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Chapter Text

Harry was never quite certain what had changed and what remained the same. The larger things were obvious- his bedroom, and the Dursleys' attitude in general- but others crept up on him, catching him when he least expected it, a lingering unease making its way into the pit of his stomach and refusing to let go.

The curve in Privet Drive, just past number six, was particularly unsettling, and one he hadn't noticed straight away, not until he spotted it while standing in the front garden. When he'd been at Hogwarts, Harry didn't think much about Little Whinging, at least not unless he absolutely had to. And yet, that slight turn in the road caught him off-guard every time he saw it, given he remembered it being as straight as Aunt Petunia's posture whenever she welcomed in guests she pretended to like.

Maybe he was misremembering. Maybe the curve had always been there.

The larger changes weren't as easy to explain away.

Somehow, those larger changes were easier to grasp, at least upon first noticing them. They weren't any less strange, and each one continued to rock Harry's perception of whatever this new reality was, but at least he was able to face each one with complete certainty that they were, in fact, different.

His bedroom, for instance. Harry knew for a fact that he'd been moved from his cupboard to Dudley's second bedroom shortly after his first Hogwarts letter arrived; it was a memory that was seared into his mind. And yet he'd been in this world for nearly a week, with Dudley's birthday quickly approaching, with no indication the cupboard under the stairs had ever been used to store anything other than cleaning supplies and a small infestation of spiders. There was no camp bed, nor any other sign that Harry had spent any time here, aside from the moments he pulled open the door and peered inside, as though expecting the past he remembered to suddenly come roaring back into life.

"Harry," Aunt Petunia said sharply one afternoon as he shut the plywood door. "Why on earth are you always poking about in there?"

Harry jumped, not knowing she could see him from her vantage point in the kitchen, and trying to force an excuse to come to mind.

"Can't find my English homework," he mumbled.

"And why would your English homework be in the cupboard?" When Harry didn't answer, she frowned and went on. "Well, go find it, and once you do, you can make yourself useful and weed the back garden." She softened the tiniest amount. "I've already started, so it shouldn't take long."

Harry nodded and started back toward the stairs, the omnipresent pit in his stomach only growing deeper. He still couldn't quite figure out his aunt and uncle. Although Dudley was as spoiled as ever, the active hostility once thrown his way was quite unlike the dynamic within which Harry now found himself. For one thing, they called him Harry. They had occasionally called him that in his old life, but far more often than not he was either "Boy", or nothing at all. Any utterance of his given name was a rarity, a slip of the tongue, and yet here they were now, acting as though using his name was the most common thing in the world.

To be fair, Uncle Vernon did still call him "Boy" now and then, especially when he was irritated, but said irritation seemed less directed at Harry than it had once been. Even his rants seemed less heated than they'd once been, though he still made sure to inform anyone who would listen to all the ways the country was rapidly going to hell each night at dinner.

Harry still didn't know how exactly it had happened. He'd lived his life normally (or at least as normally as one could when they were Harry Potter), but somehow it was 1991 instead of 1996, which was confusing enough. On top of that, while some things were the same, others were... different.

The Veil- something had happened with the Veil in the Department of Mysteries. He'd gone there to save Sirius- but Sirius hadn't been there, until he was. There was fighting. And then-

Everything else blurred into a haze, indecipherable images flitting through the recesses of his mind too quickly to chase and grasp hold of.

He couldn't even remember the precise moment he'd become aware he was ten years old again. Much like the murky recollection of the events leading to the end of his past life, the beginning of his new one had the quality of a dream, its boundaries folding into itself and collapsing when placed under heightened scrutiny.

It had been a week since he'd understood- more or less- what was happening. He knew that much, at least.

He missed Ron and Hermione with a fierceness that made his chest ache. He missed Sirius, his mind always jumping slightly when he thought of his godfather, at something he knew was important, but the details of which he couldn't quite piece together.

Something had happened to Sirius- something in the Department of Mysteries- but what?

The idea that Sirius must be in Azkaban right now was a horrifying one. Harry, completely cut off from anyone who could help him, was tempted to man a solo expedition to break him out, but even he understood that there was a difference between reckless bravery and a straight-up death wish.

Professor Dumbledore would be able to help. But how could he get in touch with him? He didn't have access to an owl, and he could only imagine what the Muggle postal service would make of a letter addressed to Hogwarts. As each day passed, Harry found himself waking from his dreamlike state more and more, and he found himself increasingly determined to make contact with someone who could help him, even as he continued to sleepwalk his way through his days, only half-aware of the fog continuing to grip him.

The idea of asking his aunt and uncle for help was quickly dismissed. His relatives weren't as openly bitter toward his existence as he remembered them being, but Harry still didn't trust them, not with something like this, and not with his Hogwarts letter just around the corner. Any day now he'd make that first contact with the wizarding world, and the moment he did he'd do whatever it took to make his way to Professor Dumbledore and make things right.

Even so, an increasingly large part of himself was screaming to go now, to sneak away, catch a train to London, and ask the first person he found at the Leaky Cauldron to take him to Hogwarts. Hell, if he only had a wand, he could hail the Knight Bus and take it there himself. Still, he couldn't help but think that even with a wand, given all the changes around him, for all he knew the familiar gesture might lead not to the arrival of Stan Shunpike, but instead a hippogriff landing on his head. He wouldn't put it past this reality.

"Coward," he murmured to himself one night as he stared at the ceiling, unable to sleep.

Sirius was in Azkaban right this second- or at least Harry assumed he was. What sort of changes had there been in the magical world?

At first, Harry hadn't known if these changes were solely confined to the personalities of his aunt and uncle. After all, he had hardly any interaction with the world around him, aside from living with his relatives and his days at school, the latter of which was coming to an end as the summer holidays rapidly approached.

And yet-

It wasn't just his aunt and uncle. There was that curve in Privet Drive. There was the way the house didn't seem quite the way he'd remembered, its layout remaining the same yet the proportions being slightly... off. And then there was that sickening jolt Harry had one night as he gazed out his bedroom window at the dark sky overhead.

The stars were different. Despite mostly being in their proper places, five years of Astronomy classes made it clear that some constellations were in the wrong location, while others had stars added or removed, while others still were either entirely new or no longer in existence at all.

Harry lurched away from the window as though he'd been burned. Then, once a moment had passed, he looked outside once more.

The stars were still different.

And here he was, doing absolutely nothing at all aside from lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, and calling himself a coward. It wasn't like him to sit and wait, and it was driving him half-mad with impatience and guilt.

But there was something else holding him back, something more than the simple logic that he should wait until Hagrid showed up with his Hogwarts letter. After all, Harry had never cared much for logic when something important was at stake. Harry couldn't put words to it, but it was as though he wasn't entirely himself, as though bit-by-bit he was learning how to be himself again. It was harder to do, harder to act, harder for the thoughts in his brain to come into being around him.

It was a bit like being under the Imperius Curse, but not really. Harry had at least been able to shake the Imperius Curse the last time he'd been under it.

He had an idea on his fifth or sixth day as a ten-year-old, momentarily crashing through the fog that hadn't yet lifted so abruptly that he must have physically reacted, as Aunt Petunia narrowed her eyes and asked if something was wrong.

"Can I visit Mrs. Figg?" he blurted out, lowering his fork, his potatoes forgotten.

How hadn't he thought of her until now? Each day Harry thought he was more free from the haze that surrounded his arrival than he actually was, and yet any form of retrospect seemed to indicate that he was only shaking it bit by bit.

His aunt and uncle stared at him, ignoring Dudley when he asked them to pass the gravy.

"Mum? Did you hear me?" Dudley looked back and forth between his parents, astounded his words hadn't been immediately heeded. "Mum? Dad?"

Aunt Petunia blinked, then passed the gravy to Dudley before turning back to Harry. "What do you mean, can you visit Mrs. Figg?"

Harry knew it was a strange question. There'd never been a time in his past life that he'd been excited to visit Mrs. Figg's house, which smelled of cabbage and too many cats, much less requested that he be allowed to visit. He shrugged, trying to appear as casual as possible. "I just thought... well, it's been a long time, and it might be nice to say hello. She must get lonely, living all by herself."

His aunt and uncle continued to stare at him, and even Dudley had finally taken notice of the conversation taking place between mouthfuls of food. "Who's Mrs. Figg?"

Now it was Harry's turn to stare, this time in exasperation at his cousin. Was he really that self-absorbed? Harry wasn't sure. He hadn't had as much interaction with this version of Dudley as he might have expected. It seemed that at some point in primary school his cousin had been held back a year, so they were in different classes, and while Dudley didn't seem adverse to shoving him now and then, Harry made sure to keep his distance, and Dudley wasn't as openly hostile as he'd once been, especially when Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were around.

"I've never heard of a Mrs. Figg," Uncle Vernon said, crinkling his face in confusion. He peered down at Harry, voice turning stern. "You aren't having a laugh at our expense, are you, boy?"

Harry's mouth had gone very dry. His gaze flitted from Uncle Vernon to Aunt Petunia, then back to Uncle Vernon, then back to Aunt Petunia.

"Answer your uncle, Harry." Aunt Petunia leaned forward, her gaze intense.

"I..." Harry trailed off. After a moment, he managed to say, "I thought a woman named Mrs. Figg used to watch me when I was young. Maybe it was just a dream."

"Must have been," Uncle Vernon said, though he still looked at Harry strangely. "You know, that head of yours has been in the clouds entirely too much lately. You'll want to smarten up and focus, hm?"

"I will." Despite there being many things he wanted to say, it was the only thing Harry could manage to utter, though he was tempted to toss in the never-ending scream of confusion illuminating most of his thoughts. He kept that part quiet.

"Eat your potatoes, Harry," Aunt Petunia said, though Harry didn't miss the impossible-to-decipher glance she shot Uncle Vernon's way before returning to her own dinner.

Dudley's birthday came and went. The day itself was uneventful; they were accompanied to the zoo by Piers Polkiss, who seemed to be exactly the same person in this world as the previous one, which was oddly a small comfort to Harry. Then again, he thought to himself, he'd hardly known Piers in either reality. For all he knew, the rat-faced boy was secretly the world's youngest astronaut in one world, and a professional balalaika player in the other.

There was never any question this time around over whether Harry would be included in the trip to the zoo; the non-existent Mrs. Figg's name wasn't mentioned, nor was any other babysitter's. Harry sat between Dudley and Piers on the journey there, half-listening to Uncle Vernon complain to Aunt Petunia about politics and the work ethic of any generation younger than his own. At the zoo, he was given his own Knickerbocker Glory, just the same as Dudley and Piers. Harry kept his distance from anything even resembling a snake and relaxed the slightest bit once they'd left the reptile house with all its glass intact, its inhabitants still behind it.

Later that evening, Uncle Vernon beamed at his son as the latter once more surveyed his small mountain of gifts. "You're shaping up to be a very fine young man indeed. I hope you know that, Dudley. Your mother and I couldn't be prouder."

"Thanks, Dad," Dudley said, not breaking his gaze from the back of one of his new computer games.

"My sweet Duddy-Wuddy." Aunt Petunia clasped her hands together, eyes welling up at the mere concept of her son's existence. "I can hardly believe you're ten years old already."

For a moment, it didn't register. Then, before he could stop himself, Harry blurted out, "Ten?"

The Dursleys stared at him. Harry stared back, then, as his brain shouted at him to shut up and act as though nothing had happened, he turned to Dudley, who he now understood hadn't been held back a year at all. "Sorry. I just... You're ten?"

"Of course he's ten," Uncle Vernon said, exasperation creeping into his tone. "How old did you think he was?"

The Dursleys were still staring at him, and, unable to backtrack, Harry hesitated before answering truthfully. "Eleven."

Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon's expressions were difficult to read, but Harry could easily tell they weren't positive ones.

"Harry, you're the one turning eleven," Aunt Petunia said at last.

"So wrapped up in himself he's the only person he can think about." Uncle Vernon's attempt at a smile and a casual tone didn't quite land. "He's a self-absorbed one, isn't he, Petunia? It'll be your day soon enough. Today's about Dudley."

That night, as Harry sat awake in bed, he heard hushed tones from the direction of his aunt and uncle's bedroom. Pushing open his bedroom door as quietly as possible, he strained his ears as best he could, stepping forward involuntarily when he heard the name Harry. His foot landed on a floorboard, which creaked loudly, and the voices fell abruptly silent. Harry quickly retreated back into his room, and when the voices started again they were much quieter than they'd been before.

One Saturday morning in July, Aunt Petunia took Harry into town to purchase his uniform for Stonewall High. Unable to find a secondhand option, she bought it new, lips pursed all the while, letting out a loud sniff of disapproval when the price was tallied. She even stopped at a local restaurant for lunch and let Harry order a hamburger.

They sat in silence at a battered table that smelled strongly of bacon grease. Harry's aunt regarded her chips with an air of disdain, spearing each one with her plastic fork before taking a small bite, the tidy pile before her hardly seeming to decrease.

"You've been out of sorts," Aunt Petunia finally said as Harry crumpled the paper in which his burger had come. "Is something the matter?

Harry didn't know how to respond. The last time around, he doubted his aunt would have noticed if he'd walked into the house with an axe lodged into his forehead, except perhaps to complain about stray specks of blood staining the rug.

"I'm fine," he managed to say, reaching for his last chip, which he proceeded to shove into his mouth, hoping that would be the end of it.

Mercifully, Aunt Petunia gave him a curt nod, and Harry thought this might indeed be the case. After a moment, however, she lowered her fork and spoke again. "I don't think you are, and I can't understand why. Your teacher called at the end of term, did you know that?" Her tone was sharp, but Harry was astonished she gave a damn at all, even if it was out of embarrassment over potential gossip.

She waited for him to explain himself, and when this was not forthcoming she folded her hands and continued on. "Mrs. Alderman said you hardly seemed to pay attention, and that you struggled to remember things that had only just happened a week or two before."

"I'm fine. Nothing's the matter," Harry mumbled, but Aunt Petunia just kept talking, as though he'd said nothing at all.

"I've certainly noticed it as well." She straightened her posture, fixing Harry with a look that he associated with being ordered to go to his cupboard. "And I'm concerned."

Harry looked up slowly, his mind racing. Who was this woman?

"I can't imagine it's drugs, not at your age." She frowned, and sounding very much like Uncle Vernon (or Argus Filch), she added, "But with the state most children are in these days, I suppose anything is possible."

"I'm not on drugs." Harry couldn't help but choke on a laugh. Drugs would be an easier explanation than whatever cosmic nonsense he'd found himself involuntarily wrapped up in. Then again, maybe it really was that simple. Maybe Malfoy had laced his pumpkin juice with the sap of some unidentified plant from the greenhouses, and he was actually thrashing about in the hospital wing, babbling incoherently about nonexistent curves in Privet Drive.

"Then tell me. What is it?"

There wasn't much warmth to Aunt Petunia's voice, but the look in her eyes was impossible to ignore. Harry couldn't recall her directing anything like it toward him before.

No- that was a lie. Harry thought back to that previous summer when the world was the way it was supposed to be, when he'd been fifteen instead of ten, when she'd rejected Uncle Vernon's attempt to toss him out and insisted he stay at Privet Drive. She had that look again.

This version of Aunt Petunia didn't seem particularly warm and cuddly, nor did she seem to want to spend any more time around her nephew than she absolutely had to, but things were different between them in a way he couldn't quite put to words, not even to himself.

Harry hesitated, the ever-present fog surrounding him seeming to dissipate just the slightest bit more.

"Tell me." Aunt Petunia leaned forward. "I'm not giving you a choice, Harry."

Holding back another laugh, Harry closed his eyes. When he opened them, he found Aunt Petunia's still focused on his. "You'd never believe me."

"Perhaps not," she said, with a nod to go on.

"I..." A bit more of the fog seemed to evaporate, and he thought his next words over carefully, before proceeding with entirely different ones.

"I remember things," he said at last. "From the past, but it's really the future, except I've done it already."

It wasn't until later that Harry would wonder why he hadn't simply said he needed to talk to Professor Dumbledore and refused to elaborate further until he was brought to him. It would have been a dramatic option, but no more so than the one he went with. 

Why had he trusted Aunt Petunia of all people with the truth?

It was during one of his many discussions with Professor McGonagall as they pieced together this new world-- and Harry's place in it-- that this conversation would arise, but that conversation wouldn't be for quite some time. For now, it was just Harry, his Aunt Petunia, and a forgotten pile of chips between them.

Meanwhile, Aunt Petunia didn't reply. Instead, she gave Harry a look he couldn't quite decipher, the kind of look he imagined from someone who'd just been told their hands were made of cheese, or that the Chudley Cannons had just won the Quidditch World Cup.

"That's not the only thing," he continued, silently aware that the haze was lifting even more. It was as though he'd only just been made aware that he'd been wading through treacle after having been set on dry land, and now he was recollecting what it was like to exist before either of those events occurred. "Things are... I dunno. They're different here. You and Uncle Vernon are- well, I haven't figured out the two of you yet, but you are different. Better, I think. You used to make me sleep in the cupboard, but I don't think that's happened here."

"What are you talking about?" Aunt Petunia hissed, looking about frantically for listening ears. "We've never made you sleep in a cupboard. Have you gone mad?" Before Harry could answer, she added, "And lower your voice."

Although he'd hardly been speaking above a whisper, Harry obliged. "Look, I don't understand it either. But for me, until recently, it was 1996. Something happened when... when I was trying to rescue a friend, and then it was 1991 again, and some things are the same, but others aren't, and I can never figure out which is going to be which." Now that he'd started talking, he couldn't stop, words tumbling out one after the other. His surroundings seemed crisper, clearer, and he desperately wanted them to stay this way. "Honestly, it's been kind of mental." He peered inside the bag carrying his new uniform on the chair beside him and said, "You know, the last time around you dyed Dudley's old clothes grey instead of buying me a uniform. It was brilliant when I found out I wouldn't have to wear them. I mean, it was brilliant mostly for other reasons, but that too."

"It is drugs, isn't it?" Aunt Petunia's tone trembled with a mix of anger and fear. "You foolish boy, what have you mixed yourself up in?"

"It's not drugs," Harry reassured her again. "I promise." He paused. "Where would a ten-year-old even get drugs?"

"They said on the telly children are getting started younger and younger," she said, half to herself and half to her rapidly cooling chips. "Even the primary schools-my God, it's made its way here, to Little Whinging-"

"It's not drugs," Harry repeated, struggling to keep his voice low and only just succeeding. He paused, thinking of the things he wasn't saying, the things that would convince Aunt Petunia that he might actually be telling the truth. "All right. How about this- I'm a wizard. I'm a fifth year at Hogwarts, or at least I was one. My parents weren't killed in a car crash, they were killed by Lord Voldemort. The last thing I remember is being at the Ministry of Magic, trying to rescue my godfather from Voldemort."

Aunt Petunia reared back as though she'd been slapped. Noises emerged from deep within her throat, none of them discernable. Then she was standing, her fingernails digging into Harry's arm as she dragged him outside, trays and wrappers still on the table that smelled of bacon grease. It wasn't until they were safely inside the car, doors closed and windows rolled up, that she hissed, "Where did you hear those words?"

"I told you," Harry said, his heart thudding in his chest, startled at how bloody calm he felt in spite of it. ""I've been trying to wait until- until my Hogwarts letter arrived. I wasn't going to tell you at all. But I have, because... well, I don't really know why, but I do need your help. I need to speak with Albus Dumbledore as soon as possible."

Aunt Petunia stared out the windscreen of the car, her body rigid, attention focused firmly on a nondescript shopfront further ahead. Then, in a sudden sharp movement, she slammed a hand against the steering wheel. "I knew something like this would happen if we took you in." Her shoulders shook with furious, unshed tears. "I knew at some point there'd be something- something unnatural, but this is taking it entirely too far!"

Harry didn't speak straight away. Only once his aunt's breathing had steadied somewhat did he say, "Well, I didn't ask for this to happen either."

Aunt Petunia exhaled, pinching the bridge of her nose. "You said you're a fifth year? I'm to believe you're... what, fifteen, then?"

Harry nodded. "Sixteen, almost. It was June when I left. Speaking of which- Dudley and I used to be the same age, but now he's younger than me. And there are other things. There's a curve in Privet Drive that wasn't there before. And the stars- even the stars are different. And-"

"Don't." Though the keys to the car were still in her purse, Aunt Petunia gripped the steering wheel tightly. "I don't want to know these things. I cannot-" Her voice caught, and she took a shuddering breath. "I will always help you, Harry, but I cannot manage knowing these things."

Harry didn't speak. Then, slowly, he nodded. Aunt Petunia took another breath. "You know... she brought wave upon wave of chaos into our home, but she certainly never brought anything like this." She thought it over for a moment, then said, "I imagine she'd be impressed, wouldn't she?"

She reached into her purse, retrieving a tissue for herself before offering one to Harry. Although he didn't need one, Harry accepted it.

Chapter Text

What the hell had he done ?

Harry paced the length of his bedroom again and again, still completely bewildered he'd shared the truth with Aunt Petunia of all people. Downstairs, the Dursleys were eating dinner; he'd had feigned a stomachache in order to have some time alone to process everything that had just occurred.

Flopping on his bed, Harry ran a hand through his hair, which remained as untidy as ever no matter what reality he was in.

What was going on?

That fog- what the hell had that been? It seemed to have fully lifted at last, and he could see now that he'd been wandering in far more of a haze than he'd been able to comprehend these past few weeks.

Well, he was himself now, at least. Harry closed his eyes and tried to remember what had happened leading up to whatever this was. Sirius had been taken by Voldemort, except he hadn't really been, but then he turned up anyway. Harry thought back to the Department of Ministries, of making his way with the others through strange rooms, of the Hall of Prophecy, of being ambushed by Death Eaters. His friends- Harry's chest constricted. Were his friends all right? Did they even still exist?

He thought of Ron fighting the tentacles of the brain that had latched onto him, of Hermione crumpling to the floor after being hit with a streak of what seemed to be purple flame. He thought of Neville's broken nose, of Luna bending over Ginny and her broken ankle.

He thought of the Order turning up, of the small glass ball smashing against the stone steps, and of the bright figure emerging and speaking incomprehensibly before vanishing.

And Sirius- Harry thought of Sirius, and whatever it was that happened to him before he'd found himself here. As clear as his head was now, he still couldn't recall the moments just before his world changed.

It was something incredibly important. Harry pressed the palms of his hands against his closed eyes, willing himself to remember. It was something bad, something terrible, even.

Why couldn't he remember?

Footsteps were approaching. Harry pulled his fists away from his eyes and opened them, blinking rapidly at the sudden burst of light. There were two short knocks on his door.

"Come in." Harry's voice was raspier than he expected, and he swallowed as Aunt Petunia entered with a small plate of food and a glass of water. "Oh. Thanks."

Aunt Petunia didn't reply, instead crossing the room and placing the plate and glass on Harry's bedside table. She stood there for a long moment, motionless, seeming to consider her next words carefully.

"D'you want to sit?" Harry asked when those words didn't come. He sat up straighter and motioned at the wobbly chair under the desk in the corner of the bedroom.

"That won't be necessary." Aunt Petunia inhaled, then exhaled sharply. "I've made contact with... your people."

"You spoke with Dumbledore?"

"I sent a message."

"How?" Harry pictured Aunt Petunia standing in front of a post office three towns over, a large hat and sunglasses concealing her face as she held a letter to Hogwarts in one hand.

"Don't ask questions," she snapped, sounding so much like the Aunt Petunia he remembered that for a moment Harry wondered if he'd been sent back to his original place and time. "I told them everything you told me. Someone will be here tonight. I wanted you to be prepared."

"Who?" Harry asked, unable to help himself. "Dumbledore?"

"I haven't the faintest idea. But before that happens, there are things I should tell you. Things your uncle and I have neglected to mention before now."

"I know I'm a wizard. Sorry," Harry said, when Aunt Petunia winced. "And I know how my parents were killed by Vold-" He stopped himself as she winced again. "I know that's how they died. Is that the same here?"

Aunt Petunia nodded sharply, not meeting his eyes. "They were involved in some sort of... some sort of war, then they went into hiding before... well, before they were found. I suppose you know you're something of a celebrity in your world." She said the word celebrity with disdain, as though she disapproved of the concept of such a thing existing just as much as Harry being one.

"And Hagrid brought me to Dumbledore, who brought me here," Harry said, half to himself, imagining all the things he and the headmaster would have to say to one another. He hadn't been pleased with the man for much of the previous year, but Dumbledore wouldn't ignore him now. He couldn't.

"I suppose he did. I never met him. He did sign the letter he left with you." Aunt Petunia shook her head. "That lot didn't even have the decency to knock on the front door, they just left you there, more than a year old in November. It's a wonder you didn't wander off or freeze to death. And would you eat?" she snapped, jerking her head at the plate of food. "It's getting cold."

Harry wasn't very hungry, but he obliged, taking a bite of overcooked chicken before asking, "I suppose you didn't get along with my mum in this world either."

Aunt Petunia stiffened. "Stop saying that."

