

“Margarine is never as good as better,” Marius replies in a sagely tone. “Vegans are right nutters don’t do it.”

“Marius,” Harry says again, more insistently. “I need help.”

Marius stirs and blinks sleepily up at Harry. “Hare-bear, what’s wrong?” 

“I – er, had a nightmare and I’m bleeding.”

Marius reaches over for his spectacles and turns on the lamp by his bedside table. When he sees Harry he sits straight up and quickly stands from his bed. “Good heavens, that does not look good. Does it hurt?”

He comes to stand in front of Harry and gently tips Harry’s head up to examine the wound better.

Harry says, “Yeah.” It hurts bad enough that his eyes water.

Granda Marius frowns. “Out of ten?”

“Ten. Maybe eleven.”

“Well, let’s see if we can’t stop the bleeding. It’s coming from your scar, it looks like.”

Marius leads Harry into the upstairs bathroom and hands him Motrin, which Harry swallows. “Do you think that will help the pain?” Harry would like the answer to be yes. The pain is so great and Harry has such a hard time imagining it ever ending. 

Marius wets a washcloth. “We’ll know in about fifteen minutes. Let me know if this stings at all.” Fifteen minutes. Harry can wait that long to see if he'll feel better.

Marius gently runs the warm washcloth over Harry’s forehead and wipes up the blood. The whole washcloth is filled with red and Marius reaches for another, his face markedly paler. “Hold here for one moment, okay love?”

Harry says, “Okay.”

Marius steps out of the restroom and returns with a rumpled Remus and Sirius. “The bleeding won’t stop. I was wondering if there were any wizard treatments.”

“Curse scars are tricky business,” Remus says. 

“Curse scars?” Marius says. “Harry’s scar is a curse?”

“Oh, well, yes. He got it from he-who-must-not-be-named himself, you know.” Remus replies.

“I in fact did not.”

Harry says, “Me either. I guessed maybe from the books but didn’t know.” Curse scar doesn't sound very good. Harry really would have preferred "blessed scar," or "normal scar," or even, "boring scar," to "curse scar."

Remus says, “Sorry Harry. I should have said.”

Sirius takes out his wand and points it at Harry’s forehead. “Epiksey.”

Harry feels a slight tingling sensation.

Sirius says it again, “Epiksey.”

Harry again feels the tingling sensation. “That tickles.”

“It’s not working,” Sirius mutters. “Epiksey. Epiksey. Epiksey!”

Remus lays a hand on Sirius’ arm. “It’s a curse scar. That won’t work.”

Marius says, calmly, “Do you know what will?”

Remus winces. “Normally, time is the best thing for these kinds of wounds. No one has ever survived the killing curse so there isn’t exactly a manual. Dittany, maybe. I can get some when the shops open later this morning.”

Harry deflates. Waiting hours with blood dripping into his eyes does not sound like a good time. At least the Motrin seems to be helping dull the pain, somewhat.

Marius sighs. “Well, I’m not waiting hours for magic to stop Harry’s bleeding. Let’s see if we can't use good old science to work in our favor first.” Marius rummages around the medicine cabinets and produces gauze and medical tape as well as a pair of smart silver scissors. With surgical precision he cuts the gauze into four identically sized strips and applies them to Harry’s wound. “Hold that, dear. Apply pressure for 15 minutes.”

“On it, Granda. Good idea!”

“Good lad,” Marius says, approvingly. He wets another washcloth and cleans the dried blood on Harry’s cheeks and chin. “You’ll need a new shirt, I’m afraid.”

“That one, magic can fix now,” Remus says and points his wand at Harry’s shirt, “scourgify.”