"Saying what?"

"That." She shuddered slightly. "In this world."

"Oh." Harry shifted. "Sorry. What's the matter with it?"

Aunt Petunia's face tightened. "It's difficult enough to have to grapple with someone claiming to be from... from the future, but from another world..." She trailed off, then shook her head. "We won't speak of it. You'll handle it with your kind. They'll be here soon enough."

They stayed that way in silence for a moment, Harry taking bites of cold chicken because it was easier to do that than to speak. Aunt Petunia finally lowered herself onto the desk chair, a look of defeat on her face. She seemed to be struggling with her own proclamation they wouldn't speak of Harry's past- future- whatever it was. Harry, meanwhile, felt like an idiot, not knowing what to do other than eat and take sips of his water.

"You said we made you sleep in a cupboard?" she finally asked.

"Erm, yeah. The one under the stairs."

"Was there not enough room for you?"

"Well," Harry said carefully, not sure how brutally honest to be, and settling on simply going for it. "There was enough room. It was basically the same house, but Dudley needed this room for his broken toys, and the ones he didn't like as much that wouldn't fit in his first bedroom."

Aunt Petunia twitched slightly. "So help me God, if you're lying to me..."

Harry couldn't help but laugh. "Yeah, everything's else the truth, but only now I've decided to start lying." He paused when Aunt Petunia just stared at him. "I didn't have to sleep there forever. You made Dudley give up his second bedroom when my first Hogwarts letter arrived."

"Stop saying I did anything," Aunt Petunia murmured. She still seemed unable to meet his eyes. "I did nothing of the sort."

"I know you didn't," Harry reassured her. "It's like I said earlier... you and Uncle Vernon, you're different here."

Aunt Petunia opened her mouth, then closed it. When she finally spoke, it was so softly Harry had to strain to hear her. "Did we hurt you?"

"What do you mean?" Harry furrowed his brow. "Uncle Vernon tried to smack me upside the head a couple of times, but I was usually faster. And you swung a frying pan at my head that one time, but I ducked that too. You didn't beat me or anything, if that's what you're asking. I think it was easier to just stick me in the cupboard when I did something you didn't like, so you wouldn't have to look at me." He paused, wondering if he should mention the time they'd put bars on his window and fed him cold soup through a cat flap, but the expression on Aunt Petunia's face kept him from going any further.

It seemed as though there were a great many things she wanted to say, but nothing came out. After a moment had passed, she folded her hands and cleared her throat. "Well. There won't be any of that here. Never."

Harry, unsure of how he was supposed to respond, or if he was supposed to respond at all, simply nodded.

"I'm going to speak with your uncle and tell him I've received word that someone from... someone from your school is on their way." Her expression hardened. "I'd recommend staying out of the way until he's had a chance to accept it."

"Have you told him about...?" Harry trailed off. "Does he know what I told you?"

Aunt Petunia shook her head. "And I'll ask you to keep it that way. I won't have Vernon or, God forbid, Dudley dragged into... whatever this is." She stood up and was about to leave the room when she stopped. "You said something in the car, about saving your godfather from Vold... from that man."

Harry nodded. "Yeah. That's what I was trying to do, at least, when I wound up here."

"But... he's gone, isn't he? He died, or vanished, or whatever it was he did," Aunt Petunia said, nodding at while not quite looking at Harry's scar.

Harry tried to think of a gentle way to explain it, and failing, simply explained, "He came back."

His aunt's eyes had gone very wide, her face paling. "Are you absolutely certain?"

"I saw him. At the end of last year. The end of last year in my world, at least," he added quickly. "He's... as far as I know, he's not back here. And with a head start, I think it can be stopped from happening again."

Aunt Petunia studied him for a long while, eyes still wide, then nodded once more. "To head starts, then."

Uncle Vernon wasn't consistently shouting, but every so often a muffled roar of protest could be heard from within the confines of number four, Privet Drive.

"We had it sorted!" Harry listened to his uncle's blustering from his cracked-open bedroom door. "You get one letter from these- these people, and you're ready to throw away all our hard work? The boy is going to Stonewall!"

Harry couldn't make out Aunt Petunia's reply, but it was likely an admonishment to lower his voice, as his uncle's next words were far more difficult to hear.

Dudley's bedroom door was cracked open as well, and Harry met his cousin's gaze as Uncle Vernon continued to rant away.

"What did you do?" Dudley's brow was furrowed in confusion.

"Dunno," Harry lied.

"You have to have done something." Dudley turned to look at his parents' closed bedroom door. "You're not going to Stonewall anymore?"

Harry shrugged, straining but failing to make out the specifics of his uncle's complaints, which were growing particularly heated.

"There's no way they're sending you to Smeltings. You'd never get in."

"Good. I could live without the orange knickerbockers."

Dudley started to retort back, but both boys fell silent as they simultaneously became aware that the master bedroom had suddenly gone quiet. They both shut their doors quickly, and only a moment later the master bedroom's door creaked open, then shut again.

The doorbell rang at half past eight. Harry burst from his bedroom and took the stairs two at a time, only to run smack into Uncle Vernon upon reaching the bottom.

"You've told him, then?" Uncle Vernon asked, his expression one of furious disbelief.

"I told him someone from his new school would be visiting." Aunt Petunia didn't meet her husband's gaze, instead turning away and striding to the front door.

Harry took in a deep breath as she opened it, one that seemed to instantly evaporate when he found Minerva McGonagall standing there.

"Mr. Potter, I presume."

Harry gaped at her. "You're not Professor Dumbledore."

Professor McGonagall gazed at him for a very long moment, and she seemed to be considering several different replies before going with, "I'm afraid I'm not."

Harry's mind was racing. Professor McGonagall had always been trustworthy, he didn't have any doubts there. But why had Professor Dumbledore sent her instead of coming on his own? This wasn't the sort of thing Harry could imagine the headmaster delegating to someone else, not even McGonagall. He thought back to the previous summer, when the dementors attacked Privet Drive, and the messages that seemed to come from everyone except Dumbledore.

It figures, he thought to himself. Dumbledore's ignoring you in this world too.

"We'll discuss it further shortly," Professor McGonagall said, studying his expression carefully. "But in the meantime, hopefully I shall do."

"Please, won't you come inside?" Aunt Petunia's eyes flitted up and down Privet Drive, and Harry knew she wasn't trying to be polite, but instead limit just how many people spotted the middle-aged woman in wool twill robes and a pointed hat on her doorstep.

Uncle Vernon's mouth moved much like that of a fish as Professor McGonagall calmly strode into number four, Privet Drive. "You have a lovely home, Mr. and Mrs. Dursley."

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry spotted Dudley peeking around the landing at the top of the stairs. Aunt Petunia spotted him as well, and her expression darkened as she snapped, "Dudley, go to your room."

Dudley, who didn't seem accustomed to being told what to do in any of the worlds Harry had known him, stared at his mother incredulously. "Why? I haven't done anything."

"Go," Uncle Vernon said, seemingly only capable of single word sentences for the time being. "Now."

Dudley ignored him. "Who is that woman? Why is she dressed like that?"

"Dudley." Uncle Vernon took a step toward staircase. "Now."

Dudley's face screwed up and, with a loud wail of protest, he stomped to his bedroom, slamming the door so hard it was a wonder it wasn't ripped off it hinges.

"Now," Professor McGonagall said pleasantly, as though nothing had occurred. "Mrs. Dursley, you indicated you do not wish for either you and your husband to be part of this... discussion."

Aunt Petunia nodded as Uncle Vernon spluttered, "You won't tell him anything! We agreed he'd go to Stonewall High! That he'd be raised in a proper environment away from- from your kind!"

McGonagall hardly flinched. She turned to Harry, raised. "Mr. Potter, do you wish to go to Stonewall High?"

"Not really," Harry said, ignoring his uncle's protests, which were really more strangled noises than anything coherent.

"Indeed." Professor McGonagall turned back to the Dursleys. "This is a discussion that would best be had at Hogwarts. Mr. Potter, if your aunt and uncle are amenable, would you accompany me there?"

Harry let out a sigh of relief and nodded. Dumbledore. She was taking him to Dumbledore.

"How do you even know what- what- what that place is?" Uncle Vernon turned from Harry to Aunt Petunia, an even more accusing tone to his voice. "What have you been telling him?"

"It's too late, Vernon," Aunt Petunia said, unable to make eye contact with him or anyone else. "We did our best but... but we didn't succeed. It's best he go off with his own kind."

"That's nonsense!" Uncle Vernon's moustache quivered with indignation. "We're not giving up just because some lunatic in fancy dress turns up after ten years and decides to upend our lives again!"

"Mr. Potter," Professor McGonagall said quietly, as Uncle Vernon continued to rant away. "Are you familiar with Side-Along Apparition?"

"Erm." Harry kept his voice low. "I know about Apparition. I suppose Side-Along Apparition is when-"

"A qualified witch or wizard brings another along with them, yes." Professor McGonagall glanced in the direction of the kitchen. "If you'll join me in the kitchen, then, Mr. Potter? I'd rather not distress your uncle any more than he's already distressed himself."

Uncle Vernon, his back to the two of them, had worked himself into a proper state, ranting about hooligans and deviants and other such dangerous elements with whom Harry would be involving himself. Aunt Petunia made a subtle gesture with her hand, motioning for Harry and McGonagall to go.

As much as Harry deeply disliked his first experience with Apparition, this was quickly pushed aside the moment he saw the Hogwarts gates in the distance.

"So, er... how much do you know?" Harry asked as they approached. "My aunt said she told you everything I told her."

Professor McGonagall shook her head as she raised her wand, the gates swinging open. "Not here. The forest has ears."

Harry glanced in the direction of the Forbidden Forest, which didn't seem to be anywhere near enough for them to be audible from. He obeyed, however, falling into silence as they made their way down the path and toward the castle ahead.

Hogwarts. Harry's shoulders slumped with relief as they approached the castle. For the first time since this had all begun he felt he might be close to figuring out this mess.

Even so, Harry stiffened slightly as he noticed the castle looked mostly right, but other aspects didn't quite match his memory. There were a few small turrets in incorrect places, and windows in locations that didn't seem entirely correct. Once inside, even the familiar presence of the Great Hall didn't feel like itself, but this was more due to its emptiness than anything. Harry had never seen Hogwarts before the start of term, and it was unsettling to find the castle as still and quiet as it ordinarily was in the dead of night, when it wasn't even nine yet.

"I hope you'll forgive me for not coming the moment your aunt reached out. She asked that we give her time to prepare your uncle for my arrival." McGonagall considered this, then added, "He seemed quite perturbed, so I can only imagine his reaction had he been taken by complete surprise."

"Yeah, he... he's not the biggest fan of magic," Harry explained. "Neither of them are, really."

Harry and Professor McGonagall made their way up the great marble staircase and down a corridor he knew, followed by two he didn't. Much of the journey was like this, and Harry's stomach sank as the castle he knew like the back of his hand transformed into something equal parts familiar and unfamiliar.

Perhaps it might have been easier if he'd been sent to the moon, or to a world populated entirely by flobberworms. At least then he'd be able to embrace the absurdity, as opposed to these half-correct surroundings that only served to confuse him more.

A short blast of noise caught Harry off-guard. A few more followed, and then what sounded like bugle music, played poorly and loudly, erupted from a nearby corridor.

Professor McGonagall let out an exasperated sigh. "Peeves!"

The poltergeist sauntered around the corner, a small brass instrument pressed to his lips. He brightened the sight of an unwitting audience, and with a bounce to his step he began to rapidly spin around the two of them, playing what sounded like a frenzied, ear-splitting polka.

"That's enough, Peeves!" Professor McGonagall shouted over the din, pressing her hands to her ears. "Where did you even find that contraption?"

Peeves didn't answer, instead finishing his magnum opus with a particular flat note, followed by a raspberry and a sonnet consisting seemingly entirely of rude words.

"Right, then." Professor McGonagall began to walk again, and Harry quickly followed suit.

"Term's started early this year!" Peeves called after them, taking notice of Harry. Mercifully, he didn't follow them, instead taking notice of a portrait of a witch in a particularly frilly dress who appeared to be disgusted by the commotion before her. With a gleeful cackle, Peeves set about chasing her from frame to frame with a renewed musical zeal.

"Peeves," McGonagall said as they took the opportunity to make a hasty exit, "Will likely be the death of us all."

Harry glanced over his shoulder, thinking to himself that if there were worlds other than the two he'd experienced thus far, he strongly suspected Peeves would exist as the same harbinger of chaos throughout all of them.

They'd reached the gargoyle guarding Professor Dumbledore's office. Harry could feel his pulse quicken; he watched as Professor McGonagall murmured, "Butterscotch," the stone staircase was revealing itself. Harry darted up the spiral steps, ignoring the startled, "For heaven's sake!" behind him.

He reached the top of the tower and hardly seemed to register the knocker on one of the oaken double doors; he grasped a handle and thrust the door open.

The office was empty.

"Mr. Potter." Professor McGonagall had caught up with him, breathing heavily. "I am as impatient to get to the bottom of this as you are, but I am not as young as you seem to think I am."

Harry hardly heard her. He was too busy looking around, a rising sense of indignation making its way through his body. "It wasn't enough for him to ignore me for a year, he has to pretend I don't exist in this world either?"

"Mr. Potter," Professor McGonagall repeated, then paused. "Are you speaking of Professor Dumbledore?"

"Who else?" His words came out more harshly than he'd intended.

"I see," she said quietly. "Mr. Potter... Harry. There's something you should know. Would you sit down?"

Harry stared at her, then at the office around them. It was, at first glance, identical to the one Harry was familiar with. The same silver instruments sat on spindle-legged tables, and portraits of snoozing former headmasters and headmistresses lined the circular walls. Behind the massive, claw-footed desk sat a familiar shabby wizard hat.

Even discounting Dumbledore's absence, something felt off. The silver instruments were arranged far more neatly than Harry was accustomed to seeing, and Fawkes perch was empty. He turned sharply, spotting a tartan sofa he'd once seen stuffed into a corner of Professor McGonagall's small office. And above it-

"Harry. You really should sit down."

He ignored her, stepping toward the portrait, the resident of which was sleeping as calmly as those around him. He closed his eyes and opened them again, as though doing so would erase Albus Dumbledore from his sight and perhaps even return him to the Department of Mysteries, where the world was in chaos, but at least it was his world and his chaos.

When he spoke, he felt strangely disconnected from his own body. "He's dead, then?"

"I'm terribly sorry." Professor McGonagall hesitated, then placed a hand on his shoulder. Harry stiffened, but he didn't shake it off. "Professor Dumbledore passed away three years ago."

"How?"

"A particularly nasty case of dragon pox, I'm afraid."

The words were meaningless at first; it was all Harry could do to grasp that Albus Dumbledore was dead to begin with. And then-

He jerked around, reaching for the nearest graspable object. His hand closed around a large, leatherbound book, and before he knew what he had happened, he'd hurled it across the room. Several portraits jolted awake, exclaiming angrily ("My word!" "My goodness!"), but Harry ignored them and began to pace back and forth. "Dragon pox? Are you joking?"

"I'm afraid not." Professor McGonagall's lips were set in a grim line. "When his illness took a turn for the worse, he requested his death notice state that he perished in a tragic bagpiping accident. I'm afraid we did not fulfill that request."

Harry ran a hand through his hair. "But- but how? He was the greatest wizard of all time! How could he die of something as simple as dragon pox?"

"It's a remarkably debilitating disease," McGonagall said quietly. "But even the greatest witches and wizards pass on eventually, and it's very rarely in a blaze of glory."

"But..." Harry trailed off, then strode over to the nearest chair, one opposite Dumbledore's- opposite McGonagall's desk, and sank heavily into it. his shoulders were heaving; he wasn't crying, yet his entire body was shaking with the magnitude of the past few weeks, which had managed to culminate in this. Finally, he raised his head and said, "You've got to be bloody kidding me."

The few portraits that had stirred whispered loudly amongst themselves. Harry ignored them.

"First I get sent back in time, into my body as a sodding ten-year-old. Then things have to be different from how I remember- Aunt Petunia's not exactly nice, but she helped me, and- and the road's the wrong shape! And the stars are different! I've barely wrapped my head around all that, and now you're telling me the one person who can help me died three years ago?"

Harry thought back to the Department of Mysteries, of the way everything had changed when Dumbledore came charging in. Harry had been filled with such relief it almost hurt to remember it now.

How was he supposed to do this on his own? And what had happened at the Department of Mysteries after Dumbledore arrived?

Professor McGonagall hadn't responded. She ignored the mutterings of the portraits, instead staring directly at Harry.

"Do you even believe me?" Harry asked, slumping in defeat. "Any of it?"

"Yes, Harry," she said quietly. "I do believe you."

Well, there was that, at least. Harry looked up at Professor McGonagall, belatedly feeling a bit guilty for having implied she wasn't capable of helping him. "Why? It's an insane story. I don't think I'd believe me, at least not until I had some proof."

"Indeed." Professor McGonagall paused, then said, "What you don't know is that you are not the first person to which this has happened."

Harry stared at her, millions of questions rising to his lips but dying before he could speak them. He stood without being aware he was rising up.

Professor McGonagall seemed to be at a loss for words as well, and after a long moment she sighed deeply and turned to the portrait of Professor Dumbledore. "You are not asleep."

The lips of the painting twitched the slightest bit and, eyes still closed, Dumbledore said, "Perhaps not. But one can learn a great deal by staying pretending to be unaware and listening in."

"Well done. Now join us, Albus."

Harry stepped forward as the portrait stirred at last, and found himself finally gazing directly into the bright blue eyes of Albus Dumbledore.

Chapter Text

Harry crossed the room without the awareness he was doing so, not until he'd come to a stop in front of Professor Dumbledore's portrait.

"There are others?" he croaked out. "Others like me?"

Professor Dumbledore didn't respond straight away. Then, very gently, he said, "I believe so, yes." Before Harry could question him further, he went on. "But first I wish to hear your story, Harry, and the events that brought you to us."

Darkness had long since settled across Hogwarts and its grounds. Harry didn't own a watch, but he knew it must be well past midnight. The two professors listened stoically, occasionally stepping in with questions of clarity, or remarking on differences in their respective worlds.

Most of these changes seemed to be minor. Professor Flitwick didn't teach Charms here, but instead History of Magic; it seems Professor Binns had been gently persuaded to hold occasional, sparsely-attended lectures, though he was still known to wander the castle, reciting a never-ending monologue of dates and names whether he had an audience or not. Professor Burbage taught Charms, who Harry was vaguely aware of as a middle-aged witch he remembered being the Muggle Studies teacher.

Other changes were larger. Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall both seemed surprised when Harry recounted the events of his first year, mainly because the Philosopher's Stone had been destroyed some fifteen years earlier.

"Destroyed?" Harry repeated blankly. "But- but Nicolas Flamel-"

"It was Nicolas's decision," Professor Dumbledore explained gently. "And his wife's, Perenelle. They knew Lord Voldemort's- my apologies, Minerva," he said when Professor McGonagall blanched, but continued on all the same. "They knew Lord Voldemort was aware of the Stone's existence, and of his rapid rise to power. They were concerned of what might happen if the Stone fell into his hands. Both Nicolas and Perenelle discussed the matter at length, and they both concluded they'd lived extremely long and fulfilling lives."

And so vault seven hundred and thirteen lay empty, its owners long since deceased. Similarly, the passage below Hogwarts remained free from the series of obstacles meant to trap the Stone's potential thief.

"A rather risky decision," Professor McGonagall commented, locking eyes with Professor Dumbledore's portrait. "An incredibly risky decision, luring You-Know-Who into the school, especially when students- children- were present."

Professor Dumbledore smiled, but his gaze seemed far away as he pondered this. "My dear Minerva, I hope you don't blame me for actions I personally did not oversee." His focus seemed to snap back into place; still smiling, he added, "I might add that the Professor McGonagall Harry remembers was well aware of this arrangement, and perhaps even a willing participant. Was that a sentient chessboard I heard tell of?"

Professor McGonagall's cheeks reddened, but she didn't look away as she acknowledged, "Point taken."

Harry didn't know what to make of the Stone already being gone. On one hand, it was one less thing to worry about, one less attempt on his life. On the other, it was a failed opportunity to thwart Voldemort while he was still weakened, and perhaps even finish him off once and for all.

On and on he spoke, telling the story of his second year and the Chamber of Secrets, of his third year and the escape of Sirius Black.

"He's innocent," Harry explained, leaning forward with his elbows digging into his knees. "Peter Pettigrew was the real Secret Keeper. They switched at the last minute. He's the one who found Voldemort my fourth year, who helped him come back."

They had loads of questions about that, both about Sirius Black's innocence and Voldemort's return. Harry did his best to answer them, repeating several times over the events leading to Sirius's escape, as well as what came after, all the way up to trying to rescue him from the Department of Mysteries, up to the haze that seemed to separate his memories of the past (the future?) and this new world.

Food had appeared at some point, and Harry knew he must be making a spectacle of himself, shoving food in his mouth and talking at the same time, the half-touched plate of dinner from Aunt Petunia seeming to have been a lifetime ago. If Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall were put off by his rather Dudley-like display, they didn't let on at all, Professor McGonagall occasionally refilling his plate or goblet with a wave of her wand.

Harry had no idea what time it was when he finally fell silent. He'd covered everything as best he could, but he knew volumes were capable of being filled with the things he'd missed, that he could talk forever and still not convey everything.

"You've been through a great deal," Professor McGonagall said, her back slightly hunched but her gaze steady, "For such a young age."

"I'm not as young as I look, if that helps." Harry shrugged. "I'm fifteen, nearly sixteen."

"Which, too, is an terribly young age for the burden that has been placed on your shoulders," Professor Dumbledore said, as Professor McGonagall nodded in agreement.

Harry shrugged again, not knowing what to say-- Yeah, it's been rotten?

That was true, some of the time, like the various times the entire school had suddenly turned on him, or the occasions in which he'd been forced to face down Voldemort. But the rest of the time, when he wasn't hated, when his life wasn't in immediate peril... Harry thought of Hogwarts, and its vast, beautiful grounds. Of winning the Quidditch Cup his third year, of celebrations in the Great Hall. Of long afternoons without classes spent with Ron and Hermione wandering around the lake.

The more he thought about it, the more he ached to go back.

The room was swimming before him. Harry's eyes were heavy; he tried desperately to blink away the fatigue.

"It's very late," Professor McGonagall said quietly. "I suspect this conversation would best be continued in the morning."

Harry opened his mouth to argue, but before he could, Professor Dumbledore nodded. "You must forgive me, Harry. I sleep a great deal these days, though I don't physically need to. It's easy to forget the requirements of a human body when one is no longer bound by their needs."

Professor McGonagall added, "Your relatives have been notified that you will stay at the castle tonight."

As much as Harry wanted to keep talking, even he knew how tired he was. Reluctantly he said, "Let me ask you something first, Professor."

She nodded. "Of course, Mr. Potter."

"Can you send me back? I mean, are you even able to?" Harry hesitated- it seemed to say this next part aloud would make it true, as opposed to it only existing as a shadowy possibility in the back of his mind, only as true as other half-imagined fears. "You said there are others like me. Did they... Am I stuck here forever?"

Professor McGonagall stared at him for a very long moment, then she turned to Professor Dumbledore, both of them silent, before returning her gaze to Harry.

"I don't know," she said at last. "But I promise you from the bottom of my heart that we will do whatever we can to help you."

Harry slept that night in Gryffindor Tower. Professor McGonagall had offered him one of Hogwarts furnished rooms for guests, but he was desperate for a bit of familiarity. Much like the world he'd found himself in, this proved to be half the case. The common room was mostly as Harry remembered, though some of its proportions seemed off. There were slumbering portraits he didn't recall from before, and the fireplace was slightly smaller, but the rest of it was- well, it was close enough, he supposed.

The dorms were the same as they always were at the start of term, though Harry suspected this was only because there were no students to make them look any different. The beds were neatly made, the walls free from decorations and posters.

"If you need anything, simply say my name," Professor McGonagall told him, standing in the doorway of the dormitory. "I will hear it."

Harry nodded, too tired to formulate words, and then she was gone.

A folded set of pyjamas sat at the foot of the four-poster bed. Harry pulled them on, then tossed himself on top of the thick blanket.

He'd expected to fall asleep instantly, but his body refused to obey, his mind too full of conflicting thoughts to allow him even the slightest bit of rest.

Dumbledore was dead?

It didn't seem possible. He was, as far as Harry was concerned, the greatest wizard of all time- he'd half-expected him to live forever, not die unceremoniously from dragon pox of all things.

No, Harry thought, he just couldn't wrap his mind around Dumbledore being gone, especially since he wasn't really gone. He'd just spent hours talking to him, hadn't he? Harry knew ghosts and portraits were somehow different to living people, but that didn't change the fact that they'd been the same room together, separated only by a simple frame and a bit of canvas.

The haze that had hovered over Harry for much of his time at the Dursleys' had finally faded, but his thoughts were no less jumbled.

Rain pattered lightly against the windows of Gryffindor Tower. Harry closed his eyes, trying to imagine he was in his old body, not this younger, smaller one. This was just a typical night at Hogwarts. They had Double Potions with Slytherin tomorrow, and he still hadn't finished his homework. He'd have to copy off Hermione tomorrow morning over breakfast. She'd complain, but she'd let him do it, just as she always did eventually. Leaning deeper into the fantasy, Harry imagined he could hear Ron snoring loudly from the next bed over.

Ron wasn't snoring, though, and when Harry opened his eyes he found himself in the same empty dormitory, just as alone as he'd been moments before.

Could he trust them?

The thought came to Harry the moment he woke up. Despite it taking hours to fall asleep, it was still early when he stirred. He sat up slowly, much more refreshed than he had been, despite the short amount of time he'd actually spent unconscious.

They seemed the same, Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall, if you didn't take the former being dead into consideration. But things were different here- people were different here. So far this had been for the better (Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were a lot easier to be around, for instance). But that didn't mean every change was bound to be for the better.

Who exactly were the people he'd just told his entire life's story?

They're all right, Harry tried to reassure himself. They'd fought Voldemort in this world too. They'd come to Harry's aid right away when Aunt Petunia reached out. If they were secretly Death Eaters, they'd had the perfect opportunity to off him when they were alone in Dumbledore's- in McGonagall's office, or while he'd slept.

Still, the awareness that everyone he met wasn't entirely who he remembered washed over Harry like a sheet of ice-cold water. It was several moments until he climbed out of bed and found his clothes from the night before washed and folded on the bedside table.

Professor McGonagall was waiting for him in the common room, seated in a comfortable chair next to the slightly-too-small fireplace. In one hand she held a copy of the Daily Prophet, and in the other a cup of tea, both of which she lowered as Harry reached the bottom of the spiral staircase.

"How did you sleep, Mr. Potter?"

Harry lifted a shoulder, then lowered it. "All right, I suppose. Not as long as I thought I would, but it's hard not to think about everything." He paused. "How about you, Professor?"

She gave him a small, tight-lipped smile. "Much the same as you, I'm afraid."

With a wave of her wand, a minor feast of breakfast options appeared across the nearest surfaces. "I'm certain you'll find something to suit your tastes."

"Thanks," Harry said, reaching for the fried eggs. He loaded up a plate, stomach growling at the familiar smell of a Hogwarts breakfast. Only once he'd speared a bit of sausage and lifted the fork halfway to his mouth did he pause, his mind flashing back to Professor Umbridge's office, and the tea laced with Veritaserum.

He'd eaten the food McGonagall gave him yesterday and nothing had gone wrong, had it? Aside from him spilling every detail of the past fifteen years, but he'd intended to do that, had been in the process of baring his soul before taking that first bite.

Professor McGonagall was watching him, and he knew he had to do something. He hesitated, and was only spared from having to speak by Professor McGonagall doing so herself.

"I suppose I'll have something as well." She reached for an empty plate, adding to it the same items as Harry's. "We both need our strength, especially after not sleeping well."

He watched as she took a bite, then another. Only then, feeling rather foolish, did he dig into his own untampered food. He kept his eyes on his eggs, unable to look up.

"You've nothing to be embarrassed about," Professor McGonagall said casually, as though they were discussing the weather. "I'd be equally suspicious in your place. With all that's changed for you, I'd be surprised if you weren't questioning everything."

"I should have thought of it last night," Harry muttered, half to himself. "Before I started talking."

"Perhaps. On the other hand, a delayed reaction isn't terribly surprising, given the vast amount of information you've had to take in." Professor McGonagall raised her eyebrows. "You'd benefit from showing yourself some grace, Mr. Potter, and remember the lesson for next time."

Harry couldn't help but chuckle darkly. "What, the next time I'm sucked into an alternate reality, and I meet you?"

"The next time," Professor McGonagall said without missing a beat, "You meet someone you think you already know."

Harry fell silent. He thought of all the introductions and reintroductions that were bound to come. What sort of people were the ones he thought he already knew? And what had happened to his world, and the souls he knew and loved that inhabited it?

"For all I know, everyone here is different." Harry picked at his toast, suddenly not very hungry. "Maybe Hermione hates schoolwork. Maybe Ron sings Mermish operas. How can I know who anyone really is?"

"If it helps, that is a question that plagues those of us with two feet firmly planted in one dimension."

Harry nodded, his gaze shifting to the unfamiliar portraits lining the walls. While they all seemed to be sleeping, he wasn't sure how closely they might be listening.

"They won't speak of this to anyone," Professor McGonagall reassured him. "The portraits may gossip about petty matters, but I would trust the ones in this common room with my very life. They wouldn't be here otherwise."

Harry nodded slowly, watching to see if any of the portraits stirred. None did. A moment passed, and he silently decided he was going to trust Professors McGonagall and Dumbledore.

"Mr. Potter," Professor McGonagall said after a moment had passed. "You've mentioned your friend Ron several times."

Harry nodded again. "Ron Weasley. He's my best friend. So is Hermione Granger. You'll like her, she's good at schoolwork, loves it, really. Ron- well, he's a bit more like me, but his marks aren't terrible or anything. Besides, he's a good person. One of the best."

"And Ron is a fifth year, like yourself?"

"Yeah." A strange feeling was settling in Harry's stomach. "You're not about to tell me he's the world's youngest Death Eater here, are you? Sorry," he said, in response to the grave look she gave him. "I'm only joking. But... something's different about him here, isn't there? Is he a Squib? Or is his whole family in Slytherin?"

He knew he was beginning to babble, but if he kept talking, he wouldn't have to know what was wrong with Ron, what new aspect of this reality he'd be forced to accept .

"Mr. Potter," Professor McGonagall said at last, her voice heavy. "Arthur and Molly Weasley have five children. None of them are named Ron."

That wasn't right.

"That's not right." Harry shook his head. "The Weasleys have seven children. Ron's their youngest son."

Professor McGonagall just looked at him, and Harry felt something slowly begin to break inside him.

There were five Weasley children, two of whom had already finished Hogwarts called Bill and Charlie. Percy came next, followed by the fraternal twins, Fred and Ginevra. There were no children after that.

"But that's not possible." Harry's tongue felt heavy in his mouth, his lips moving strangely. "Ron... he existed. He exists. He's... my best friend."

Nothing could have prepared him for this. He could adapt to a world in which curved roads had once been straight, or where Aunt Petunia was, in her own way, somewhat supportive. He could even, given enough time to process it, accept a world in which Professor Dumbledore existed only as a portrait in his former office.

But Ron being gone? Not just dead, but never having existed? With a horrifying lurch, Harry thought to himself that, as far as he knew, the only evidence of his best friend's existence resided solely within his own mind.

But Ron did exist- just because Harry was here didn't mean his old world had simply blinked out of reality. It couldn't have. On the other hand, if his world did still exist, what was happening within it? Had he, Harry, just vanished into thin air? Had his body been taken over by the ten-year-old Harry of this world?

He was on his feet, but with nowhere to go, he found himself simply standing there, fists clenched at his side. He wasn't sure what his body was about to do. Was he going to shout and throw things, as he had last night?

"I'm so sorry." Professor McGonagall was on her feet as well, her tone gentler than he'd ever heard it in either world. "Harry, I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am."

His eyes were wet. Harry wiped furiously at them with the back of his hand, unable to make eye contact, but he saw Professor McGonagall take a step toward him. For a moment, he half-expected her to embrace him, but she instead simply placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Would you like to tell me about him?"

Harry nodded slowly, and lowered himself back into his armchair, beginning to talk about that first journey on the Hogwarts Express, of the sweets they'd shared, of how Ron's rat had bit Goyle's finger.

"I mean, it's a bit weird to think now that was really a grown man biting Goyle, but I suppose it isn't the strangest thing that's happened on that train..."

He talked about Ron's room at the Burrow, its walls covered with posters of the Chudley Cannons, and of the ghoul in the attic that banged on the pipes and groaned loudly. He told her about the falling out they'd had after Harry's name came out of the Goblet of Fire, but he downplayed how much of a git Ron had been, forgot how angry he himself had been.

"He's the best sort of person to have as your friend," Harry said, unable to bring himself to use the past tense. "Even when we fought, it was never for long. We'd do just about anything for one another."

When he finally fell silent, Professor McGonagall didn't speak straight away, instead seeming to take in everything she'd just been told. At last, she said, "I deeply regret not having the opportunity to meet him."

"You will," Harry said quickly, before logic could convince him otherwise. "We'll figure out a way to make things right- to go back, or bring him here, at least-"

The words felt hollow even has he said them.

Harry sat in Professor McGonagall's office (which he still thought of as Professor Dumbledore's, no matter how hard he tried), facing the former headmaster's portrait.

"I would like to say I hope you slept well, but I imagine that is unlikely even in the most optimistic of scenarios." Professor Dumbledore paused, and when Harry didn't reply, he continued on. "You spent a good deal of time yesterday filling us in on the details of your time and place, and we only partially returned the courtesy. We are both incredibly grateful for your patience."

Harry hadn't felt very patient last night, but he supposed, given the circumstances, only throwing a single book (which was now sitting peacefully back on its shelf), was less than he might have done.

"It seems," Professor Dumbledore said, "It is now time for you to learn of our world, and how we suspect you came to arrive in it."

Harry leaned forward, despite himself. Part of him wanted to tell Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall where they could shove their world- if it didn't have his best mate, he wasn't interested.

What good would that do, though? the little voice in the back of his head asked. If he didn't learn anything about this place, how could he expect to find his way home? After nearly a full year of all but begging to be trusted with important information, it was finally being offered to him.

That, and after so many months being ignored, it felt intensely gratifying to lock eyes with Professor Dumbledore, even if it wasn't really him.

"You said there you were others like me," Harry finally said, straightening up and adding, "Sir."

A nod from both professors.

"Who are they?"

A long pause, then Professor McGonagall spoke up. "There's only one that we know of, aside from you. His name is Sirius Black."

Harry didn't move. Then-

"Harry, when you were in the Department of Mysteries, what is the very last thing you remember?"

Harry blinked at Professor Dumbledore's question, still trying to process the statement that had come before it. "I- I dunno. I- You were there. You showed up, and everyone stopped fighting. Everyone except Sirius and Bellatrix Lestrange." He closed his eyes. Why couldn't he remember what came next? Straining his memory as best he could, a hazy recollection flitted about, and he struggled to grasp it. "He was falling. Sirius was falling, I mean. I'm not sure why. Something... something hit him. I can't remember anything else."

Professor McGonagall exhaled heavily. She folded her hands together and gazed at the spot over Harry's head. "Two years ago, a request came from Azkaban Prison, from one of the inmates. Sirius Black wrote a letter, his first in his many years of incarceration, desperate to speak with Albus Dumbledore."

"Given my rather unfortunate relegation to the realm of the departed, I sent the next best person in my wake," Professor Dumbledore explained, gesturing at Professor McGonagall.

"So- so you already knew he was innocent? He's already been freed?"

"I visited him," Professor McGonagall said quietly, her cheeks oddly flushed. "And he told me the same story as you- of switched Secret Keepers, and of Peter Pettigrew's betrayal. He insisted Pettigrew was living as an unregistered Animagus, disguised as one of the Weasley children's pets."

"You went, didn't you? You didn't just leave him there, right?" Harry asked, unable to keep a slightly accusing tone from creeping into his voice. "You told the Aurors, at least?"

"I did go." Professor McGonagall finally managed to meet his gaze. "As preposterous as it seemed, I did investigate his claims. But..."

"But what? What happened?" Harry's heart sank as he pictured Sirius still locked up in Azkaban- not just any Sirius, but his Sirius.

"As you've observed, there are a multitude of differences between our realities- some larger than others," Professor Dumbledore said gently from his portrait. "Nearly ten years ago, after the terrible deaths of your parents, a confrontation occurred between Sirius Black and Peter Pettigrew on a Muggle street. In your world, Peter Pettigrew was believed to be so badly eviscerated that only a single finger remained- a ruse created by Pettigrew in order to fake his own death."

"In our world," Professor McGonagall said, before Harry could speak, "It wasn't just his finger." It was..." She trailed off, suddenly looking rather queasy.

"It was quite dreadful," Professor Dumbledore said quietly. "And there was absolutely no doubt in the aftermath from the various remains that Peter Pettigrew was no longer alive."

"He got the spell wrong," Harry murmured, half to himself, his mouth dry. "He only meant to blow off his finger, but he blew up himself instead."

Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall looked at one another, and Harry stared at them, daring them to suggest otherwise.

"I did reach out to the Aurors that very day, and insisted they check the Weasleys' home to be certain," Professor McGonagall said. "I also insisted that I accompany them to see the results for myself." She paused. "Arthur and Molly Weasley were quite surprised by the unexpected raid, as were their children. Particularly given the fact that none of them had ever owned a pet rat."

"So what happened?" Harry asked helplessly. "What did you do?"

"I'd been confronted with what seemed to be a ridiculous story from a madman. There'd never been anyone who'd claimed to be from another reality, not in the manner he was claiming to be. But I told Sirius Black that I would do whatever I could to research what had happened to him, and perhaps, if he was telling the truth, I would be able to prove his innocence. I sincerely meant every word of that promise, and immediately began researching his claims." Professor McGonagall pressed two fingers to her temples. "He escaped from Azkaban less than a week later and hasn't been seen since."

"There are whispers he'd made his way to the Balkans," Professor Dumbledore said. "More recently, to Albania."

"He's been looking for Voldemort." Harry rubbed his own forehead, ignoring Professor McGonagall's flinch. "He's been trying to destroy him while he's still weak." He glanced up at the two professors. "But I'll bet you both thought he's been trying to bring him back, haven't you?"

He was angry, even if he knew he shouldn't be. They'd reacted as anyone would, under the circumstances- perhaps even with more kindness than most. But there was simply too much for Harry to absorb, and quite frankly, he was angry. "He spent all that time forced to stay cooped up at Grimmauld Place, and then no one would help him get out of Azkaban again."

"We'd both wondered how he'd escaped," Professor Dumbledore murmured, his expression grave. "He never told us he was an Animagus."

"But I did," Harry said bitterly. To Professor McGonagall, he added, "I suppose you'll be on your way to the Ministry now to tell them."

"No." Professor McGonagall shook her head slowly. "No. The Ministry..."

"...will be of no use," Professor Dumbledore finished for her. "They will not believe you- or a worse possibility, they will, and one can only imagine how they will handle the situation."

Thinking back to his struggles with the Ministry after Voldemort's return, Harry couldn't help but reluctantly agree, even though he wanted to stay furious.

"Before he escaped, Sirius spent a great deal of his time trying to understand what had happened to him," Professor McGonagall said. "Much like yourself, he spent his early days in a haze, unable to parse exactly who or where he was- a task not helped by the presence of the Dementors, no doubt."

A spark of rage shot through Harry's stomach as he imagined Sirius being forced back into the worst time of his life.

"He was able to recollect bits and fragments over time, much as you have," Professor McGonagall went on. "Shortly before he escaped, he remembered something new."

"What was it?" Harry asked when she paused again.

"He remembered falling through the veil in the Department of Mysteries."

Chapter Text

Many years ago, the story went, well before the birth of Albus Dumbledore, there were whispers of an experiment supposedly underway. The few who heard and passed along these whispers didn't know who was behind this project, nor where in the country it was was being attempted.

"A method of execution that left nothing behind," Professor Dumbledore's portrait explained. "Not a body, nor even a soul to potentially return as a ghost."

"So... like a Dementor's Kiss, then?" Harry asked.

The former headmaster peered down at him. "Yes... and no."

"A dementor leaves its victims' bodies behind, a shell though it may be," Professor McGonagall explained. "The veil... according to the stories, not a single trace would remain after passing through it."

"Imagine," Professor Dumbledore said quietly. "The power of an eternally cooperative dementor, improved upon, and within the hands of man."

A chill ran down Harry's spine. "That's... that's what Sirius went through? What I went through? But.. that doesn't make sense. Our souls still exist, don't they? We're just younger, and things are..."

"Different," Professor McGonagall finished for him.

"Indeed," Professor Dumbledore agreed. "And it is said among those aware of the legend, there was much debate as to whether or not man can truly eradicate the soul. We can kill, certainly- in fact, man is quite adept at doing just that. But do we have the ability to destroy one's sense of being, or can we instead only banish it elsewhere?"

"So..." Harry stared at Dumbledore. "This is elsewhere?"

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. It is merely a theory Professor McGonagall and I have developed upon researching the mysterious veil Sirius Black described to us before escaping from Azkaban."

"If a soul is thrust into nothingness, and yet not fully destroyed, we think-- or we suspect, at least, that the universe itself attempts to rectify the matter," Professor McGonagall explained. "It recreates, to the best of its ability, the world that was stripped from its perceiver."

"And yet, one cannot begin to grasp the vastness and complexity of even a single universe," Professor Dumbledore continued seamlessly. "The perceiver's universe instead must do its best to reconstruct itself out of, essentially, an empty void. It does its best, and admirably so, but the finer details are..."

"Different," Harry whispered.

Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall nodded, the latter adding, "Perhaps people behave a bit differently, or despite history following the same basic beats, aspects are shuffled, or out of place, or entirely different altogether. Perhaps one comes to in their own body, but a few years out of sync, much as you and Sirius Black experienced."

Harry suddenly found himself imagining his reflection staring back at him from a shattered mirror, the shards jumbled about, some coming from a different mirror.

"That is our theory, at the moment," Professor McGonagall said, watching him carefully for any reaction. "One we've developed together over the past two years."

"Then... hang on, if the universe- this universe, at least- if this universe was only created when I- no, when Sirius fell through the veil, that's when it was created?" Harry shook his head. "The two of you, you're- not to be rude, but you're a lot older than two."

Professor Dumbledore chuckled. "An astute observation."

"Then- how?"

"You've spoken of traversing time non-linearly before this particular experience, have you not, Mr. Potter?" Professor McGonagall asked. "Just because a universe was created at a certain point doesn't mean its beginning must be tethered to that same location."

Harry closed his eyes. He both understood and didn't understand. It was a bit like infinity; he could grasp the concept, but the more he thought about it, the more it all began to unravel.

"Can't you take me to the Department of Mysteries?" he asked desperately, even as his own mind told him it was impossible. "And just... I don't know, shove me back through the veil, once I find Sirius? Does it work that way?"

"I'm afraid not." Professor McGonagall's voice had gone very low. "As far as we're aware, there is nothing to suggest the ability to function as a two-way gate."

"Even if the veil did operate in that matter," Professor Dumbledore went on, "We would be confronted with a most unfortunate issue of logistics. Despite existing as both legend and whispers in our reality, there is no sign that the veil of your world was ever successfully created in ours."

Harry stared at him. "You mean it doesn't even exist here?"

"Indeed." Professor McGonagall exhaled heavily. "Whereas it seems to be used as a method of execution in your world."

"That's- that's insane," Harry stammered. "The Ministry executes people by sending them to different universes?"

"Or, more likely, by doing so without the knowledge of the true end result," Professor Dumbledore mused, frowning to himself. "Instead, people are condemned to the veil with the assumption that matters will proceed as intended, with the eradication of the soul. With no one successfully returning, how would anyone know what truly occurs?"

Harry's heart had begun to beat very quickly. It seemed impossible that the Ministry would destroy people's souls as punishment, except they already did. He thought of the dementors swarming around him and Sirius, of the fate of Barty Crouch Jr. In emergencies, they might use a more mobile method via dementors, but the rest of the time...

"But then... how are Sirius and I both here?" Harry asked. "If a new universe is created each time someone is sent into... well, nothingness? Shouldn't he be in one universe created around him, and me in another?"

"Again, my boy, we only have theories," Professor Dumbledore said. "He turned to Professor McGonagall. "I suspect it is the same theory."

She nodded slowly. "You both entered the void in rapid succession. So rapidly, in fact, that you occupied that space together. While the points you regained awareness weren't quite the same..."

"The new universe was created around the two of us," Harry completed. He could feel himself shaking- he wasn't certain if he was about to laugh or cry.

Imagine if Snape could see him now, confirming that both he and Sirius Black were indeed the focal points of the universe.

There were more things said. In fact, they stayed in Professor McGonagall's office talking for quite a long time, but Harry's mind was in a thousand places at once. Although both professors repeatedly said they would do whatever they could to help him go home, it seemed clear to him that this was a nearly insurmountable task.

He wasn't stuck here forever, was he?

The thought made his head spin even faster. How in the world could he find his way home, and bring Sirius back with him?

He couldn't ask the Ministry for help, not given what he suspected they'd do with the knowledge that the power of the veil was indeed possible, that they could create it themselves. Harry had learned enough about how the Ministry operated over the past year, and judging by Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall's input, he could expect much of the same here.

It was agreed upon that Harry would return to the Dursleys' home that evening, and in several days' time Professor McGonagall would return and take him to Diagon Alley to purchase his school supplies. They'd use that time to absorb matters, then regroup once they'd had the opportunity to think on the situation.

"You are welcome to stay at the castle," Professor McGonagall said, not for the first time, as they strode across the grounds once again, toward the main gates. "If at any point you change your mind, your aunt will be able to contact me, and I will come for you. You don't need to be alone."

Harry nodded. His brain felt waterlogged; he needed time to process everything he'd learned. The Dursleys, for all their faults, were good at leaving him alone.

"Listen," he said as they came to a stop just outside the castle grounds. "Professor. I just wanted to say, well, thanks. I know you did your best with Sirius Black, and..." He trailed off, then tried again. "I know you're trying to help."

Professor McGonagall looked down at him. He wasn't used to her being this much taller than him, not since he was much younger. "I am. In any way I possibly can. Please do reach out if you need me, Mr. Potter. That is not an empty offer."

The Dursleys seemed to be expecting his return and, as such, were safely out of sight upstairs when he and Professor McGonagall appeared in the living room. Professor McGonagall waited to hear signs of activity before leaving, and only Apparated away when Uncle Vernon confirmed his presence with a loud, fake cough. Harry slowly made his way upstairs, intending to collapse into bed the moment he saw it.

"Well." Uncle Vernon was waiting for him outside his bedroom door. "You're back, then."

Harry nodded, trying to gauge his uncle's mood. He seemed a lot less angry than he'd been the day before. More than anything, he looked tired. "I'm back."

Uncle Vernon mulled over his words, then started toward his and Aunt Petunia's bedroom. "Come inside, then."

Hesitating, Harry tried to think of the number of times he'd entered his aunt and uncle's bedroom. It was small enough to be counted on one hand. The space looked exactly as it had in his universe. Much like Peeves, he suspected some things always remained the same.

Aunt Petunia stood beside the wardrobe, and didn't make eye contact with Harry even as she moved forward, closer to him. Uncle Vernon didn't quite look at him either and his attempt at a smile resembled more of a pained grimace.

"Well. Well, then." He hesitated, then clapped a hand on Harry's shoulder before quickly removing it. "You know, then. About all that."

Harry nodded, not speaking. He had the idea everyone present wanted to get this over as quickly possible.

"Right." Uncle Vernon's voice was a bit too loud. He lowered it upon receiving a sharp look from Aunt Petunia, though the window and door was securely closed. "You understand, then, why we didn't say anything on the matter." Before Harry could respond, he hurried on. "It was the decent thing to do, giving you a fighting chance. Just because your parents chose that path doesn't mean you have to. You can... stay here. Have a normal life. They can't make you go to that... school."

Harry couldn't help but feel sorry for his uncle. He'd frequently felt sorry for him in his past life, but not like this. Like so much else, this was different.

"I'm- I, erm- Thanks for the offer. And for taking me in, and all that." Harry shifted slightly in place. "I appreciate it, I really do. But... I think I'm going to go to Hogwarts."

Uncle Vernon's upper lip twitched. Harry braced himself; this was a classic sign he was about to start ranting.

"Well." His posture didn't change. He hardly moved an inch. "That's that, then."

Nothing more was said. Harry understood this was his cue to leave.

Aunt Petunia appeared in his room later that evening, clutching a yellowing envelope.

"You did what you needed to do, then?" she asked, slowly making her way across the small room and sitting at the desk chair.

Harry nodded. She didn't ask any further questions, and he didn't provide any further information.

"Your uncle and I..." She trailed off, then thrust the envelope in his direction. "We both decided to give these to you if you ever learned the truth."

Harry rose from his bed, accepting the envelope, which contained a small stack of photographs.

"You'll understand why we held off until now." His aunt shifted back a bit, as though the moving pictures might suddenly attack.

His heart sped up as he found himself looking at his parents, both beaming and waving at him.

"Your mother and I exchanged letters while she was at... at school. And occasionally after as well." Aunt Petunia shifted forward ever so slightly, peering at the photo in Harry's hand. "If we're quite honest, she wrote to me more than I wrote to her. But... I did write to her." She didn't speak for a moment. Then she glanced in Harry's direction, not quite meeting his eyes. "Sometimes we exchanged photographs. I shouldn't have kept them- imagine if someone saw them- but..."

She shook her head, gazing determinedly into the distance once more.

"Thank you," Harry said, clutching the envelope tightly. "Thanks for keeping them."

Harry stayed up late into the night, flipping from one photo to the next. He'd never seen most of these, though he wasn't sure if that was due to him not possessing them in his past life, or if the circumstances behind their capture were different.

He hated that he was starting to think of that time as his 'past' life- it was his life, much more so than the one he'd been forced to inhabit against his will.

How could he stay here when his best mate didn't exist? A world without Ron was an impossible one. He'd find a way back. He had to. But first he had to find Sirius.

His uncle's words kept echoing through his mind, the ones about not having to go to Hogwarts if he didn't want to.

Would Dumbledore and McGonagall be able to track down Sirius on their own? Professor Dumbledore was stuck as a portrait, so that really only left Professor McGonagall. She wanted to help. He knew that, and he trusted her as much as he was going to trust anyone here. But she had a school to run, and she didn't understand how important this was, at least not on a personal level. Yes, she felt sorry for him and wanted to help, but it wasn't her best friend who'd been sucked away from existence.

It was impossible, absurd, but he couldn't help but imagine himself taking off on his own, going to Albania and tracking down Sirius by himself.

You're being stupid, he thought. You look like a first-year. There's no way you'll make it there without being stopped and sent back.

Polyjuice Potion. His Invisibility Cloak, once he got his hands on it. Plus, he knew a lot more magic than most first-years.

You're being stupid, he told himself again, more firmly this time.

It wasn't until morning that Harry spotted the photograph on the floor, next to his bed. It must have slipped out of the envelope the night before. Harry picked it up and saw his mother, maybe twelve or thirteen years old, sprawled across a high-backed chair, making a goofy face for the camera.

'Me in my common room- you'd hate it, Tuney!' read the back in faded blue ink.

Harry flipped the photo again, frowning. There wasn't much else aside from the chair to identify his mum's location, but he knew this wasn't the Gryffindor common room- not the one he'd spent five years inhabiting, nor the one in which he'd spoken with Professor McGonagall the day before. The lighting was all wrong, along with the style of the stone floor and the rug on top of it.

A strange feeling had settled in Harry's stomach as he looked at the high-backed chair again. He stuck the letter into his pocket, then made his way downstairs, where the Dursleys were already halfway through breakfast.

"Where were you?" Dudley asked loudly as Harry took a seat. To his father, he asked, "Who was that woman yesterday?"

Uncle Vernon concentrated on his toast as he spread jam across it, not reacting to the question, nor acknowledging Harry's presence.

"Dad. Dad. Did you hear me?"

"Your cousin will be going away to school," Aunt Petunia said quietly. "That woman was his new headmistress. His parents put his name down sometime before they..."

"Before they died?" Dudley asked when his mother didn't finish her sentence.

"Yes, dear. We've only just found out." Pursing her lips, she added, "After we paid for the Stonewall uniform, naturally."

Dudley thought this over, then nodded slowly. "What's it called, then? Harry's new school?"

Aunt Petunia glanced at Uncle Vernon, who'd busied himself with the newspaper, determinedly oblivious to the conversation.

"St. Brutus," Aunt Petunia said at last. "St. Brutus's School for Boys. It's quite nice."

"If it's nice, why was that lady dressed so funny?"

"Well..." She pursed her lips again before continuing. "Your aunt and uncle were quite... They were eccentric."

"You mean they were hippies?" Dudley grinned. "Harry's going to a school for hippies?"

"Diddydums!" Aunt Petunia's expression looked as though her son had said something particularly scandalous. "Where on earth did you learn that word?"

Harry, who'd been busying himself by pouring a bowl of cornflakes, paused as something caught his eye. One of Aunt Petunia's brand-new appliances (Harry didn't know exactly what it was used for, aside from saving time preparing meals and being bragged about to any and all visitors) had been moved behind the rubbish bin, but that didn't disguise the fact that it had been warped and blackened nearly beyond recognition.

"What happened?" he asked, gesturing at it.

"Don't ask questions!" Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon barked in unison.

Harry obeyed, imagining Dudley had done something stupid while throwing a tantrum- maybe he'd shoved it inside the oven. Only after the table was cleared, and Uncle Vernon and Dudley had wandered off, did Harry approach his aunt.

"I need to ask you something," he said, keeping his voice low. "About my mum and dad."

She stiffened, and Harry expected to be told not to ask questions again. She didn't say anything, however, and he understood after a moment that this was his invitation to talk.

"When you and my mum wrote letters, did she ever tell you what house at Hog... at school she was in?" When Aunt Petunia didn't respond, he went on, dropping his voice even lower. "I can tell you the names, if that helps. There's Gryffindor-"

"That won't be necessary," she said sharply, eyes flitting about nervously. "It's been a long time. But your father... Lily once told me he was in that one. The one you just said."

"And my mum?"

"It's been so many years. But... it was a horrid-sounding name. Something to do with sneaking about, I believe, or slithering"

Harry hardly seemed to process the next few days; there was simply too much to digest. Before he knew it, the time had come for Professor McGonagall to take him to Diagon Alley.

Uncle Vernon grunted Harry's general direction shortly before she arrived, the most attention he'd given him in three days. Motioning for Harry to come closer, he proceeded to shove a small wad of banknotes into his hand.

"For... your books and things."

"Oh." Harry stared down at the money, then at his uncle. "Thanks. But I- I don't think I'll need this. I think that's already been sorted."

"Nonsense." Uncle Vernon had become very preoccupied with his shirt cuff, and he fidgeted with it as he went on. "I won't have you depending on charity from... those people. Not when we're here."

"It's not from the school. It's from... from my parents." Harry hesitated, not wanting to reveal his fortune, if it even existed here. "They set aside a bit of money to help me through school."

They both fell silent, and Harry nervously waited for his uncle to insist his parents' money be handed over to be doled out as he saw fit.

"Well." Uncle Vernon's upper lip twitched as he thought this over. "Well, then." He shook his head at the banknotes being offered in Harry's outstretched hand, looking as though he'd rather be water-skiing in the Arctic Circle than be part of this conversation. "You'll hold onto that. Just in case you run short."

When Professor McGonagall arrived, she was dressed very differently than the last time she'd visited Privet Drive. Gone were the long robes, replaced by a perfectly ordinary Muggle dress and handbag. Dudley, who was once again peering down from the top of the stairs, looked very disappointed by this development. He'd spent much of the last few days gloating about Harry being shipped off to a hippie school, particularly when his mother and father were out of earshot.

Before long, Harry and Professor McGonagall had made their way down Privet Drive, and to the alleyway between Magnolia Crescent and Wisteria Walk. It was the perfect cover for prying eyes (although Harry couldn't help but think of the last time he'd been here, fighting off dementors), and within moments they were compressed into nearly nothingness, reappearing in an unoccupied corner of the Leaky Cauldron.

"Move along, then, Mr. Potter," Professor McGonagall said, stepping forward briskly.

They moved so quickly, no one had the opportunity to identify the small boy with untidy hair as the Boy-Who-Lived. Professor McGonagall motioned for him to smooth his hair down over his forehead further, and he quickly obeyed. It was only once they reached the small, walled courtyard that she paused, studying him carefully.

"You've been well, then?" She exhaled slightly, as though she'd said something particularly foolish. "Or as well as one can be, given the circumstances?"

"I'm... all right." Harry made a face and shrugged. "Trying to make sense of things as best I can."

He watched as Professor McGonagall pulled out her wand and readied herself to tap the correct brick. "I need to ask you something. About my mother. She... she was in Slytherin?"

Professor McGonagall's wand remained suspended in place; she turned slowly to look at Harry. "Yes, Mr. Potter. She was."

"But- but how?" he asked. "Her parents were Muggles! My dad was in Gryffindor- they're both supposed to have been in Gryffindor!"

Professor McGonagall's eyes flitted to the Leaky Cauldron; no one appeared to be within hearing distance, but the door was propped open.

"Later," she murmured. "Once we buy your supplies and find a place to talk."

Harry nodded reluctantly, and Professor McGonagall tapped the correct brick three times with the tip of her wand. Before long, the archway stretched its way into shape, leaving the path open for them to enter.

The universe had done a reasonably admirable job at reconstructing the chaos of Diagon Alley. Much like everything else, certain details were wrong- the angle at which the cobbled street seemed to twist at a slightly wrong angle, and some of the shops were jumbled about in different spots, but at its heart was the same place Harry remembered. He wished Ron was there with him, so they could spot all the differences together, much like those puzzles he'd hated doing in Muggle primary school.

"Hopefully it resembles what you remember," Professor McGonagall said quietly as they made their way toward Gringotts.

"To be honest... it's really close," Harry said.

For the most part, Professor McGonagall stayed back and let Harry lead the way, only stepping in when something wasn't quite where it was supposed to be and pointing him in the right direction. His vault was filled with gold Galleons, much as it had always been, much to his relief. He could hardly imagine having to admit to Uncle Vernon he'd needed his money after all.

"My aunt and uncle, were they given any money when I went to live with them?" Harry asked quietly as they made their way back to the small cart waiting outside the vault. "To help raise me, I mean?"

They hadn't in his previous world; they certainly complained about it frequently enough, though Harry wouldn't put it past them to lie while pocketing the money.

"They were offered assistance," Professor McGonagall replied. "But they refused. It seems they said you were their responsibility, and they'd see to it themselves."

Professor McGonagall sat at the front of Madam Malkin's shop, absently leafing through a magazine of the newest styles for young and stylish witches and wizards, while Harry was fitted for his Hogwarts uniform. At first glance, it was the same as before- a simple black robe pulled over his head- but when Madam Malkin was finished the sleeves seemed a bit different, flaring just the tiniest bit more. Perhaps he was imagining it. Sometimes it was hard to tell.

He didn't run into Draco Malfoy this time around, nor did he and Professor McGonagall stop for chocolate and raspberry ice cream with chopped nuts as he once had with Hagrid.

"You know," Harry said carefully, once the robes were paid for and they'd gone on ahead to buy parchment and quills. "I was on the Gryffindor Quidditch team... before. From my first year onward."

Professor McGonagall glanced sideways at him. "I'm sorry to tell you, Mr. Potter, but first-years aren't permitted to play Quidditch, nor are they permitted to own their own broomsticks."

Harry nodded; he'd been given his Hogwarts acceptance letter and list of supplies as they made their way to Gringotts earlier in the day. It was remarkably similar, despite some of the set book titles being different, and the letter having been signed by Pomona Sprout, Deputy Headmistress. It figured, he thought to himself, that he'd been thrust in a world where no one knew who his best friend was, and his mum was in Slytherin, yet that rule remained the same.

"I know," he said. "It was the same in my world, too. But... well, you let me join the team after you saw me fly. You even bought me a broom- I think you might have actually paid for it yourself."

Professor McGonagall looked at him. "I suspect there's more to this story you aren't telling me, Mr. Potter."

"No, really," he insisted, leaving out the part where he'd been flying without permission when she'd spotted his ability. "You bought me a Nimbus Two Thousand. I'm a Seeker. We won the Quidditch Cup my third year!" He paused. "What? What is it?"

A small smile had begun to twitch at the corners of Professor McGonagall's lips, and she said, "As unsettling as it is to remember that you are far older your appearance suggests, I tend to forget that you are, at heart, a fifteen-year-old boy."

Harry stared at her, not sure whether or not this was a good thing. "So... I can buy a broom, then?"

"Not today, Mr. Potter. I will consider it." She glanced at him sideways. "But I wouldn't bet on it."

Mr. Ollivander didn't seem very surprised when the Boy-Who-Lived walked into his shop. Harry wondered briefly if his wand would be different this time around, but no- he knew the moment the wand was in his hand, countless others discarded around him, that this was his wand. Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, it shot a stream of red and gold sparks from its tip, illuminating the dark and dusty room.

"Oh, bravo!" cried Mr. Ollivander as Professor McGonagall nodded approvingly. "Yes, indeed, oh, very good."

Harry clutched it tightly, grateful to have something truly familiar. He'd felt naked without a wand, especially his wand, even if it was (as Mr. Ollivander was quick to explain) the brother of the wand who'd given him his scar.

Perhaps feeling a twinge of regret for denying Harry his request for a broom, Professor McGonagall was quick to steer him toward Eeylops Owl Emporium.

"You mentioned," she said as they grew near, "Having an owl. Hedwig, was it?"

Harry couldn't help but feel a sense of dread as they made their way inside. He couldn't imagine that, in a world where people he cared about didn't exist and even the stars were wrong, Hedwig would still be waiting for him. He mumbled faint objections, but none loud enough to be heard over the hooting and rustling of the owls around them.

He looked about with an increasingly sinking stomach, unable to imagine an owl that wasn't Hedwig. He didn't want an alternative. He'd just use one of the school owls, a different one each time so he wouldn't be expected to form an attachment. And then-

Harry turned, and he saw her. He froze, hardly believing the amber eyes looking back at him were hers- but they were, it was her, and before he knew it, he was next to her, holding his hand out.

"Hey there, girl," he whispered as she examined his outstretched hand carefully. "It's all right. You don't know me yet, but you will."

He turned back to Professor McGonagall, but found he didn't have to explain anything. She nodded at the two of them, and said, "I'm glad you were able to find one another."

Everything was still all wrong, but there was something about having his wand and his owl near- something that tethered him just the tiniest bit, keeping him from floating away entirely into the strangeness of this world.

"Put that away," Professor McGonagall said as Harry pulled out his leather bag, and instead reached inside her Muggle handbag. "I may not buy you a broom or let you on the Quidditch team this time around, but I am capable of some kindnesses."

They ate lunch outdoors at a tiny restaurant Harry didn't remember existing before, Hedwig safely in her cage beside them. He'd been surprised to find Diagon Alley opened onto a decently sized square with a fountain at its conclusion; this, too, hadn't existed before.

"My mum," Harry said, reaching for another sandwich, hungry despite all the questions he wanted to ask. "I just don't understand how she could be in Slytherin. She hated Voldemort!"

"Mr. Potter." Professor McGonagall winced. "We do not all have the fortitude of yourself and Professor Dumbledore."

"Sorry," he said. "She hated You-Know-Who, then."

"Your mother," Professor McGonagall started, then paused. "Lily was a memorable young woman, one I would have been quite pleased to have as one of my own Gryffindors. Extremely intelligent, and kindhearted. Ambitious as well. She had a friend in Slytherin, one she knew before attending Hogwarts. His mother had been in Slytherin, and I imagine he expected to be as well. They were sorted together, and I suppose they both asked the Sorting Hat to place them together."

"But... how?" Harry shook his head. "My mum was Muggle-born. How would she know a wizard before she went to school?"

"From what little I know, they lived nearby to one another and became friends from a young age," Professor McGonagall said. "He may have explained her abilities to her, having knowledge of them due to his own parentage, before their letters arrived."

"Who was he?" Harry asked. "Do I know him? Have we met?"

Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, then closed it. After a long moment, she slowly said, "His name was Severus Snape."

"No." Harry thought he might be sick. He wished he hadn't eaten so many sandwiches. "You're joking."

"I'm not, Mr. Potter."

"Snape? My mum was friends with Snape?" He shook his head again, more frantically this time. "But he was a Death Eater! He hates me! He hated my dad! He- he called my mum a- a Mudblood!"

"Their friendship was strained over the years," Professor McGonagall said quietly. "But not due to ideology. Your mother was determined to reform Slytherin from within, to create a resistance within Salazar Slytherin's own house. As I said, she was quite ambitious. She was successful in some regards, unsuccessful in others. She often had a difficult time of it at Hogwarts, but she achieved a great deal and turned many people over to our side. Severus Snape joined the Death Eaters, just as he did in your world, but he joined as a spy for the Order of the Phoenix from the very beginning."

Harry closed his eyes. He couldn't believe any of this. Weakly, he said, "So... Snape's nice, in this world?"

Professor McGonagall's lips twitched. "I wouldn't call him nice, precisely. But you must understand that he's had a different go at it than the Potions Master of your world."

"It doesn't seem possible. How... how could my parents fall in love when they were in Gryffindor and Slytherin?"

"Have you never read Shakespeare, Mr. Potter?" Professor McGonagall smiled slightly. "Besides, no house is truly good or truly evil- not even during a war. Your mother, and others like her, left Slytherin a rather different place than the one you've described."

It was late afternoon as they finished their meal. Harry gazed up at the sky, finding it much the same as he remembered, though he knew that would change when night fell. He and Professor McGonagall were the only people sitting at the outdoor tables.

"I've reached out to several contacts Professor Dumbledore and I trust," she said casually, as though they were discussing the weather. She took a sip of tea. "Ones located to the south and east of the continent. We're doing all we can to locate... the person we discussed."

"Have you heard anything?"

"Not yet. It will take time. But the moment we learn anything, I will personally leave the school in the hands of Professor Sprout for as long as it takes to speak with him myself, and bring him to safety."

"I'll go too." Harry shook his head at Professor McGonagall's expression. "I can tell him things, answer questions- he'll believe what you tell him if I'm there confirming it's true. I can handle it. I know I look young, but I'm not."

"Indeed. You're all of fifteen years old."

"You don't understand," Harry said, voice low. "All of last year- I told you what that was like. No one told me anything, and it drove me half-mad. It drove Sirius mad too, cooped up in that house and given empty promises- I'll bet you that's why he ran, why he escaped so quickly from Azkaban even when you and Dumbledore said you'd help. He couldn't do that again. If we're... if we're going to work together, we need to work together. Even if I am fifteen."

Professor McGonagall stared at him, and he wondered if he'd pushed his luck too far. Once again, he imagined running for it as soon as he had his cloak, making his way to Albania on his own.

"All right," she said at last. "We will work together, Mr. Potter, under one condition."

Harry nodded quickly, a sign for her to continue on.

"I will trust you if you trust me." She leaned forward. "The stories you've told us... I understand you were often in difficult situations, with people who didn't believe you. But I need you, Mr. Potter, to confide in me if I'm expected to confide in you."

Harry thought this over, then nodded again. "Yeah. I can do that."

"Then we're in agreement."

"We are," he said, and after a moment's thought they both returned to the remnants of their sandwiches.

Chapter Text

The car ride to London was nearly silent. Uncle Vernon swore under his breath when someone cut him off on the motorway, but that was the extent of anything resembling conversation until they reached King's Cross Station. Hedwig hooted at the sight of a pigeon flying past as they found a parking space, earning her a disgruntled look from Uncle Vernon.

"Most boys your age want a dog. I've never heard of anyone bringing home a pet owl."

"I know," Harry replied simply. He didn't speak again until they were making their way into the station itself. "Wait. I still have the money you gave me."

Uncle Vernon thought this over, then grunted. "Hold onto it, then. In case you need anything while you're away." He paused, then added, "I'd prefer you spend it on something... normal, if that's an option."

"I will," Harry promised, trying to imagine the most boring thing imaginable he could purchase. Deodorant, maybe, or socks.

"Well, then. What platform are you leaving from?"

Harry hesitated, then said, "I can go by myself. I know where it is. Professor McGonagall told me." When Uncle Vernon didn't budge, he added, "The way to get there... well, it's a bit... strange."

Uncle Vernon frowned. "Just how strange?"

"Erm. Well. Really strange."

He thought this over, then nodded curtly. "All right, then. If you're certain you know the way."

"Thanks." Harry looked down at his trainers. "And not just for the ride."

Uncle Vernon nodded again, then, after a moment's thought, he stuck out his hand. Harry shook it. "If you change your mind, just let us know. There's always a place for you at Stonewall."

The Hogwarts Express still departed from platform nine and three-quarters, which was still hidden past the ticket barrier between platforms nine and ten. Harry had made certain to verify this with Professor McGonagall when they purchased his school items. For all he knew, one made the journey to school in this world by pulling their earlobes three times while spinning in place and singing the school song.

Surrounded by the hustle and bustle familiar to the start of every term, Harry felt for once as though perhaps he might be back in a familiar place. With Hedwig by his side and his wand in his jacket pocket, he could even imagine for a moment or two that nothing had changed, aside from being a bit shorter than he was accustomed to. Then he spotted Mrs. Weasley.

Harry watched, silent and unmoving, as Molly Weasley ushered five red-haired children toward the Hogwarts Express. Four were familiar, and one was not. Ron and Ginny were nowhere to be seen.

"I'll write every week." Mrs. Weasley dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. "Do be sure to write back- Percy, dear, I know you will-"

"I will, Mother," Percy reassured her, along with a hug and a quick beck on the cheek. He shot a look at his siblings. "We all will."

Harry hardly noticed his surroundings as he watched the girl Professor McGonagall had referred to as Ginevra- Ginny, he registered with a start- whisper something into her twin brother's ear.

"Excuse me," a voice said behind him. "But are you...?"

Harry turned around and found himself facing a woman he thought he might have seen in passing on the train platform in his past life, but it was difficult to be certain. There were two girls with her, one of whom Harry knew vaguely as Daphne Greengrass, who'd been in his year at Hogwarts, and the other as her younger sister who'd started school after her. Both, he was fairly certain, had been in Slytherin.

"Helena Greengrass," the woman said by way of introduction, offering a hand and an unexpectedly warm smile. "You're Lily's son, aren't you?"

"Yes," Harry said, and after a moment's hesitation, he stuck out his own hand and shook it. "You knew my mother?"

Mrs. Greengrass nodded as the two girls beside her shifted in place awkwardly. "Lily and I were in Slytherin together, and she was a dear friend. She was in the year below me, and a force to be reckoned with. It was a terrible tragedy what happened to her and James."

Harry, not knowing what else to say, simply nodded.

"We've reached out to the headmistress many times, and before that, the headmaster- we've being Lily's old friends, that is. We've asked about you frequently, and if there was anything that could be done to help you. I hope you don't think you were abandoned." Mrs. Greengrass's tone turned softer than it already was. "We were told it was best for you to be raised by your family, away from the spotlight, but you were always near to our hearts."

"Mum," Daphne murmured, turning red. "You're embarrassing him."

Her mother's cheeks flushed as well. "Oh, dear, I am, aren't I?"

"No," Harry said quickly, taken aback by the wave of gratitude that was coursing through him. "You aren't. Thank you, Mrs. Greengrass."

The buildings of London were long behind them, giving way to the countryside. Harry had never paid enough attention to this part of the trip on his previous journeys to know if anything was different than he remembered, and even if it was, the train was moving far too quickly to be certain of anything.

He'd found an empty compartment near the back, much as he had his first time he'd ridden the train to Hogwarts. He kept expecting the door to slide open, revealing a younger version of Ron Weasley trying to find a place to sit and the news of his nonexistence had been all wrong, or a sick and uncharacteristic joke by Professor McGonagall. The door remained closed, however, and Harry gently stretched his finger inside Hedwig's cage, stroking her feathers when she deigned to come near.

The food trolley came around at half past twelve, and Harry bought a pile of sweets, much like he always did, but they weren't nearly as enjoyable without someone to share them with. He ate a couple of Chocolate Frogs, then turned his gaze back to the window and the blur of scenery outside.

Was this what things would be like from now on? Harry thought of the empty Gryffindor Tower he'd spent the night in earlier that summer. Without Ron, it didn't matter how many Gryffindors there were running about, it might as well be just as empty.

No, Harry thought to himself. That's not true. You'll have Hermione.

He couldn't help but feel guilty for all but writing Gryffindor off because one of his two dearest friends wouldn't be there. Things weren't quite the same when it was just Harry and Hermione, but they weren't quite the same when it was just Harry and Ron either. Whatever the situation was, at least he'd still have one close friend.

There was a knock at the door, and before Harry could react, it slid open, revealing a chubby-faced boy Harry couldn't remember ever having been so young.

"Sorry- have you seen a toad at all?" When Harry shook his head, Neville let out a groan of frustration. "I've lost him again. Gran is going to kill me."

"You should try asking the prefects for help," Harry said. "They're in the first two compartments, I think."

"Thanks. I will," Neville said with a nod, looking utterly dejected, and closed the door again.

It was getting dark by the time they pulled into Hogsmeade Station. Harry had long since pulled on his long black robes over his Muggle clothes, and after saying goodbye to Hedwig, he soon he joined a sea of black pointed hats making their way onto the platform.

"Firs'-years! Firs'-years over here!"

Harry smiled at the sight of Hagrid, whose gaze passed right over him as he beckoned the first-years closer.

"Firs'-years, follow me!"

They followed Hagrid off the platform and down a narrow path, the older students heading in another direction. A loud gasp arose as they turned a corner, revealing the castle in all its splendor. Harry couldn't help but smile, enjoying the first-years' reaction while taking in the always impressive sight himself.

As they approached the boats, he spotted a version of Hermione who, much like Neville, looked impossibly young. His eyes widened and he took a step closer. She hadn't stopped in his compartment on the train the way she had the first time around, and Harry thought back to why she'd been there in the first place. Neville's toad- she'd been helping him find Trevor. Harry thought back to his distracted suggestion that Neville find a prefect to help him and wondered if that had anything to do with the change in events. It was difficult to tell what he was accidentally changing on his own and what was a quirk of this new reality.

"Sorry about my mum," a voice said beside him. Harry turned quickly, and saw Daphne Greengrass was walking beside him. "She gets soppy sometimes, especially about old friends."

"It's fine," he reassured her. "It's nice, actually, to meet someone who knew my parents. It doesn't happen very often."

Daphne's eyes rose up to his scar, but she quickly looked away, meeting his eyes instead. "She and your mum were really close, you know. She always gets sad around Halloween." Her cheeks flushed. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't talk about that."

"It's all right," Harry said again. He couldn't remember ever having a conversation with Daphne for this long before. "It's... I don't know, nice to know my mum had friends in Slytherin. Being a Muggle-born and all."

Daphne smiled at this. "My mum always says your mum was like a tornado when it came to Slytherin. She says that was the start of people questioning things. Not that everything changed, but Mum told me people like us used to be a lot quieter."

"Yeah?" Harry asked. "And what does that mean, people like you?"

"Oh, you know, people who don't believe in that Pureblood nonsense. I mean, we are Purebloods," she explained. "But that doesn't make us better than anyone else, does it? That's what my mum and dad say, at least."

Harry nodded, silently wondering just how many surprises this new universe would toss at him. He glanced at Hermione again and winced as he saw her climbing into a boat with three people already in it.

"Something wrong?" Daphne asked.

"No," Harry said, turning back to her. "Nothing's wrong."

There was movement and noise all around him as the first-years clambered into boats. Harry found himself accompanied by Daphne, and a moment later, much to his horror, the unfortunately familiar faces of Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle joined them.

"Hey, Greengrass, isn't it?" Goyle asked.

"Hello, Gregory," Daphne said primly. "Hello, Vincent."

This was the extent of the conversation, but as the boats moved forward, Daphne whispered in Harry's ear, "They're both the stupidest people you'll ever meet, but they're harmless."

"Do you know them?" Harry whispered back.

"I know of them. Their parents were in Slytherin too."

The boats had begun to move forward, and Harry's heart leapt the tiniest bit as he remembered the awe he'd felt the first time he'd done this. Turning back to Daphne, he asked, "Do you reckon you'll be in Slytherin, then?"

Daphne shrugged. "I don't know. Probably. My whole family's been in Slytherin. I think they'll be a little disappointed if I'm not, even if they do keep saying it doesn't matter which house I'm placed in. Do you know which house you want to be in?"

Harry hesitated, thinking once more of his dorm without Ron. He caught sight of Hermione again, her boat gliding gently across the dark water of the lake. Firmly, he said, "Gryffindor."

"Oh, like your dad?" Daphne paused. "Sorry."

"It's all right," Harry reassured her again. "I know they're dead. You can mention them, unless, you know, it's to insult them or something."

"I would never do that," Daphne said very seriously.

"I figured as much."

Before long they'd reached the cliff on which Hogwarts stood, past the ivy hanging over the opening to the long tunnel inside, continuing on and on until they came to a stop in the rocky underground landing, a damp staircase leading up to the front of the castle.

Harry craned his head, taking in the small chamber just off the Entrance Hall they'd been led to by Professor Sprout, who'd cheerfully introduced herself as Deputy Headmistress in her brief welcome speech. All around him the first-years whispered nervously amongst themselves about what was to come, while Harry glanced from student to student. Most of them were the same. He spotted most of the people from his year, though perhaps a fifth were unfamiliar.

Seamus Finnegan stood in a corner, murmuring quietly with Dean Thomas, who Harry imagined he'd just met on the Hogwarts Express. Neville Longbottom stroked Trevor absentmindedly, eyes flitting about in what appeared to be a slight panic. Crabbe and Goyle were both poking at the frame of a portrait, who very clearly did not enjoy being disturbed.

Something wasn't right, and it wasn't just the absence of Ron. Harry looked more closely at Crabbe and Goyle, and it hit him suddenly.

Where was Malfoy?

There was so much happening he'd only just thought of it as odd that Draco Malfoy's two former lackeys were on their own. He glanced around, then he glanced around again. Malfoy wasn't there.

His first reaction was one of grim triumph. He'd lost Ron, but at least he wouldn't have to deal with Malfoy. Then, against his will, a stab of guilt shot through him. To say he despised Draco Malfoy was the understatement of the year, but wishing nonexistence upon him might be a bit harsh.

"All right, first-years!" Professor Sprout was back, clapping her hands together and beaming brightly. "To the Great Hall!"

They were all moving as one, and Harry slowed his walk, allowing himself to slip beside Hermione. Heart pounding, he said, "Hi."

"Hello," she said, eyes bright with nerves and excitement. "What's your name?"

"Harry Potter."

"Are you really?" Her eyes lit up. "I've read all about you. My name's Hermione Granger."

"It's nice to meet you, Hermione." Harry was seized by a desperate desire to hug her tightly, to tell her of the five years of adventures they'd shared, but he forced himself to keep walking.

"Form a line," Professor Sprout called from up ahead as they reached the doors to the Great Hall, "And follow me."

It was just as he remembered it, as long as he didn't look too closely at the twinkling stars in strange places above them.

"The ceiling's enchanted, did you know that?" Hermione whispered loudly to no one in particular. "It's bewitched to look like the night sky. I read about in Hogwarts, A History."

They'd reached the top of the hall, where the teachers sat at the head table. Professor McGonagall sat in Professor Dumbledore's chair- her chair, Harry forcibly reminded himself- watching the approaching students but focusing on none in particular. Professor Sprout retrieved a four-legged stool, on which she placed the shabby hat Harry knew well, which, after a moment's pause, opened its mouth wide and began to sing.

"Oh, you may not think I'm pretty, but don't judge on what you see..."

Harry hardly remembered what the Sorting Hat sang his first year, but the words felt comfortably familiar, and he joined the rest of the Great Hall in applause once its song was complete. And then the Sorting began.

"Abbott, Hannah!" Professor Sprout called out, eyes scanning a long piece of parchment.

Hannah scurried up to the stool, face very white. A few moments after the hat was placed upon her head, it cried out, "HUFFLEPUFF!" to cheers and applause from the third table.

The Sorting continued on, mostly happening just as Harry remembered. There was a small jolt as Terry Boot was placed into Hufflepuff instead of Ravenclaw, but otherwise things seemed to remain the same, minus the handful of new first-years. Before long, Hermione's name was called, and she rushed forward eagerly.

Harry glanced around the Great Hall as the Sorting Hat was placed on her head. While some were unfamiliar, he knew many of the faces watching them. Most had already left Hogwarts by the time he was a fifth year.

He glanced back to Hermione, who was still sitting on the stool. Her feet shifted back and forth nervously as people began to whisper. Harry had begun to wonder if the hat had taken this long with her last time around, when suddenly-

"RAVENCLAW!"

The Ravenclaw table erupted into cheers as the hat was lifted from Hermione's head. She hurried toward them, beaming happily. Harry gaped at her, then at Professor McGonagall, who wasn't looking at him at all.

It wasn't possible, was it? Well, no, of course it was possible. Hermione had said so herself when she'd admitted to being able to manage a Protean Charm in their fifth year, hadn't she? She'd admitted the Sorting Hat seriously considered putting her in Ravenclaw instead of Gryffindor. But still- still-

Harry watched blankly as more names were called, a sinking feeling growing deeper within the pit of his stomach. He only barely noticed when Malfoy's name wasn't called, instead going straight to Moon, and then Nott, and then Parkinson.

"Potter, Harry!"

Harry hardly noticed the whispers that burst forth from all around him. He was used to it by now, and he had far more important things on his mind. Legs feeling rather like jelly, he made his way to the four-legged stool and sat heavily, closing his eyes as the hat was placed on his head.

"Well," said a small voice in his ear. "Well, then. I can't say I've come across anything like this before."

I know, Harry thought, biting his lip. Please don't tell anyone.

"It's not my business to tell, aside from the headmistress, and I can see she's already well aware. You've had quite the journey, haven't you?"

Sort of, yeah.

"My counterpart placed you in Gryffindor, and you did well there. But I sense some resistance, do I not?"

Harry hesitated. I- I don't know. I mean... I am a Gryffindor. I just assumed that's where I'd go again. I love being in Gryffindor.

"You loved the people you knew there," the Sorting Hat corrected him. "But of the two most important friends, one has been placed into another house, and another is lost to a dimension you may never see again."

Harry inhaled sharply. He was grateful the rest of the hall couldn't hear their conversation. I know. But it could be all right. Seamus and Dean and Neville- they're all right. He paused again. But I just can't imagine not being in the same house as Hermione. Maybe you should put me in Ravenclaw.

"I can't see you enjoying Ravenclaw, whether a friend is there or not," the hat said, voice thick with concentration. "You're not the studious type. You're not a fool, of course, but you don't find much pleasure in learning for learning's sake. One shouldn't join a house just because a friend is there."

But you just said I wouldn't be happy in Gryffindor because my friends aren't there!

"I said I sensed resistance toward Gryffindor from you, Mr. Potter. Would you be happy in Gryffindor?"

The Great Hall had begun to whisper once more at the amount of time that was elapsing. Harry tried his best to shut out their voices and focus on the task at hand.

I don't know. I don't know! I don't know anything about this world. The stars are all wrong and people are different and for all I know Gryffindor is the bad house.

"There are no bad houses," the hat said swiftly. "My, you are one of the more difficult ones I've had to place."

Harry thought of Gryffindor Tower without Ron and Hermione, and hesitantly thought, Maybe I would be better off in Ravenclaw. Even if I am just choosing it because it's where my friend is, isn't that what my mother did? She was friends with Snape, so she asked you to put her in Slytherin, and it looks like things worked out for her. She made a load of friends.

"Ah, Lily Evans." The hat chuckled. "She was certainly something. Yes, Mr. Potter, she did ask to be placed in Slytherin. But I wasn't nearly as hesitant as I am with you, because although I might have placed her in Gryffindor if left to my own devices, she was just as suited to do well in the house of her choosing. You, Mr. Potter, are many things, but you are not a natural Ravenclaw."

What am I, then? Harry asked, frustration rising as the whispers grew louder. Because I haven't the faintest idea. Tell me- what house do you think I belong in?

A long pause as Harry waited for the hat to reply. He expected it to reply in his ear, much like the rest of his conversation, but to his horror he heard the answer cried out to the Great Hall at large-

"SLYTHERIN!"

The hall went very silent. Bright light filled Harry's vision as the Sorting Hat was pulled from his head, then the table against the wall to his right erupted into raucous applause, many leaping to their feet. Harry stayed very still, staring at them.

"Go on, then, off you go," came Professor Sprout's voice beside him. She gently poked the small his back. "Go on, then, Mr. Potter. Join your housemates."

Harry rose, legs even wobblier than when he'd approached, and he took a few tentative steps forward. The applause from the rest of the hall was far more tempered, many people whispering amongst themselves and watching him curiously. He glanced over his shoulder at Professor McGonagall, who was studying him curiously. She looked away as he met her gaze, focusing her attention on the next student being sorted, and he understood that any conversation between them would come later, in private.

"Come on, then!" Daphne Greengrass said as he approached the Slytherin table, grinning at him. "I know you said you wanted to be in Gryffindor, but we aren't Dementors, I promise!"

A witch about Harry's age- his real age, at least- wearing a prefect's badge slapped him on the back as he dropped heavily into the empty seat across from Daphne. "Welcome to Slytherin, Potter!"

Harry had eaten a decent amount but hardly seemed to taste anything, frantically trying to figure out how the least obtrusive way to force Professor Sprout to bring the hat back and give him another shot at being sorted. He hadn't meant for it to take his question as an invitation to go ahead and sort him.

There was a loud squelching noise a few seats down, and Harry watched as Goyle managed to eat two sausages in a single bite. His horror only increased as it hit him that Crabbe and Goyle were his dormmates for the foreseeable future. There was no way he could do this. What had the Sorting Hat been thinking?

"You're Blaise Zabini, right?" Harry finally asked, turning to the boy on his left.

"Yes," Zabini said shortly.

"Are... er, are you excited to be at Hogwarts?"

"I suppose," was his only response, and Harry gave up on trying to carry the conversation any further.

Instead, he turned his gaze to the High Table, where Professors McGonagall and Sprout were deep in conversation. Hagrid was reaching for another pork chop, nearly knocking over a bottle of brandy in the process. With a start, Harry spotted Professor Quirrell, looking entirely different without his purple turban, and just past him-

Harry nearly dropped his fork. It was Mrs. Figg, dressed in long robes and drinking a glass of wine.

"Who is that?" he asked the prefect to his right, who'd introduced herself as Gemma Farley. "The woman in the red-and-orange striped robes?"

"Who, Professor Figg? She's the Muggle Studies teacher." She glanced at the High Table, then back at Harry. "She's a Squib, you know. The only Squib teacher at Hogwarts, unless you count Argus Filch, the caretaker."

"Disgraceful, her being here," said someone Harry very unfortunately knew, who was sitting across the Slytherin table and several seats over from Harry. "They never would have allowed it in the past, not when our parents were here."

"Shut it, Flint," Gemma said smoothly. "A lot of things were different when our parents were here."

Marcus Flint glared at her, and Harry saw he wasn't the only one. His apprehension only grew greater as he thought back to Professor McGonagall telling him Slytherin had changed a great deal from how it operated in the seventies, but not completely.

"Besides," Gemma went on, "Do you want me to tell Professor Snape what you just said?"

Harry looked at the High Table once again and nearly jumped out of his skin as he found Severus Snape staring directly at him. He stared back, very seriously wondering if he was about to be sick as he pondered the prospect of seven years with Snape as his housemaster.

That did it. He was escaping from Hogwarts tonight and making his way to Albania to find Sirius on his own, just as he should have the second he returned to the Dursleys over the summer.

Snape's expression was unreadable. He turned away from Harry after a moment elapsed, returning to his conversation with Professor Quirrell.

"He's strict," Gemma warned Harry. "But he's fair. He's in a foul mood some of the time- most of the time, really- but he's not half as bad as he tries to make everyone think he is."

Harry wasn't so sure about that, but he thought back to what Professor McGonagall had said about this version of Snape and his mother being friends, and how he'd joined the Death Eaters as a spy from the very beginning. He was still firmly committed to (somehow) leaving for Albania that very night, but he supposed this Snape might not be as terrible as the Snape he remembered. Of course, doing so wasn't a particularly difficult achievement.

Instead, he turned his attention back to Mrs. Figg- Professor Figg. He'd been so startled when the Dursleys had no idea who she was, and he'd since imagined she'd never existed in this world, much like Ron and Ginny (his version of Ginny at least, not this strange version that had replaced George) and Malfoy.

Had he mentioned Mrs. Figg to Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall? Surely, they would have said something. But the more he thought about it, the less certain he was whether he had. There'd been so much to cover during those conversations in the headmistress's office.

Not for the first time, he wondered where Sirius was right now, and if he was all right.

The Slytherin common room wasn't terribly different than how Harry remembered it during his second year, though the path through the dungeons seemed utterly unfamiliar. Harry stood near the large mantlepiece, hardly noticing the warmth from the fire as the Slytherins made their way around with ease, calling out to one another and asking about their summer holidays.

"So," a horribly memorable voice rang out. "You're Harry Potter."

Harry turned, trying to stop his eyes from widening as he saw the blond boy walk toward him. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

"Draco Malfoy," he went on, holding out a hand. "This is my second year. I heard you'd be starting Hogwarts soon." When Harry didn't return the handshake, he lowered his hand, a small smirk not particularly hiding his irritation. "You obviously haven't learned any manners living amongst the Muggles, have you?"

"Leave him be," Gemma Farley called out from a nearby sofa, shifting herself so her prefect badge was even more visible. "It's his first night here."

"And?" Malfoy asked in that drawl Harry knew well. "I'm just trying to help him become acquainted with his new house, aren't I?"

"Just so long as that's all you're doing."

Malfoy's smirk grew wider, and he patted Harry on the back. In a low voice, he murmured, "Didn't expect you to be sorted into Slytherin, Potter, but don't worry, we'll look after you here."

"I can look after myself, thanks," Harry said sharply.

"You do think you're special, don't you?" Malfoy chuckled. "Just like your Mudblood mother. Look how she ended up."

There was a terrible hush around them, and Gemma rose to her feet abruptly. "Right. I'm telling Snape."

Malfoy froze, but only for a moment before he settled back into his demeanor of studied ease. "You go right ahead, Farley."

"I'm going now."

"I won't stop you." Malfoy lowered himself onto a leather sofa, eyebrows raised. "Well, what are you waiting for?"

Gemma strode toward the stone wall that led to the dungeon corridor as Malfoy chuckled but didn't quite meet anyone's gaze. Harry glanced about, unable to read the expressions of those who'd witnessed the encounter. Before Malfoy could turn back to him, he slipped into the commotion of the students around him and made his way toward the dorms.

All right, Harry decided as he slipped on a dressing gown over his pyjamas. He wouldn't leave Hogwarts just yet- he'd promised Professor McGonagall he'd trust her, after all. It would be a rotten move to make a promise like that and then vanish to Albania his first night here.

No, he'd go to her office- it was only half past nine- and convince her to let the hat sort him again. It wasn't fair, that trick it had pulled, announcing his house when he hadn't been ready. He'd beg, plead if he had to, and if Professor McGonagall turned him down, well, then he'd sneak out of the castle and make his way to Albania to find Sirius.

The Slytherin first-years' dorm was silent, if one discounted the ear-splitting snores coming from both Crabbe and Goyle's beds. Harry tiptoed out of the room and down the narrow corridor leading to the common room. He wasn't looking forward to creeping through the castle without his Invisibility Cloak, but he'd done it before without being caught.

He was halfway across the common room when a voice called out, "And just where do you think you're going?"

Harry whirled around, but there was no one there.

"Up here, young man." The voice had come from a portrait, one of several lining the walls of the underground room. "I believe you're supposed to be in bed."

The portraits were all staring down at him, some whispering amongst themselves.

"Erm," Harry said. "I was just... looking for the toilet."

"At the very end of the corridor where your dorms are," a witch with a high collar told him. "Just as the prefects told you earlier this evening."

"Oh. Right. I forgot." Harry shifted slightly. "Thanks, then."

"Be off, then," the first portrait snapped. "Before I fetch Professor Snape, and he certainly won't be happy."

"All right," Harry said quickly. "All right, I'm going."

As he hurried back toward the Slytherin dormitories, he could have sworn he heard the portraits snickering behind him, and he resisted the urge to hex them into gnats.

Tomorrow, he reasoned with himself. He'd talk with Professor McGonagall tomorrow, right before breakfast. The last thing he needed was Snape skulking about, watching his every move, not when he wouldn't be in Slytherin much longer.

Chapter Text

Crabbe and Goyle were competing to see who could eat a full plate of eggs first. Harry did his best to ignore the array of noises but, much like their snoring that didn't abate the night before, this was easier said than done. He glanced around, desperate for something less nauseating to focus on.

Blaise Zabini was reading ahead in his Transfiguration book with the sort of body language that made it clear he didn't wish to be disturbed. Theodore Nott, meanwhile, met Harry's eyes from further down the Slytherin table and jerked his head in the direction of Crabbe and Goyle, rolling his eyes as he did so. Harry nodded in agreement, then returned to his own breakfast, which was much less appealing when choreographed to the impromptu symphony.

Taking a sip of pumpkin juice, he glanced at the High Table. He'd woken up before anyone else in the Slytherin first-year dorm and proceeded to get dressed and make his way to Professor McGonagall's office faster than he would have imagined possible, but no one answered when he knocked on the door at the top of the spiral staircase. Reluctantly making his way to the Great Hall after knocking several more times, he'd spotted Professor McGonagall sitting at the top of the High Table, with Snape at just one seat over. He glanced at the headmistress, who simply gave him a small, nearly imperceptible nod that seemed to convey just word-

Soon.

Making certain Snape wasn't watching, Harry gave her a tiny nod of his own, then turned back to his pumpkin juice, grateful when Marcus Flint snapped at Crabbe and Goyle to stop eating like animals before he knocked their heads together.

The moment Professor McGonagall made her exit, Harry rose to his feet. The rest of the students were starting to make their way to their first class, and he weaved his way through the crowd as best he could. He'd nearly made it to the door when Malfoy stepped in front of his path.

Harry managed not to swear under his breath, but only just. "What is it, Malfoy?"

Malfoy's lip curled. He opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Snape was standing beside him, a hand gripping his shoulder.

"Malfoy. A moment, if you will." A pause, then Snape turned to Harry. "You're not needed for this discussion, Potter. Move along."

Harry was all too happy to obey.

"Butterscotch!"

The gargoyle outside Professor McGonagall's office jumped aside, and Harry charged through the opening in the wall and up the spiral staircase two steps at a time. The door swung open as he reached the top, revealing Professor McGonagall behind her desk.

"I had a feeling I'd see you sooner rather than later," she said, one eyebrow slightly raised. "You're supposed to be in your first class of the day."

"I've taken all of these classes already." Harry threw himself into the hair opposite her desk, breathing heavily. "Ages ago."

Professor McGonagall made a small noise, one he couldn't decipher. "Go on, then."

"I can't be in Slytherin." It came out in a rush. "There's been a mistake. That hat-" He gestured at the Sorting Hat, motionless on its usual perch, as though it hadn't just upended his life without a second thought. "It tricked me. I asked it what house I thought I belonged in, and- and-"

"It responded to your question?"

"It's not funny!" Harry's voice squeaked, and he winced at one of the many embarrassing aspects of being eleven once again. "I only wanted its opinion; I hadn't decided yet! The Sorting Hat is supposed to take what you want into consideration, isn't it? Unless that's another change here, and the entire point of the hat is to ruin your life."

"Its purpose isn't that dramatic, no," Professor McGonagall said dryly. "And the Sorting Hat does take your desires into consideration. It seems your desire was assistance reaching a decision."

"But it didn't assist me! It just decided for me!"

"After you asked it to, yes, it did."

Harry let out a grunt of frustration. "Not to be rude, Professor, but that's a load of bollocks."

Professor McGonagall raised an eyebrow, but her expression didn't change. "Were you this much trouble when speaking with my counterpart?"

"No," Harry admitted. "Not openly, at least. And never without a good reason."

"Then I'd advise you to behave toward me as you would toward her." She leaned forward, face gentler than he would have expected. "Harry, I know you're surprised. I wasn't expecting this either. But I hope you come to see the Slytherin of our Hogwarts is not the Slytherin of your Hogwarts."

"Isn't it, though?" Harry ran a hand through his hair, inadvertently making it stick up even more. "I mean, some people have been all right. But Ma- someone called my mum a Mudblood my very first night! It's still Slytherin!"

Professor McGonagall's lips went thin. "Who told you that?"

Harry paused, then threw caution to the wind. "It was Draco Malfoy. He's not even in the right year. He's supposed to be my age! You can't expect me to be in the same house as Malfoy!"

"Draco Malfoy," Professor McGonagall said quietly, "Is a troubled boy from a troubled home. He never should have said such a thing, and he's faced consequences for it before. That being said, Mr. Malfoy does not speak for the entire house of Slytherin, just as, say, Peter Pettigrew does not speak for the entire house of Gryffindor."

"So you're not going to do anything?" Harry could hear his tone turning desperate. "You're going to force me to live with the- the enemy?"

"The Sorting Hat's decision is final." Professor McGonagall still spoke gently, but Harry felt as though she'd punched him in the gut. "And I hope, in time, that you come to see your new house is not, in fact, the enemy."

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, roughly pressing the palms of his hands against his forehead. After a moment, he turned to the portrait of Professor Dumbledore, who was watching the proceedings with a mildly detached air of interest.

"Professor," he said. "She can't be right, can she? I've put up with so many changes, but... Slytherin?"

"My boy," Professor Dumbledore said congenially, as though they were discussing the weather. "I know you've had an enormous shock. I've suffered a great many myself over the years- for example, when the Weird Sisters released their metallic opera album. I quite understand wanting answers. But why, Harry, are you coming to me?" When Harry stared at him blankly, he continued on. "Professor McGonagall is the headmistress of Hogwarts, is she not? I may look and sound like Albus Dumbledore, but you mustn't forget that I'm but a painting resembling of a man who is no longer headmaster."

Harry hesitated, then turned back to Professor McGonagall. "Sorry. I didn't mean... I didn't mean to imply you're not really Headmistress."

"Duly noted." Professor McGonagall's tone was somewhat more severe than it had been, but Harry could see she wasn't truly angry. "I do hope, however, that in time you'll come to trust me as you trusted your world's Professor Dumbledore."

"I do trust you, Professor." Harry forced himself to turn away from the portrait of Professor Dumbledore and back to the flesh-and-blood woman before him. "It's just... Slytherin."

"Ah, yes. I do understand, Mr. Potter. But you may find that people surprise you in this world. I don't say things like this lightly, but you are in very good hands with Professor Snape."

"I suppose," Harry said, not believing her for a moment. "But, Professor, what happens when he tries to read my mind? He'll see everything, won't he, about the past? I was always rubbish at blocking him out."

"Are you referring to Legilimency outside the context of the lessons you told me of?" Professor McGonagall gave him a puzzled look. "Professor Snape would never use Occlumency against one of his students."

"He did loads of times on me, even before our lessons."

"Another difference," Professor McGonagall reminded him, "Between the Professor Snape of your world, and the Professor Snape of ours." She paused. "However... I would never ask this of you now, and will never force the issue in the future. This is entirely your decision to make. But, in time, once you've had a chance to decide how you feel about your new Head of House... you might consider sharing with him what you've shared with me."

"What?" Harry stared at her in horror as the meaning of her words sank in. "Professor, I- no. I can't do that."

"I understand," Professor McGonagall said smoothly. "And, again, it is entirely your decision. Please know I'm not suggesting you share your secret with anyone further, but I do hope you'll consider the possibility of including him in time. Professor Snape is a good ally to have."

"I'll... consider it," Harry lied.

"Then I shall allow the matter to rest until you decide- if you decide- to speak of it again."

Harry swallowed. "There's one last thing, Professor."

"Yes?"

"My father's Invisibility Cloak. Professor Dumbledore gave it to me for Christmas my first year at Hogwarts. I was wondering... well, I was wondering if I could have it back."

"I see." Professor McGonagall shot a look at Professor Dumbledore's portrait, who in turn sent her a very innocent expression in reply. "I imagine, Mr. Potter, that you only intend to safeguard your father's cloak and not use it. You certainly aren't considering making a break for it in the coming days, perhaps to Albania to find your godfather."

Harry just stared at her, mouth slightly agape.

"I'm not a fool, Mr. Potter. You care immensely about Sirius Black. You mounted a rescue mission to the Department of Mysteries at the tender age of fifteen- nearly sixteen-" she acknowledged before Harry could cut in, "Because you care so deeply about his safety. You've also been discounted and disappointed many times by the adults in your life, and you've just been denied a transfer of houses. I did listen to the stories you told me." She studied him sternly. "However, Mr. Potter, you must consider this practically. You're underage. You still have the Trace on you. Even if you did run off and both myself and the rest of the staff somehow, miraculously, didn't do or say a thing, the Ministry would know instantly."

"I could avoid the Ministry by not using magic," Harry said, unable to meet her eyes. "I'm not saying I want to run off to Albania, but... I could avoid being found through the Trace that way."

"Harry," Professor McGonagall said gently. "Do you truly expect to make your way across the continent and find Sirius Black in a foreign country without magic, all the while possessing the body of an eleven-year-old who also happens to be one of the most famous people in the wizarding world?"

Harry felt his shoulders slump. "No," he admitted. "I guess... I suppose not."

After dinner, Harry immediately made his way to the Slytherin common room, and from there, to the dormitories, where he hurled himself on his bed and tried to make sense of everything that had happened in the past twenty-four hours.

He had to admit, the dorm itself wasn't terrible. The stone walls and floors had intricate designs cut into them, and a tapestry or two added a bit of colour, even if those colours were mostly green and silver. Much like the common room, there were windows that looked into the depths of the lake, illuminating the room with a faint greenish blue glow. The four-poster beds were identical to the ones in the Gryffindor dormitories, only with green velvet curtains instead of red ones. A couple of Slytherin first-years had put up posters of Quidditch teams and wizarding bands. They didn't quite match the tapestries, which Harry suspected were older than half of the subjects covered in History of Magic, but they did make the space seem a bit more lived in.

Harry had only been in the Slytherin common room once in his past life, and that had been too brief an occasion to take very much in. He'd never thought about where the Slytherins actually slept, but he remembered Ron once verbally picturing a row of overly ornate prison cells deep within the dungeons.

This, well, it wasn't a prison cell. It would be tolerable for the time being. Gryffindor's dorms were better, though.

"Hey, Potter." Nott appeared in the doorway, a bemused look on his face. "It's half past six. What are you doing here?"

"Tired," Harry said, for lack of a better response. "Thought I'd rest a bit. What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you. Professor Snape wants to see you in his office."

Harry stared at him. "What for?"

"As though he'd tell me." Nott glanced at Harry's forehead as he passed. He braced himself, waiting for the inevitable question or comment, but it didn't come, and he kept walking.

"You took your time, Potter."

"I got lost," Harry admitted. "Sorry."

"Did you not ask an older student for directions?"

"No, sir." The dungeons weren't exactly as he remembered, but he figured it wouldn't be too difficult to locate the Potions Master's office.

Snape's lip curled, and Harry braced himself for a snarky comment about the famous Boy-Who-Lived not deigning to ask someone lesser than him for assistance.

"Foolish, given you've only just arrived at Hogwarts last night. Next time, ask." Snape gestured at the chair opposite his desk. "Sit."

Not having much of a choice, Harry obeyed.

"I heard from Professor Sprout that you missed more than half your Herbology lesson this morning." Snape remained standing, and his tone was cool.

"I was in Professor McGonagall's office," Harry said quickly. They'd come up with an excuse about some of his luggage having gone missing on the Hogwarts Express. "She wrote me a note, sir."

"So I heard. Next time, come to me with these sorts of issues. The headmistress is an extremely busy woman and doesn't have time for lost items from home."

"I will," Harry said, only just barely managing to add, "Sir."

Snape didn't reply, instead taking a few steps to his own chair and lowering himself onto it.

The silence was excruciating. Harry stared at Snape, who didn't seem to be in any hurry to speak. Finally, desperate to fill the dead space, he blurted out the first thing to come to mind. "You were really friends with my mother?"

It came out sounding more like a statement of disbelief than a question. Snape's eyes narrowed slightly, and after a moment he replied, "She was a friend, yes."

"Oh."

Another long pause. Then Snape said, "I hope you understand you won't receive special treatment here. Not due to who I was friends with, nor-" His eyes flicked in the direction of Harry's scar, "-for any other reason you might expect."

"I don't want special treatment." Harry couldn't keep the impatience from his voice; he'd been trying to get this through Snape's head since the last time he was a first-year. "I never have, sir. All I've ever wanted is to be treated like everyone else."

He expected Snape to react with his typical disbelief or scorn, but he instead just nodded curtly. "Good. I'm glad we're in agreement. You may go."

Harry jumped up and headed for the door. He was nearly there when Snape cleared his throat. "Before I forget. If I ever hear of you attempting to sneak out of the common room in the middle of the night again, you'll find yourself serving a week of detention faster than you can blink. This is your first warning. You will not receive a second."

Harry stared, and then he nodded. "Yes, sir. I understand."

"Good. Out."

Harry wasted no time, hurrying out of the office and back toward the common room. Professor McGonagall was full of it. Snape was still a massive dick. And she wanted Harry to share his secret with him? She had to be mad.

Still, he couldn't help but reason with himself, it could have gone worse. He hadn't had a jar of dead cockroaches thrown at his head this time.

"Hold it, Potter. Where do you think you're going?"

"What?" Harry turned quickly, finding Gemma Farley watching him from a sofa. "I'm going to my dormitory."

"Already? Dinner's only just ended!"

"I'm tired," he lied.

"For four nights in a row? No one's that tired." She motioned for him to sit next to her. Unable to think of a better excuse on the spot, he did. "I know what it's like to be new at Hogwarts. It's scary, isn't it?"

We're the same age! Harry thought to himself, exasperated. Trying to keep his expression neutral, he said, "I'm not scared."

"Is it because of what Malfoy said the other night? He's a tosser. Don't take anything he says seriously." She leaned backwards, getting comfortable. "Besides, he won't bother you again."

"How do you know?" Harry glanced around, not spotting Malfoy anywhere. "Where is he, anyway?"

"Detention. All of this week, and all of next week, too. What did you think Professor Snape would do when he found out what happened?"

Award fifty points to Slytherin, Harry thought. But, no- even he had to admit this was unlikely. Malfoy had called his mother a Mudblood, and Snape and his mother had been friends. Harry tried to imagine the two of them getting along, but all he could think of was Snape calling his mother that same awful word in his counterpart's memory.

Great, he thought. Two weeks of detention. Another reason for Malfoy to hate you.

"Chin up," Gemma said. "Malfoy's an arse. All houses have them."

"All right." Harry stood up. "Thanks for the pep talk. Really."

He meant it; he'd never imagined the Slytherin prefects to give much of a damn about anyone but themselves.

"I don't want to see you heading back to your dormitory until at least nine. Slytherins don't hide from one another."

He nodded, glancing around the common room, eyes landing on Daphne. He considered joining her, but she was surrounded by a gaggle of other first year girls who seemed unbearably giggly. He thought over his remaining options. Crabbe and Goyle? No, they were too busy seeing who could belch the loudest. Zabini? He didn't talk to anyone. Nott?

Harry paused, then forced himself to make his way to one of the windows that looked into the lake. Nott was gazing with disinterest at his Charms homework, and he glanced up as Harry approached.

"Hey," Harry said.

"Hey."

Harry hesitated. What was he supposed to do now? What did Slytherins talk about?

Nott put his parchment aside. "Do you know how to play Exploding Snap?"

"Yeah."

"Want to play a round?"

Harry thought this over, then nodded. "Yeah. Sure."

They days went by, and Harry found himself becoming slightly more accustomed this version of Hogwarts. Things weren't quite right- the stairs, which had never been terribly consistent, all seemed to lead somewhere different, except when they didn't. Professor Flitwick taught History of Magic, and Professor Burbage taught Charms, while also serving as Head of Gryffindor. Meanwhile, Harry still did a double take every time he spotted Professor Figg in the corridors.

Professor Quirrell taught Defence Against the Dark Arts, and although his head remained free of turbans and/or dark wizards, he was just as twitchy as Harry remembered. There were whispers he'd been attacked while in Albania over the summer, though no one (including, apparently, Quirrell) knew who the attacker was, aside from a vague description of a man dressed in black.

"It was definitely a man, though?" Harry asked, voice low. "Not... I don't know, a spirit? Or something like that?"

"How would I know?" Nott asked as they counted out the correct number of beetle eyes to add to their potions. "Bole said Flint said Quirrell said it was a man, and either way, he got away, didn't he?"

Harry imagined Voldemort, prematurely restored to a human body, skulking about the forests of Albania. But, no, even if he had somehow returned early, he wouldn't still be hanging about there. He'd be on his way to Hogwarts, to Harry.

An even smaller part of his brain imagined Sirius underneath the black cloak, searching the forest to end Voldemort once and for all, but he couldn't let himself think about that for too long. Otherwise he'd start planning his own escape to join him.

With each day that passed, Harry found himself less certain he was about to be hexed in the back by his housemates, though he wasn't entirely convinced. People left him alone, mostly. There were whispers whenever he passed, but Gryffindor had been like that too. Some whispers he suspected were less friendly than others, but no one said anything to his face. He imagined no one wanted to be the next person to test Snape, not after the example that had been made of Draco Malfoy, who was still spending his evenings scrubbing cauldrons in the Potions classroom.

Harry did his best to avoid Malfoy, and aside from a sneer here and there this was returned in kind. Harry wasn't relaxing, though, not yet.

One week after he arrived at Hogwarts, a letter arrived via a post owl. The envelope bore a Muggle stamp and no return address.

Dear Harry,

Did you arrive at school safely? Please advise if you need additional supplies.

Dudley sends his regards.

Yours sincerely,
Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon

Harry scribbled a response between classes:

Dear Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon,

I made it to Hogwarts safely. I don't need any supplies right now. Thanks for asking.

Tell Dudley I said hi back.

Yours truly,
Harry

He sent the letter off with Hedwig, her first-ever delivery, and when she returned empty-handed, he figured that was the end of that. Two days later, another post owl arrived with another stamped envelope:

Dear Harry,

We are happy to hear that. Going forward, would it be possible to have your correspondence to us delivered by post?

Yours sincerely,
Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon

Whenever he had a moment, he sought out Hermione. There weren't as many of these moments as he would have liked, given Slytherin and Ravenclaw only had a handful of classes together. He always managed to sit next to her when they did, and she seemed to appreciate the attention, not being terribly popular amongst the rest of the first year.

"You fancy Granger, don't you?" Nott asked one evening after Harry returned from the library, where he and Hermione had just spent the last hour revising for Astronomy.

"I don't fancy her," he replied. "I just think she's nice, that's all."

"She's a bit of a know-it-all, isn't she?"

"Sometimes." Harry shrugged. "But that's not the worst thing in the world."

One evening, as they revised material Harry knew like the back of his hand, he asked, "Why did the Sorting Hat put you in Ravenclaw?"

"Well, it's the house that values knowledge the most, isn't it? And I love to learn new things." She thought this over seriously. "The hat almost put me in Gryffindor, though. It said it was the hardest decision it's made in a long time. Could you imagine- me in Gryffindor?"

"Yes," Harry said honestly.

"Why did the Sorting Hat put you in Slytherin? It took an awfully long time with you."

"I'm still not certain myself," Harry replied, just as honestly.

Things weren't right, but they were manageable. Or they would be manageable if Ron still existed.

Harry kept thinking he saw him in the corridors. A flash of ginger hair, and Harry would stop dead in his tracks, only to see it was one of the Weasley brothers, or worse, the Ginny who wasn't actually Ginny. Harry couldn't help but feel a stab of irritation mixed with regret when he saw her, this stranger who'd replaced two people he'd known and cared about.

If Ron were here... Harry frequently imagined how much more bearable things would be. They'd find the humour in it together, of how absolutely insane this world was, of what it was like to adjust to having the body of an eleven-year-old again.

It was lonely, isolating being the only person he knew who understood what this was like. Sirius knew, but Harry wasn't even certain if he was still alive.

Don't say that. Don't even think it. He is alive, and you'll see him again.

He visited Professor McGonagall whenever he could sneak away. It wasn't easy. Snape, as disinterested as he seemed in the world around him, somehow had a better grasp on his students' whereabouts than Harry would have imagined. The portraits in the common room were a huge help, Harry suspected, though he wasn't certain which other means the Head of Slytherin used to stay in the know.

It was a rude awakening; he'd expected the Snape from before who'd seemingly allowed his house to do whatever they wanted, so long as they didn't embarrass or inconvenience him. This Snape wasn't seen often, but when he was, everyone knew he was looking for someone. Said someone tended to disappear into Snape's office for a short period, then come back grumbling about a detention or lines to be written.

Harry took advantage of Malfoy's detentions with Snape to sneak away to Professor McGonagall's office now and then. They'd spend an hour or two discussing the histories of both Harry's old world and this new one, as well as generally catch up on his adjustment. Professor Dumbledore occasionally chimed in with an observation or a witticism, but he stayed surprisingly quiet, instead frequently just taking in the conversation from his portrait.

For the first time, Harry began to wonder what it might be like to be the headmistress following the most famous headmaster in Hogwarts' history. He wondered if that had anything to do with why Dumbledore didn't say much, instead leaning back in his chair as Professor McGonagall led their conversations.

"Was it difficult?" he asked once, unable to ask himself. He nodded at Professor Dumbledore's portrait before turning back to Professor McGonagall. "When you took over from Professor Dumbledore?"

Professor McGonagall studied him for a moment, eyebrows raised, then she chuckled. "Monstrously so, yes."

"You've done an excellent job, Minerva," Professor Dumbledore said, his eyes closed, having spent the past half hour pretending to be asleep.

"Oh, hush, you," she replied, but she was smiling.

"I think a lot about Ron," Harry admitted one evening, reaching for another biscuit from the open tin on Professor McGonagall's desk. "I think maybe I could start to accept being here a bit more if I could bring him back. Not even the one from my world, just... some version of him."

Professor McGonagall nodded. "I can't claim to know precisely what your situation must feel like, Potter, but I have experienced loss. It's a terrible, wrenching thing, and I'm sorry I'm unable to spare you from it."

"Ron's not lost," Harry said quietly. "He's still out there. Back in my world."

"Yes, he is."

"Do you think he's mourning me too?" Harry shook his head, motioning for her not to answer. "I don't want to think about it."

"We don't have to speak of it now." Professor McGonagall gestured to the pile of books scattered across her desks, the quantity of which only seemed to grow each time he visited. "But I hope you know if I find anything in my research that hints on how to return you home..."

"I know," Harry said. "Thank you, Professor."

Two weeks had passed before Nott asked the question. They were playing wizard chess in a corner of the common room, near one of the massive stone pillars that stood in two lines down the length of the room.

"Do you remember?" he asked, nodding at Harry's scar. "Any of it?"

Harry shook his head, staring down at the board. "No. A bit of green light, but not anything else. I was a baby."

"How'd you do it?"

"No clue," Harry lied. He'd told barely anyone of his mother's sacrificial magic in his past life, and he wasn't about to start spreading the story now.

"Okay." Nott had one of his pawns move forward, then he said, "I don't know if you know this, but my dad was a Death Eater."

I know, Harry thought, but he didn't say it aloud. He'd at least known Nott Sr. was a Death Eater the last time around, but given the surprises thrown his way he wouldn't have been surprised if Nott told him his father was the Queen's second husband.

"He isn't now." Nott paused. "I mean, he isn't much of anything. He's dead."

Harry looked up sharply, remembering the hunched over figure in the graveyard after Voldemort returned, and of the Death Eaters of which Nott Sr. had been part of in the Department of Mysteries. "He is?"

Nott nodded. Now he was the one avoiding eye contact. "Apparently he tried to leave the Dark Lord just before I was born, and the Dark Lord killed him for it. I don't know if they've just told me that to feel better about the whole thing, but..." He shrugged. "I just thought you should know."

"Oh." Harry didn't know what else to say.

"My mum was like him, at least according to my relatives. She died not long after I was born." Nott was still staring at the chessboard, though Harry hadn't yet made his move. "I stayed with an aunt and uncle for a year, but they were arrested after the end of the war. They weren't Death Eaters, but they were helping them."

"Oh," Harry said again.

"I've lived with my cousins ever since. They're distant cousins. They're all right. They aren't Death Eaters. They didn't help them during the war, either."

"I live with my aunt and uncle," Harry told him, then paused. "You're an orphan too, then?"

Nott shrugged. "I suppose so." He hesitated. "I'm not telling you any of this so you feel sorry for me. I just... thought you should know. Didn't want you finding out from someone else."

"I... don't think it's your fault, for the things your parents did," Harry said carefully. "I mean, not unless you end up doing the same thing yourself, you know?"

Nott chuckled. "You sound like my cousins." He jerked his head at the chessboard. "It's your turn. Aren't you going to play?"

Malfoy's detentions with Snape ended, but he mostly kept to himself. Occasionally, he'd "accidentally" bump into Harry in the corridors before profusely offering his apologies to the great and powerful Boy-Who-Lived, but Harry just rolled his eyes and kept walking. It was hard to be intimidated by Malfoy, given he was a spotty twelve-year-old with a voice that had only just begun to break.

Besides, Malfoy was all bark and no bite, at least for now. Harry imagined didn't want to push his luck with Snape, who would now occasionally make appearances in the common room, and not just to summon a miscreant to his office. He never stayed for long, but his presence was enough to tamper down any particularly foolhardy plans circulating amongst the Slytherins during their time after dinner and before bed.

Even the older Slytherins, some of whom had whispered the most when he'd first arrived, had lost a bit of interest in Harry.

"He's just a normal first-year," Harry heard Flint complain one evening, and he smirked when Flint froze upon noticing he was listening. "Scram, Potter. It isn't polite to eavesdrop."

"It isn't polite to talk about people behind their backs, either."

The older Slytherins around Flint roared with laughter as the latter glared. There were even less whispers after that, or they were at least more subtle about it.

"Do you still wish you'd been sorted into Gryffindor?" Daphne asked him one evening as they did their Transfiguration homework together, Harry pretending to find it more difficult than he actually did.

"Yes," Harry said. "But I suppose things could be worse."

"Charmed, Potter."

The following morning, as he exited the Great Hall, a bit of parchment found its way into his hand. Harry looked up sharply as Professor McGonagall walked past, not pausing or glancing in his direction. It was several minutes before he found a quiet spot to unfold the note. It was short, but he had to read it several times before its meaning sank in.

Come to my office tonight. I've made contact with S.B.

Chapter Text

"I wasn't able to speak with him directly," Professor McGonagall explained that evening as Harry paced her office, too excited to sit. "He instead relayed a message. He's on his way, and expects to be back in the country by Halloween at the latest."

"Halloween?" Harry paused, aghast. "That's nearly a month from now!"

"I'm well aware. Unfortunately, as an escaped convict, Black is limited when it comes to transportation options, particularly from Yugoslavia."

"Yugoslavia? I thought he was in Albania."

"He was. It seems at some point in the past year he crossed the border and has since been sheltering in Montenegro."

Harry grunted in frustration and finally forced himself to take a seat, though he drummed his fingers on his knee all the while. "He's definitely coming back, then?"

"He claims to be. I believe him." Professor McGonagall paused. "The message I sent him was that I believed fully in his innocence. I also told him his godson was here via the same route he took. I imagine that did more to sway him than the former bit."

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, hardly able to believe it was true. Despite his nervousness, he found himself smiling.

"It's good news," Professor McGonagall agreed. "Don't worry, Mr. Potter. We'll do everything we can for him, and then some."

The days moved by at a crawl. Harry's brain seemed to bounce off the walls of his skull as he sat in class and anticipated reuniting with Sirius, but he was always able to answer the questions lobbed at him by his professors, assuaging any concerns of daydreaming.

"You always know the answers!" Hermione said, almost accusingly, after Double Charms one afternoon. "Even when you aren't paying attention!"

Harry shrugged. "I'm quick on my feet." It was an easier explanation than his coursework being far simpler than the O.W.L.s he'd spent nearly a year preparing for. "Besides, your marks are better than mine."

He didn't add that this was because he always answered a question or two incorrectly on his homework and exams. He didn't want the attention that came with being the best in his class; Hermione more than deserved that distinction. After all, Harry had an unfair advantage, given it was her first time learning the material.

"I think we got off on the wrong foot," Malfoy said one evening, coming to a stop next to Harry and Nott, who'd just finished a game of Gobstones.

"D'you mean that time you called my mum a Mudblood?" Harry asked flatly as he helped Nott return the marbles to their leather case. "If you call that the wrong foot, I suppose we did, yeah."

Malfoy grimaced. "I didn't mean it. I'm sorry, Potter. I hope you'll forgive me."

Harry didn't reply straight away, trying and failing to think of a time Malfoy had ever said he was sorry in their past life. "Did Snape put you up to this?"

"No. I just wanted to clear the air between us." Malfoy extended a hand, adding, "I really am sorry, Potter."

Harry didn't believe him for a second, but the last thing he needed was to make even more of an enemy of Draco Malfoy than he already had. Besides, the Dursleys had turned out to be not nearly as bad in this world. Perhaps Malfoy was the same- a git, but a penitent git. Swallowing every last bit of pride while reminding himself they had to share a house for the foreseeable future, he quickly shook Malfoy's hand.

"All right," he said. "I forgive you."

Malfoy simply smiled and nodded, and he was on his way.

"I don't trust him. Do you?" Harry muttered to Nott, starting to get to his feet.

"Potter, wait-"

It was too late. Harry fell, face first, onto the stone floor. When he tried to get back up, he found his shoelaces were tangled together in a convoluted knot.

"He hexed my laces together when I wasn't looking," he said incredulously, locking eyes with Malfoy, who smirked at him as he settled into an armchair near the fire. "The little bastard."

"Are you okay?" Nott peered at Harry's chin, which had been scraped but didn't appear to be bleeding. "Are you going to tell a prefect?"

"I'm fine." Harry set to work undoing his shoelaces by hand, determined not to let Malfoy see him react. It was what he wanted, and Harry wouldn't give him that satisfaction. "He isn't worth it."

That being said, Harry paused later that evening when he and Nott returned to their dormitory and found the second-years' bedroom uninhabited, the door ajar.

"Keep watch," Harry whispered to Nott, creeping over the threshold.

It was obvious which bed belonged to Malfoy. The enormous care package he'd received from home that morning (and loudly boasted about at breakfast) was displayed proudly at the foot of his trunk.

Harry tapped Malfoy's bedding with the tip of his wand, muttered and incantation, then hurried back into the corridor.

"What did you do?" Nott asked the moment they were safely back in their own dorm.

"Made his sheets and blankets as cold as ice." Harry grinned. "It'll wear off in a day, maybe two."

Nott laughed. "That's brilliant! But hang on- that's advanced magic, isn't it?"

"Not really." It was third-year level at best, but Harry was fairly certain he could have mastered it at eleven the last time around if he'd put some effort into it. "I learned it from a book in the library. I can teach you, if you'd like."

Nott's eyes brightened. "Yeah! Would you really?"

Malfoy stormed into the first-years' dormitory an hour later, as they were getting ready for bed.

"Change it back!" he snarled at Harry. "Change it back right now!"

"Change what back?" Harry stared at him, taking advantage of his younger appearance to look as naive and innocent as possible. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"My bed, you little dung beetle! How I am I supposed to sleep like this?"

"Did something happen to your bed, Malfoy?" Nott asked, his tone just as innocent, as Crabbe, Goyle, and Zabini watched the proceedings from their own beds. "Would you like us to fetch Professor Snape? Maybe he can help."

"I'll fetch him myself!" Malfoy snapped. Rounding on Harry, he added, "And I'll tell him you- you froze it!"

"I froze your bed?" Harry asked, raising his inflection on the last word to sound especially incredulous. "I've only been learning magic for a month. How would I know a spell like that?"

"It's way too advanced for first-years," Nott agreed.

"I don't think a second-year could handle it, either," Zabini spoke up from his bed. "Besides, we all saw what you did to Potter in the common room. I think Professor Snape would care a lot more than the bruise on his chin than your cold bed."

"And I've been with Potter all evening," Nott went on. "He didn't go anywhere near your dorm. I'll vouch for him to Professor Snape if he asks."

Malfoy stared at the lot of them, fists clenched. Then he was gone, storming back toward his room, shouting for someone to help him unfreeze his bed. Harry and the other first-year boys listened in silence as the other second-years tried and failed to either do it themselves, or successfully recruit older students to help.

"If you weren't such a little shit, maybe you'd have better luck," Harry could hear Terence Higgs say, and he clapped a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing.

"Thanks," he said once he removed it, turning to both Nott and Zabini. "For backing me up."

"Of course," Nott said. "Malfoy needs to stop picking on people smaller than him."

"Slytherins stick together," Zabini agreed, returning to his book.

It was, Harry thought to himself as he climbed into bed, a rather Slytherin move. He hadn't thought of it that way in the moment, but getting back at Malfoy in a manner that didn't implicate himself was unlike his usual method- he thought of his old life, and imagined he probably would have just punched him in the nose. He'd done it before.

Was his new house rubbing off on him? Harry shuddered at the thought. He was still a Gryffindor, even if that damn hat had gone rogue when placing him.

"Wait a moment." Goyle stared at him from his bed, then turned to Crabbe. "Wait a moment."

Crabbe stared back. "Do you think...?"

They pondered over it for an excruciatingly long time, then Goyle's eyes lit up as he turned back to Harry. "You were lying! You did freeze Malfoy's bed!"

"And you both lied so he wouldn't get in trouble with Professor Snape!" Crabbe said triumphantly.

Nott burst out laughing, and even Zabini smiled and said, "Well done. You solved the impossible riddle."

Harry couldn't help but smile as well at how proud of themselves Crabbe and Goyle were by their deduction. He wasn't smiling nearly as much when their snores filled the dormitory with a sound not unlike a hippogriff in distress, much as they did every night.

Each weekend, Harry explored the castle, relearning its nooks and crannies. He often found new passageways and shortcuts, ones he did his best to keep track of. He hadn't known until now how reliant he'd become on the Marauder's Map (as well as his Invisibility Cloak), and it was nothing short of humbling to be thrust back to the very beginning without any advantages.

Harry often explored on his own, but other days he was joined by his classmates. Nott was excellent at discovering concealed alcoves and corridors. Zabini didn't frequently join them, but he'd occasionally tag along, observing more than speaking with a serious expression on his face.

Even Crabbe and Goyle asked if they could join now and then, and Harry was surprised to find this wasn't an entirely miserable experience. Although he suspected they collectively possessed a single brain cell that they exchanged every other week, they weren't actively malicious, especially given that they weren't attached to Malfoy at the hip. They could at least always be counted on to keep the mood lively, even if that meant enduring endless belching competitions. And really, as much as Harry hated to admit it, there had certainly been a belching competition or two in the Gryffindor's boys' dormitories, particularly during their younger years

Hermione seemed to prefer confining her exploration to the library, but she tagged along a time or two, reciting an endless litany of facts complied from Hogwarts, A History, resulting in glassy-eyed stares from everyone who wasn't (and occasionally was) Harry.

"Why did you invite her?" Nott asked as they made their way back to the common room one evening. "I can't see why you fancy her so much."

"I don't fancy her," Harry said, wishing there was a less revealing-secrets-of-cosmic-importance manner of saying Hermione was someone he'd grown up alongside, that she was like a sister to him. "It's possible to be friends with a girl without fancying her."

The boys all snorted, and Harry highly doubted they'd so much as held hands with a girl before. He reminded himself of the way he saw the world as a first-year, then resisted the urge to shake his head as he told himself the last thing he needed was to start thinking of the Slytherins first-years as younger brothers.

"He fancies her because she's the only person with higher marks than him," Zabini spoke up, shooting a rare sly smile in Harry's direction.

"Ahh." Nott grinned. "Braniacs attract."

"I'm definitely not a braniac," Harry reassured him, wondering whether or not he should start answering a few more questions incorrectly on his assignments than he already was. "Not the way she is."

"She's annoying," Crabbe said through a mouthful of Bertie Bott's Every-Flavour Beans. "But she's all right, I suppose."

"She's smart," Goyle offered. "Especially for a Mudblood."

"Don't call her that!" Harry said sharply, the other boys taking an involuntary step away at the intensity of his tone.

"What?" Goyle asked, bewildered. "She is one, isn't she?"

"She's Muggle-born," Harry said quickly. "And so what if she is?"

"Mudblood, Muggle-born, it's the same thing," Crabbe spoke up. "Why are you so angry?"

"It isn't," Harry said, then paused. As much as he wanted to tell the two of them to sod off and write them off as budding Death Eaters, there was a small part of him whispering- They're eleven.

And not just eleven in the way Harry had found himself, they were properly eleven. Harry remembered hearing their fathers' voices emerge from under masks in the graveyard at the end of his fourth year and wondered what it would be like to be raised by someone like that, and to have only just arrived at Hogwarts the month before.

Then he thought of what he had been told about his mother in this world, and the things Mrs. Greengrass had said on platform nine and three-quarters.

He opened his mouth, then closed it. Carefully, he said, "That word- it's a really foul word to a lot of people. It's meant to hurt them. I know that... that some people don't like Muggles, or Muggle-born witches and wizards, but..."

"It's less important who you're born as, compared to who you become," Nott spoke up. He shrugged awkwardly. "That's what my cousins say, at least. They're sort of the black sheep in my family."

He glanced at Zabini for backup, who also shrugged. "My parents weren't a part of any of... that sort of thing. During the war, I mean. I don't think they like Muggles much, but I also don't think they've really met any. I've never really thought much about it, to be honest."

"All right. I didn't mean anything by it," Goyle said, frowning. "I just said she was smart for a Mudblood."

They didn't say much else on their way back to the common room, and later that night it took far longer for Crabbe's and Goyle's snores to fill the dormitory than it usually did.

"What was it like for my mum?" Harry asked the next time he sat in Professor McGonagall's office. "Being in Slytherin as a Muggle-born?"

Professor McGonagall frowned, seriously considering the question before answering. "She had a difficult time of it at first. She wanted to change everyone's minds, and she threw herself with an impossible amount of strength into that task. It didn't make her terribly popular, if I'm quite honest."

"But she was right," Harry said, frowning. "Blood supremacy and all that nonsense... it's rubbish, isn't it?"

The headmistress nodded. "I think so. You think so. But, Mr. Potter, have you ever changed someone's mind simply by telling them they're wrong? Or have they become more defensive as a result?"

"What was she supposed to do, then?" Harry asked. "Just put up with people hating her? What am I supposed to do when I hear people talk like that? If you just ignore it, and let it fester..." He shook his head. "That's how Slytherin turned out the way it did in my world."

"Certainly, don't ignore it," Professor McGonagall agreed. "One should never have to hide or be ashamed of who they are because of the bigotry of others. But, Mr. Potter, you must also understand that while it's important to stand for what is right, you won't be able to change everyone's mind. No one is capable of that." When Harry didn't respond, she paused for a moment, then went on. "My advice to you is to lead by example. Don't be ashamed to stand for your principles. But don't expect everyone to come around to them. If it were that simple, we'd live in a much different world. That's the conclusion your mother eventually came to, at least."

Harry nodded slowly. "I suppose. But I want to... save them all, if that makes sense. Make certain none of them grow up to be Death Eaters, you know?"

"You can certainly provide a line of thinking they haven't yet been exposed to," Professor McGonagall said gently. "But when it comes down to it, you can't make certain of that. It's a decision they'll have to make alone."

Harry gazed out the window, over the castle grounds and toward the Whomping Willow, thinking this over. Finally, he asked, "Have you heard anything from Sirius?"

"Not yet. But I hope very much to soon."

When Harry wasn't exploring the castle or spending time in the library with Hermione, he was flying on one of the ancient school brooms. The Shooting Stars, which seemed to be held together with an unstable blend of hope and dreams (and what looked suspiciously like Spellotape), couldn't hold a candle to his Firebolt, but he took what he could get.

He'd spend hours at a time circling the castle grounds. From up here it was easy to pretend nothing had changed and he was back in his old world, preparing for the next Quidditch match. Then his broom would jerk violently at the faintest suggestion of wind at the horizon, and Harry found himself once again in this strange mirror experience.

It was the weekend before Halloween when he spotted the dog. He wasn't sure what it was at first, just something large and dark. He peered at it curiously as he flew closer to the ground. Whatever it was, it seemed to be following the path of his broom. Harry drew closer and closer to the expanse of grass below him, and then he froze.

Padfoot.

He stared at the dog, who'd begun to frantically wag its tail, hardly able to believe it. He descended as rapidly as he could without toppling off the Shooting Star (which, given its limitations, was an achievement even when one remained perfectly still).

The dog turned and began to run off the moment Harry's feet touched the ground. He clutched the broom in one hand and jogged after it, glancing around, but there'd been a cold snap as of late and the majority of the castle's inhabitants had chosen to remain warm within its walls.

The dog veered to the right, and it occurred to Harry that it was heading toward the Whomping Willow.

"Wait!" he called out, and the dog stopped, turning abruptly. Harry jerked his head the other way- the Whomping Willow was closer to the forest now, something he'd discovered while flying around the grounds. The dog studied him for a moment, then took off in the direction Harry had indicated.

A wave of apprehension gripped him as they approached the massive tree. What if the knot was somewhere else? What if it didn't exist at all?

He didn't appear to be the only one with that thought. The dog dropped to its stomach, slinking carefully toward the familiar spot. Harry watched, one hand clenched around the broom and the other around the base of his wand as the tree's thick branches slowly came to life. They began to swing about, but before they could reach the ground they abruptly came to a halt. The dog's tail began to wag again as it shot Harry what could only be described as a triumphant look before turning and disappearing into the depths within.

The dog was further ahead; Harry hurried after it as quickly as he could, bent over double so his head didn't hit the top of the narrow tunnel. On and on they ran, until the ground began to slope upward and twist. They emerged into a room with peeling wallpaper and boarded up windows, one Harry had seen once before. And much like that last time, the dog wasn't itself anymore, but stretching upward into the shape of a man, into Sirius Black.

Harry's breath caught in his throat, and before he knew it, he'd flung himself into his godfather's chest, the latter's thin arms embracing him almost instantly.

"I thought I'd never see you again!" he burst out, voice trembling.

"Never thought I'd see you again either." Sirius's voice was thick with emotion. "Not you, at least."

He released Harry from his grip and stepped back to look him over. He stared at him, expression unreadable. Then he began to laugh.

"What?" Harry asked, staring back at him, though he was smiling as well. "What's so funny?"

"You are. You're tiny!" Sirius threw back his head and laughed harder. "Look at you, a little first-year! I could scoop you up with one hand!"

"Shut it, why don't you?" But he was laughing now too, and before long they were both sitting on the dusty, rotting floorboards, catching their respective breaths.

"Poor sod, having to go through puberty again." Sirius stretched his legs, eyes closed. "That might be nearly as bad as landing in Azkaban a second time."

"Are you all right?" Harry asked, sobering instantly. Sirius looked terrible. His cheeks were sunken, his frame even thinner than the last time they'd been in the Shrieking Shack together. "That must have been... well, I can't imagine. Not really."

Sirius shrugged, but when he opened his eyes he didn't quite meet Harry's gaze. "I wasn't there for long. I'm finished with being cooped up."

"You have no idea how many times I almost went looking for you," Harry said, his voice low. "I should have headed for Albania the moment I heard you were there."

"You would have had a rough go of it, given I left Albania last year."

"Yeah, I heard. Yugoslavia, was it?"

Sirius nodded. "Don't beat yourself up. How were you supposed to get there on your own? You aren't an Animagus. The Ministry would have swarmed the moment you left Surrey." He paused. "Besides, I've been here longer than you. When did you even come to?"

"June, I think. Maybe May. It's a bit hazy."

"That recently?" Sirius's voice rose in surprise. "Merlin, of course you haven't been crossing continents. I hardly knew my name at first, and that wasn't just because of the Dementors."

"It was like that for you too?" Harry asked, leaning forward. "Almost... almost as though the air was thicker than it should be?"

"And you were watching yourself from somewhere far away?" Sirius nodded. "It took me ages to get past it."

"Do you think it has something to do with our minds adjusting to... whatever this place is?"

"Haven't the faintest idea. Maybe." Sirius shifted backward so he could rest his head against a piece of broken furniture, something that might have once been a table. "I came to see you, you know. Before I went properly on the run."

"Back in Little Whinging, right before I hailed the Knight Bus? I remember."

Sirius shook his head. "Not there. Here. I knew how unhappy you'd been at the Dursleys, so I went to find you. I couldn't imagine it'd be a good life for you, on the run with me, but... I needed to know you would be safe."

"You met me?" Harry asked. "The... other me?"

Sirius nodded. "I cleaned myself up a bit. Not particularly well, but enough to keep you from running and screaming in the other direction. I found you as you were walking home from school one day. You were even tinier than you are now, believe it or not."

Harry felt a stab of unease each time Sirius referred to the other version of him as... well, himself. He remembered Aunt Petunia reacting the same way over the summer, and for the first time understood how strange it must feel to be referred to as the same person as a version of yourself you'd never met.

"I asked you if you were happy, about your life. You didn't say much, but you were cared for, I could see that much. I lingered around for another day or two as a dog, watched the Dursleys. They're prigs, but they're not the Dursleys you described."

"They're different here," Harry agreed. "They... don't like magic. But I think they're willing to understand that others might not feel that way."

"I figured as much. Anyway, I thought it over, and thought you'd be safer with them, especially since you didn't remember... well, any of it. Any of what we remember."

"So you went to Albania? To find Voldemort?" Harry's voice went low. "Did you find him?"

There was a faint noise, a creaking of floorboards. Harry and Sirius stiffened, and Sirius whipped out a wand that wasn't the one Harry remembered. "Homenum revelio!"

Nothing happened.

Sirius stayed very still, before trying a few more incantations. Once again, nothing happened.

"Sorry," he said, lowering his wand. "I don't like to take any chances."

"Of course you wouldn't." Harry glanced around the room, heart still pounding. "Whose wand is that?"

"Nicked it as I escaped Azkaban. I think it belonged to one of the newer inmates and hadn't been put with the other wands yet. Wasn't able to get my own this time, I'm afraid." Sirius frowned. "It's all right, but it's not as powerful as my wand."

Harry nodded, understanding what he meant. "You went to Albania first, then? Did you find... did you find Voldemort?"

"Yeah. I did." Sirius's face darkened. "Not straight away. Albania's bigger than you might think. But given enough time in those forests, and my interactions with the animals I came across... There was a place they all knew, a dark place in a certain forest where other animals met their deaths. I found him there, yeah."

Harry just stared at him, waiting for him to go on.

"He was pathetic. He's always been pathetic, but he wasn't even human. Didn't even have that mottled body you said he did in the graveyard- he hadn't been able to create that yet." Sirius gazed upward at the ceiling. "He was hardly even a spirit. When he saw me... he was happy."

"Did he know who you were?"

"Yes," Sirius said flatly. He looked at Harry now, but his gaze was somewhere far away. "Harry, there's something you need to know. Something about this world. About Pettigrew."

"He's dead," Harry said quietly. "I know that. He was blown to pieces, not just his finger."

Sirius nodded. "I made one other stop before I found you in Surrey. I went to the Burrow first."

"To find Scabbers," Harry finished for him. "But he wasn't there, because he was dead." He paused. "I've been telling myself he got the curse wrong. That he was caught in it when he blew up the Muggle street."

"Yeah. That's what I've been telling myself, too." Sirius's already raspy voice had gone even more hoarse. "It's easier than accepting that in this world..." He trailed off. "You need to understand that Voldemort greeted me like an old friend."

Harry didn't reply. He didn't know what to say.

Sirius shook his head, unable to meet Harry's eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm so incredibly sorry."

"What are you sorry for?" Harry asked incredulously. "Look at me. Why are you sorry for what that other Sirius Black might have done? He might have been a rotter, but that doesn't mean you are."

"I can't bear sharing the same body as him." Sirius's expression darkened even further. "I'll never forgive him."

"Neither will I, but he's not here, is he?" Harry leaned forward, a fierce rush shooting through his body. "You are. What happened when you found Voldemort?"

Sirius hesitated. "I played along. Did what I had to, even if I hated it." He paused. "My plan was to do what Peter did. Help him build a rudimentary body. I wasn't certain I could kill him the way he currently was- he'd just continue to exist otherwise."

"That was risky," Harry breathed out.

"You're telling me. But Voldemort was impatient. He didn't want to wait to build a body. He wanted make his way back to England first, then create a body."

"How was he supposed to do that, if he didn't have a body?"

Sirius gave him a strange little smile, and Harry suddenly understood. "You mean- he wanted you to do what he did to Quirrell?"

"I'm afraid so."

"You didn't-" Harry looked him over nervously, half-expecting to find the Dark Lord's face peeking out from Sirius's sleeve.

"Don't be stupid. Of course I didn't." Sirius leaned back, shaking his head. "He'd have far too much power over me that way. That, and I wasn't certain how many of my true intentions he'd be able to sense from that vantage point. It was too intimate." He paused. "I considered it, though. If I knew for certain he wouldn't be able to control me, and that he wouldn't know what I really thought... I'd bring him back to England, help him build a rudimentary body, and then, the very moment he had one, I'd kill him once and for all."

"You might have died, though," Harry said. "If he figured out what you were up to. Quirrell died when Voldemort suddenly left his body. How do you know the same wouldn't have happened to you if he decided he wanted you dead?"

Sirius shrugged, trying to look casual but failing. "Oh, don't look at me like that. How many times have you rushed face-first into near-certain death out of concern for someone else?" Sirius smirked at Harry's horrified expression, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Hypocrite."

"I'm not worth that, Sirius."

"Of course you are. Besides, I wasn't just doing it for you. I have reason to want Voldemort gone for good as well." Sirius fell silent for a moment, then continued on. "I just couldn't risk him possessing me, properly possessing me, that is. He could do a great deal of damage if he had control of my body, and I wasn't about to risk that."

"So, what did you do?"

"Well, I couldn't say no. He'd know I wasn't loyal if I didn't immediately accept." Sirius shrugged helplessly. "I could either say yes and risk everyone's lives, say no and reveal my disloyalty. Or try a third option."

"Which was?"

"Throwing caution to the wind and trying to kill him then and there."

Harry stared at him, then burst out laughing despite himself. "How'd that work out?"

"Have you ever tried to kill something that isn't really alive? That doesn't have an actual body?"

"No. But I can't imagine it went well."

"It was a nightmare. I didn't just reveal my true intentions, but also frightened and angered him." Sirius shook his head. "He's not very powerful, not the way he currently is. But he's furious. When he realised I couldn't kill him and he couldn't kill me, we wound up in a bit of a stalemate. I started pursuing him and he started fleeing while trying to find a way to grow stronger. Neither of us has succeeded as of yet."

"So... you've been doing that this whole time? Trying to kill him?"

Sirius nodded. "And preventing him from getting any stronger." He lowered his head. "I've probably done more damage than if I'd just left him there. Now he's actively trying to return."

"I don't think that's your fault. He was actively trying to return the last time as well. He was already at Hogwarts by now."

"Quirrell." Sirius snorted. "I saw him."

"Was that you?" Harry asked excitedly. "I heard someone in black attacked him when he was in Albania over the summer. Everyone's trying to figure out who it was."

"Yeah, that was me. He got close to Voldemort without even knowing it. I chased him off, just like I've chased off everyone else who gets near. I won't give anyone the opportunity to be possessed by that dingbat."

"But I thought you were in Yugoslavia by then."

"I've been back and forth. Voldemort and I, we've been on the move. He tries to flee somewhere else to regain his strength, and I follow him. National borders don't mean much when you're an ethereal spirit and a dog."

Harry nodded, then paused. "So... where is he now?"

"Back in Yugoslavia, I think." Sirius frowned. "I didn't want to leave him, not to his own devices. But he's weak, and when I got McGonagall's message..." He shook his head. "The moment I heard you were here, I was on my way."

"What do you think he's doing now?"

"I don't know." Sirius inhaled deeply, then exhaled. "But I'll be back soon to find out."

"You're not staying?"

"I can't. I caused this problem, and I'm not about to leave Voldemort scared and angry on his own. It's my duty to finish what I started. I need to figure out how to kill him once and for all."

"How are you supposed to do that if he's not alive to begin with?"

"Good question. I'm still figuring that one out."

"You don't have to do it on your own," Harry said. "Professor McGonagall will help. She's helped me."

Sirius's lip twitched slightly at this, then he sobered up. "She's been treating you all right? She believes your story?"

Harry nodded. "She believes you too. She regrets doubting you at first. We don't always agree on everything, but she's been good to me. We've agreed not to hide things from one other, not the way things were before."

Sirius stared at him, his expression turning darker. "You can't tell her we met."

"But-"

"No." Sirius shook his head sharply. "Harry, I'm glad she's treated you well. I don't have anything against her. But I'm done answering to others. I'm done being locked away in Azkaban and in Grimmauld Place. I've obeyed the Order time and time again and look where it landed me."

"It's not the Order's fault we fell through the veil," Harry protested.

"Isn't it? If you hadn't been kept in the dark over and over, you would have understood Voldemort was trying to lure you into a trap. If Dumbledore didn't refuse to communicate with you, you would have had options other than storming the Ministry on your own."

"That isn't fair," Harry protested. "Dumbledore was on the run then. I tried to get help, and it wasn't Professor Dumbledore or McGonagall's fault I couldn't reach them."

"You know what will happen if I tell her I'm here," Sirius said. "I'll be shut up for my own safety again, while Voldemort runs amok."

"That's not fair," Harry said again. "You don't know what she'll do. And it's not fair to blame her for what Dumbledore did in the other world, for what her other self believed... it's like blaming you for what your counterpart might have done in this world."

Sirius looked at him so sharply Harry nearly reared back. "That's not the same and you know it."

"Of course it's not the same. But it's worth considering, isn't it?"

Sirius was on his feet again, and he walked the length of the dilapidated room before whirling around suddenly. "Do you remember anything about the Department of Mysteries? About what Voldemort was trying to steal?"

"It was an orb." Harry frowned, wondering what this had to do with anything as he tried to remember the incredibly hazy events. "I don't remember much else."

"Think about it. Did you see what must have been written on the shelf below that little orb?"

Harry shook his head, trying desperately to sift through the muddled memories. He'd tried once, with Professor McGonagall, using Professor Dumbledore's old Pensieve, but the memories were just as cloudy from an outside perspective as when they were within his mind. "Sometimes I remember new details if I try really hard."

"Think, Harry. Think about the orb."

Harry strained his mind, of those moments just before Lucius Malfoy appeared. The dusty orb in his hand- a bit of writing nearby-

"S. P. T.," he said suddenly. "Those letters were on an old label. And A. P... there were a bunch of letters, I don't remember all of them. The last one was a D. And it said Dark Lord. And... it had my name on it."

"It was a prophecy, Harry."

"A prophecy?" Harry stared at him blankly. "What prophecy?"

Sirius sighed heavily. "Dumbledore never confirmed it directly with us, but it was obvious. Voldemort wanted to find the prophecy, the one made before you were born."

"There was a prophecy about me?"

Sirius nodded. "I never knew its contents. No one did, except your parents and Dumbledore. And the seer who told it, I suppose. But after it was made, James and Lily went into hiding. Voldemort must have known about it too, because he went after you and your family. But he didn't know the full contents."

"That's what Voldemort was trying to get to all year?" Harry gaped at Sirius, then grew indignant. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't even know there was a damn prophecy until that year. I was only told Voldemort was after your parents."

"But you didn't tell me when you did find out!"

"I didn't," Sirius agreed. "Because I trusted Dumbledore. I trusted the Order. I'm done doing that now."

A strange feeling had begun to rise in Harry's stomach. "Professor McGonagall hasn't told me anything about a prophecy since I arrived."

"Big surprise there."

"She might not have known about it," Harry reasoned. "But... Professor Dumbledore's portrait. He could have told me, but he didn't."

"I don't think Dumbledore's evil or anything like that," Sirius said quickly. "But... he has his own way of doing things, and we're his chess pieces as he figures out how to get there. I respect many of the things he's done, I really do. But I've reached a point... he has his way, and I have mine."

"He's dead here, though. You know that, right?"

Sirius nodded. "You do know McGonagall is just the same as him, don't you? In both worlds."

Harry thought about this, then hesitated. "I don't know about that."

"Don't you?"

Harry shook his head, thinking back to that afternoon in Diagon Alley. "She promised me if I trusted her, she'd trust me. That the adults in my life hid things from me and that's why I've always done things on my own, but that I don't have to do that here."

"And you believe her?" Sirius asked, a hint of doubt in his voice. "You don't think she's just saying that so you'll tell her everything?"

"She hasn't let me down yet." Harry frowned. "She hasn't said anything about a prophecy, though."

"And you really think she just doesn't know about it? With Dumbledore gone, she's just entirely out of the loop?"

Harry closed his eyes and shook his head again. "I think we need to tell her you're here."

"No."

"She can help you."

"No, Harry."

"Then why did you even tell her you were coming back in the first place?" Harry snapped. "That was a stupid thing to do."

Sirius shot him a wounded look before sitting again, this time across the room from Harry. "I was excited. I'd just found out you were here. I never thought I'd see you again. That message wasn't exactly meant for her- I was talking to myself, and the bloody dog went and conveyed it back."

"The dog? What dog?"

Sirius raised his eyebrows. "Who do you think her contacts are? She's an Animagus, isn't she? There's a web of animals all the way from here to Eastern Europe, and their messages have a method of finding their way back and forth."

Harry nodded slowly, then pressed a hand to his forehead. "I am glad you're here, Sirius. And I'm so sorry you fell through the veil because of me."

"Don't blame yourself. I don't want you ever blaming yourself for that. It's Voldemort's fault. And my idiot cousin's." Sirius sighed. "And I'm glad you're here too. You... really do trust McGonagall, don't you?"

"I do." Harry shifted across the floor, closer to Sirius. "She hasn't given me any reason not to. But you're not going to let her help you, are you?"

"No," Sirius said sadly. "I'm not. After everything... I just can't, Harry. I'm done."

They sat in silence for a long time. Sirius moved closer to Harry, so they were sitting next to one another, and Harry rested his head on his shoulder as Sirius wrapped an arm around him.

Chapter Text

"What time is it?" Harry asked, gazing up at the rotting ceiling, willing the moment to last forever.

"Haven't the faintest idea."

They'd been talking off and on for what Harry imagined was the better part of several hours. Ron, the Dursleys, Azkaban, life on the run- it all came pouring out from the both of them, punctuated only by the occasional silence as they pondered their rather unique situation.

"The stars are different here," Harry said after a moment had passed. "Have you noticed?"

"Have I noticed? It's been a nightmare, trying to navigate in the middle of unfamiliar Albanian forests." Sirius let out a bitter laugh. "I think I've finally got it sorted, but I can't tell you how many times I've only discovered how off-course I am a few hours too late."

Harry couldn't help but laugh as well. "Astronomy is the only class I've actually needed to relearn. The rest are easy, since I've done it before. Everyone thinks I'm smart here."

"Your professors must love you." Sirius shot him a cheeky grin. "And Hermione must be tearing her hair out."

"She still gets better marks than me, but she doesn't understand how things come so easily to me when I hardly need to focus." Harry shook his head. "And my professors are all right. They'll probably be disappointed in four years when I'm suddenly an average student again. If I survive that long."

"Don't be stupid. Of course you'll survive that long." Sirius paused. "Unless Snape hexes you in your sleep."

Harry snorted. "I wouldn't put it past him."

"I still can't believe you're in Slytherin." Sirius glanced at him sideways. "Not that I blame you for that. Nothing in this universe makes sense."

"It's been... all right, oddly enough," Harry admitted, his voice low. "I'd rather be in Gryffindor, but people treat me decently enough."

"They probably want to be your best mate." Sirius shook his head, smiling slightly, though it didn't quite reach his eyes, and he gestured at Harry's scar. "They don't know for certain that Voldemort's still alive, after all. Can't hurt to be friends with the next potential Dark Lord."

"They'll be pretty disappointed, won't they?" Harry asked, then shook his head. "It's not like that, though. People treat me like... anyone else, really. There are whispers, but people whispered when I was in Gryffindor. Only Malfoy has been stupid enough to try anything, but it's not exactly difficult to outwit a second year. Besides, he's been a bit more careful since Snape actually went made an example of him."

"I can't imagine that." Sirius looked as though he'd tasted something particularly foul. "Snape is treating you all right, then?"

Harry shrugged. "He's not nice or anything. He's always in a foul mood, and he's always snapping at someone. But..." He shook his head again. "It's different. When he's angry, it's usually because someone didn't pay attention and nearly blew up their cauldron. He gave Neville a hard time for ruining his Forgetfulness Potion, but he wasn't nasty about it. Not on a personal level, at least. Not like before."

"I don't trust him."

"Well, I don't exactly like him." Harry paused. "But he was friends with my mum in this world."

"Was he?" Sirius asked, and Harry was surprised he didn't look especially surprised.

"Had you found that out already? How?"

"No." Sirius hesitated. "But... you don't know this. They were... friends, or friendly for a time at least, in our world as well."

"They what?" Harry stared at him. "That's not possible."

Sirius couldn't quite meet his eyes, and Harry knew he was telling the truth.

"How? He- he called her a Mudblood in the Pensieve, in his memory! I saw it myself- I heard him say it!"

Sirius exhaled heavily. "They had a falling out, but they were inseparable our first few years at school. Then Snape started getting more vocal about blood purity. Started running around with a rough crowd, started getting more and more radical. Then he joined the Death Eaters." His face went dark. "I know Dumbledore always said he came around, but I don't know if I've ever truly believed that. I think he was just trying to save his own skin."

They fell silent once more as Harry tried his best to digest this. He swallowed, then said, "Professor McGonagall said he entered the Death Eaters as a spy from the very start here. She said things between him and my mum were a little strained as time went on, but I don't think they fell out, not properly." He paused. "Did you know my mum was a Slytherin here?"

Sirius stared at him, a bewildered expression spreading across his face. Then, after several long moments, he tilted back his head and laughed. "Lily? In Slytherin?"

"I know. I couldn't believe it either. I still don't, not entirely. But I also can hardly believe that I'm in Slytherin."

"This entire world..." Sirius trailed off. "I don't think I'll ever understand it."

Harry simply nodded. They fell into silence once more, only punctuated by the growling of Sirius's stomach. "It must be late afternoon by now. I'll go back to the castle and come back after dinner. I'll bring loads of food, as much as I can sneak away with."

Sirius's expression brightened. "Yeah? I haven't had a proper meal in ages."

"That's one thing this world has in common with the old one- the food at Hogwarts is excellent." Harry grinned at him.

"You'll be careful, yeah? Make sure you wear your cloak on your way back. I don't want anyone to see you."

"I don't have the cloak," Harry admitted. "Not yet."

Sirius frowned. "Where is it?"

Harry just shook his head, already knowing what Sirius would say in response to McGonagall not handing it over. It was a point of contention that felt even more heightened than usual, given what he'd learned about her potentially knowing about a mysterious prophecy and not saying anything.

"I'll be careful," he reassured him. "The grounds have been quiet in the evenings, especially since the sun has been setting so early and it's colder outside."

"I trust you." Sirius closed his eyes, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. "I can't remember the last time I had a proper roast."

"I'll be back soon," Harry promised, turning toward the still-open trapdoor.

"Wait. Promise me one thing."

Harry already knew what the request would be. "I won't tell McGonagall you're here. But Sirius-"

"I'll think about it," he conceded, though Harry very much doubted he would. "Let me just think about it."

"All right. I won't tell her if you promise to actually think about it."

Sirius held both hands aloft, smiling begrudgingly. "Fine. I'll actually think about it."

"Good." Harry turned again, started back to the trapdoor, and had nearly reached it when he walked into something very solid.

What happened next occurred so quickly it would only be after the fact that Harry was able to piece it together.

A jet of red light emerged from the empty space beside him, shooting toward Sirius who was in the process of leaping to his feet. It hit him square in the chest, and he only had enough time to let out a short gasp before falling to the ground, his wand clattering beside him.

"Sirius!" Harry shouted, but his godfather didn't stir. He whirled to face the invisible assailant, hand closing around the shaft of his wand. A silent disarming spell hit him, and he was knocked backwards as his own wand shot up and away, toward the figure. In the darkness of the Shrieking Shack it had been all but impossible until this moment to make out the faint outline of a person Harry now saw was under a Disillusionment Charm, their features unclear.

With no other options, Harry did the first thing to come to mind- he swung a fist desperately at the nearly invisible figure with one hand, while lunging forward in the direction of his wand with the other. His right wrist was almost immediately caught in a tight grip, and as it yanked upward Harry found himself leaving the ground, his toes dangling above the floorboards.

"Potter," came a horribly familiar voice. "This isn't a fight you're going to win."

Harry inhaled and exhaled heavily as the now-visible Snape stood over Sirius, peering down at the Stunned figure. His expression didn't change as he turned back to Harry.

"Right," Snape said, his body incredibly still. "Begin explaining immediately."

His wand was firmly in Snape's grip, but the trapdoor was still open. Harry glanced at it as surreptitiously as he could before dismissing the idea as hopeless. Even if he could somehow escape without Snape immediately stopping him, there wasn't a single universe in which he'd leave Sirius behind.

"Potter," Snape said, more sharply this time. "You had plenty to say to a wanted criminal, and I hardly think you've somehow been struck in the last few moments by a terrible ailment that restricts your ability to speak."

Harry's stomach lurched. When he opened his mouth, he found it had gone very dry. "How long have you been here?" He swallowed. "How long have you been listening?"

"That's not for you to know."

"Then I'm not telling you anything," Harry said, with far more bravery than he actually felt.

Snape's eyes narrowed as he took a step toward Harry, who, in turn, took an involuntary step back. "I don't believe you're in a place to be making threats, Potter."

Harry swallowed again. "What are you going to do to Sirius?"

Snape didn't respond right away. When he did, his expression still hadn't changed. "I'm not certain yet. It seems to me I don't have a clear picture of a story I thought I knew well." His voice lowered to a near hiss. "Which is why I'm asking for an explanation. Now, are you going to do as you're told, or will I need to resort to Veritaserum?"

Harry closed his eyes, and as he did, he couldn't help but think of the last time he, Snape, and Sirius had stood in the Shrieking Shack together. Images and sounds flitted through the back of his mind- Snape interrupting any attempt to explain the situation, refusing to accept what anyone tried to tell him-

"KEEP QUIET, YOU STUPID GIRL!" he could practically hear Snape screaming at Hermione as he remembered that night. "DON'T TALK ABOUT WHAT YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND!"

Opening his eyes, Harry turned his gaze back to the man who was now staring down at him. "My mum- she really was friends with you?" Before Snape could respond, Harry continued, fighting back a wave of nausea. "And... she trusted you, yeah? Really trusted you?"

Snape stared at him, his expression changing into something Harry couldn't quite read. Then, almost imperceptibly, he nodded once. They locked eyes, and Harry froze, realising what was about to occur. Desperately, he tried to shield his mind from the probing that was certain to follow, the sort he knew he wouldn't be able to defend himself from... but nothing happened. They simply stared at one another, and Harry steeled himself, gathering up every last bit of nerve before continuing on.

"I want Professor McGonagall here before I tell you anything."

"Potter-"

"I'll tell you the truth," Harry interrupted him, feeling as though he was betraying both himself and Sirius despite not knowing any other possible way out of this. "But not without Professor McGonagall."

Snape stared at him, then his arm abruptly raised upward, a silvery creature emerging from the tip of his wand and leaping through the open trapdoor before Harry could get a good look at it. Turning back to Harry, he said, "You told Black you're fifteen."

Harry didn't respond, trying to think back to both the earliest and the latest points he'd mentioned his actual age to Sirius. It wasn't enough to pinpoint exactly when Snape had entered the Shrieking Shack. Instead, he gazed in the direction of the empty trapdoor. "Was that a Patronus you just sent?"

"I'll answer your question if you answer mine."

Harry shook his head. It seemed fairly obvious that's what the silvery creature had been, he just hadn't known one could send messages via a Patronus.

Snape's lip curled, and they stood there in silence, Harry doing his best to ignore the wand trained on him. They stayed that way for quite some time.

When Professor McGonagall climbed through the trapdoor, wand aloft, she didn't speak, instead taking in the scene before her. Her eyes flitted from Snape, who held two wands in addition to his own, to Harry, to the still-unconscious Sirius Black, and she didn't say a word for a very long moment. Then, her body briefly sagging, she pressed one hand to the side of her face before straightening her posture and saying, "Severus, you're lucky I was in my office when I received your message."

"There was nothing revealing in it," Snape said, his voice icy.

"Requesting- no, demanding, I come to the Shrieking Shack at once? If I'd been in the Great Hall-"

"You do not get to play the moral high ground right now, Minerva," Snape hissed. He jerked his head toward Harry and Sirius. "I'm to believe you know something about... this?"

For the first time since Snape had revealed himself, Harry felt a glimmer of hope. Professor McGonagall wouldn't allow Sirius to be sent back to Azkaban. She'd be able to protect him from Snape in a way Harry was incapable of. For a brief moment, he entertained the idea she might hex him, or lob a memory charm at him. But Professor McGonagall's wand remained in her hand, unused, as she slowly lowered it to her side.

"What have you told him?" she asked Harry.

"Nothing," Harry said. "But I'm not sure how long he's been listening." He hesitated. "I said... I said I'd tell him everything if you were here."

Snape looked sharply at Professor McGonagall, but didn't say anything. Finally, she nodded at Harry, inhaling deeply before saying, "I'm glad you did. And I am glad you summoned me, Severus."

"How long have you known of... this?" Snape waved a hand in the general direction of Harry and Sirius.

"July," Professor McGonagall said, pausing at the noise of incredulity Snape made in response before continuing. "Though I suppose on some level I've known for two years. I just didn't believe it, not truly, until this summer. Do you remember when I visited Sirius Black in Azkaban two years ago?"

And so, Professor McGonagall began to tell the story Sirius Black had told her, one of another world where things were the same yet different, one where the Dark Lord had returned, where Peter Pettigrew had been the one to send the Potters to their deaths.

"And you believed him?" Snape's tone was still incredulous, but it softened only the slightest amount as he turned his attention to Harry. "Where does the boy come into this?"

"The same thing happened to me," Harry said quietly, hoping he was doing the right thing. "I fell through the veil too."

"The same veil that exists only in legend?"

"Yeah," Harry said, and he met his gaze, a hint of defiance creeping into his voice. "That one. It's not just a legend where I come from."

"I promised Black I'd help him before he escaped," McGonagall said. "I didn't entirely believe his story, but I was willing to do the research."

"And you believe it now?" Snape jerked his head toward Harry. "You believe he's from this... this alternate future as well?"

Professor McGonagall nodded. "Their stories line up, though the boy hasn't had any interaction with Black until now, not since he was a baby. I've seen some of his memories-"

"Memories can be falsified."

"Crudely so, yes." Professor McGonagall raised her eyebrows. "Do you really expect a first-year student- who wasn't even a first-year yet when he told me his story- to be able to perfectly replicate these false memories of people he's never met, of people he wouldn't rationally know exist?"

"Black, then." Snape's eyes narrowed as he gazed down at Sirius's unconscious form. "He found Potter and falsified his memories."

"A lifetime's worth of memories? Flawlessly, with no sign of tampering?" Professor McGonagall's tone remained calm. "With a stolen wand that wasn't his own? Severus, if Black were that powerful, he'd have taken over half of the country by now."

"We're telling you the truth," Harry said, then hesitated. "I'll... I'll show you some of my memories, if that's what it takes to make you believe Sirius is innocent."

The journey back to the castle was a strange one. Harry, Professor McGonagall, and Snape walked side-by-side, a Disillusioned Sirius hovering in front of them.

"When will he wake up?" Harry asked, barely able to make out his godfather's outline in the darkness.

"Soon, I'd imagine." Professor McGonagall said. "I'm surprised he hasn't roused yet. You must have hit him with a remarkably strong Stunning Spell, Severus."

Snape grunted but didn't respond.

"Was that you we heard when the floorboards creaked?" Harry asked. "When Sirius cast all those revealing charms?"

Harry thought Snape wouldn't acknowledge his question, but after a moment he tilted his head in a faint nod.

"Why did the charms fail?"

"You'd be surprised," Snape said archly, "What will be hidden when one jumps down an open trapdoor before they can be hit with a spell."

"Oh. So, then you just reapplied the charm?"

"Your abilities of astuteness know no bounds, Potter."

The Entrance Hall was empty when they reached it. Voices wafted out from the ajar doors of the Great Hall, where the rest of the castle appeared to be enjoying their dinner.

"Will anyone notice we're gone?" Harry asked.

"I sent Professor Sprout a note that Professor Snape and I were dealing with a Hogwarts matter before going to the Shrieking Shack," Professor McGonagall explained. "I'm sure you'll come up with a suitable excuse for your housemates."

Harry nodded, glancing toward the Great Hall as they made their way up the marble staircase.

Professor McGonagall wasn't going to erase Snape's memories. Harry had known this deep down from the moment she arrived at the Shrieking Shack, but it truly settled in as she retrieved the Pensieve and placed it on her desk. Harry glanced around the office, his eyes settling on Professor Dumbledore's portrait, who took in the sight before him before meeting Harry's gaze serenely, then closing his eyes and pretending, as he so often did, to be asleep.

"If you're ready, then, Potter," Professor McGonagall said gently, gesturing at the Pensieve. "And if you're certain."

Harry nodded, glancing at Sirius, who was visible but still unconscious, his lower half on the ground, his torso propped up against the wall. He was doing it to save Sirius- even if Sirius's wishes were for no one to know he'd been here to begin with.

"I'll need my wand," he said to Snape, who gave him a long, hard look before reaching into his pocket.

"If you so much as try anything..." he warned him as he handed him his wand.

"If I can outpower you and Professor McGonagall on my own, I'll be the most surprised person in this room," Harry reassured him.

Snape's expression, as dark as it was, managed to darken further. "Watch your cheek, Potter."

Harry wasn't listening. He pressed the tip of his wand to the top of his head and slowly, carefully, extracted the memory he was looking for before placing it in the Pensieve. "This one. You can start with this one."

Snape stared at Harry, then at the swirling memory before them, as though suspecting a trap. Then, in one fluid motion, he leaned forward and placed his head within. Harry stepped forward, wondering if he should follow.

"Go," came Professor McGonagall's voice from behind him. When Harry turned to face her, she motioned at Sirius. "I'll watch him."

Harry nodded, then turned back to the Pensieve, steeling himself.

"One can never be certain," Professor McGonagall said quietly. "But I think you've done the right thing, Harry."

"Yeah," Harry responded, leaning forward. "I hope so too."

Harry, younger than he'd once been yet older than he was now, lunging at Sirius, punching wildly wherever he could land a blow. Ron and Hermione shouting, the former struggling to climb onto the dilapidated four-poster bed with his broken leg. Sirius on the floor, Crookshanks on his chest, Harry standing over them, holding his wand, making one of the most difficult decisions of his life.

"Going to kill me, Harry?"

And in the midst of it all, there was Snape, and there was Harry, watching in silence. Snape didn't acknowledge Harry's presence, nor did his expression change when Lupin joined them, disarming the other Harry and Hermione of their wands.

Harry didn't explain anything to Snape. The memory did that for him.

More chaos, as Lupin embraced Sirius, and Hermione revealed he was a werewolf. And then calm, or something resembling it, at last, as Sirius and Lupin explained the truth, each filling in the gaps the other had possessed, the whole picture very nearly coming into place, until-

Snape finally reacted when his other self pulled off Harry's Invisibility Cloak, revealing himself to the group. It was nearly inaudible, a faint intake of breath and tightening of his lips. Harry understood; there was something undeniably eerie about seeing yourself standing in front of you, unaware you were watching. He reckoned it had to be even stranger when it was a version of yourself from a different world.

The rest of the memory unfolded just as Harry remembered it. Snape shouting, refusing to listen to anything anyone tried to say, Lupin tied up on the floor-

"Up to the castle? I don't think we need to go that far. All I have to do is call the dementors once we get out of the Willow. They'll be very pleased to see you, Black... pleased enough to give you a little Kiss, I daresay... I'll drag the werewolf. Perhaps the dementors will have a Kiss for him too."

More arguing, more shouting-

"You would have been well served if he'd killed you! You'd have died like your father, too arrogant to believe you might be mistaken in Black-"

And then, not just one but three Disarming Charms jetting toward Snape, hitting him so hard he flew across the room and slammed against the wall, unconscious. Unable to help himself, Harry glanced sideways at Snape, trying to gauge his reaction. Snape stared right back at him, eyebrows raised, but he didn't speak.

And so, the memory went on, Scabbers forcibly transforming into Peter Pettigrew, admitting the truth. The decision to return to Hogwarts, Snape's unconscious body levitating much as Sirius's had moments before. The journey from the Whomping Willow, Sirius's invitation to take Harry in. And then- everything going wrong- the full moon, Lupin's transformation. Pettigrew's escape. The Dementors.

Sirius collapsing, then Hermione. Harry trying desperately to summon a Patronus, then falling unconscious himself as something distant charged toward them, driving the Dementors away-

And then they were moving upward, emerging into Professor McGonagall's office, both Harry and Snape very still and very silent. Professor McGonagall watched them, though she, too, didn't speak.

Finally, Snape turned to face Harry, a strange expression on his face. "How am I to believe you escaped that scenario, then?"

"Erm. Time travel." Harry placed both hands on top of the desk, bracing himself. "Hermione had a Time Turner so she could take extra classes, and Professor Dumbledore sort of... gave us the idea to go back and fix things."

"Of course." Snape glanced at the portrait of the former headmaster. "The man who died three years ago."

"You're not asleep, Albus," Professor McGonagall said in exasperation. "We all know it."

"My alternate self," Professor Dumbledore said without opening his eyes, "Appears to have had a slightly more robust immune system than my own. A pity I haven't had the opportunity to meet him before my own death. Perhaps we might have swapped exercise and diet regimes."

Snape ignored this, turning to Harry abruptly. "Show me more."

"What... what do you want to see?"

"More," Snape hissed. "You said the Dark Lord returned?"

Harry nodded.

"Show me."

And Harry did, removing this memory even more carefully than the last, and he and Snape watched as Peter Pettigrew killed Cedric Diggory, tied Harry to the marble headstone of Voldemort's father, and helped the terrible scaly thing return to its proper form. Popping noises as the Death Eaters who chose to return did so, leaving only six gaps. The duel. The ethereal bodies emerging from the linked wands. Harry's parents speaking to him.

The return to the maze, Harry telling Dumbledore he was back, Voldemort was back-

And once more they were in Professor McGonagall's office. Harry steadied his breath as he retrieved both memories and returned them to himself, while Snape sat heavily in the chair opposite the desk.

"It was Barty Crouch Jr.," Harry said, not quite meeting anyone's eyes. "Disguised as Mad-Eye- as Alastor Moody. He was the one who helped Voldemort behind the scenes, along with Pettigrew."

Snape winced at Harry's usage of Voldemort's name, but he didn't speak.

"That happened a year ago. The Ministry wouldn't believe me. The Daily Prophet turned on me too, and Dumbledore. He had to go on the run after a while, but he came back to help when I fought Voldemort at the Department of Mysteries- long story. I thought we were saved, but then Sirius fell through the veil. I suppose I did, too."

Snape closed his eyes, then opened them. Slowly, he rose to his feet and took a step toward Professor McGonagall. "You didn't tell me." His voice was icy. "You didn't tell me?"

"Severus."

"Don't."

"She wanted to," Harry said. "She tried to convince me to tell you, but..."

"It was to be his decision," Professor McGonagall finished for him, nodding in his direction. "Not mine."

Snape let out a particularly mirthless chuckle. "Lovely to know our decisions rest on the shoulders of an eleven-year-old boy- a fifteen-year-old boy- whatever he is."

"You're-" Harry shook his head. "You need to understand. You're different where I come from."

"So I've gathered." Snape turned his attention to Harry once more. "I'm to believe I was a Death Eater of my own accord in your world?"

"As far as I know, yeah, you were. Dumbledore says you came around, but..." Harry trailed off. "Well, either way, you didn't like me very much."

"I imagine few professors would be particularly fond of students who disarmed then."

"You were going to give Sirius up to the Dementors," Harry protested. "You wouldn't listen, not the way you are now. Besides, you hated me long before that."

Snape didn't respond. He was staring at Sirius, who was staring back at him. Harry froze, turning to his godfather who was still on the ground with his eyes open, silently taking in the scene before him.

"Severus," Professor McGonagall hissed as Snape drew his wand, though she too held her wand at the ready.

"I'm unarmed," Sirius said quietly, raising his hands into the air, the rest of his body perfectly still. "I won't hurt you."

"Sirius," Harry said quickly. "I'm sorry. It was the only way to keep you safe. I couldn't have fought him off on my own."

Sirius didn't respond, but Harry thought the slight raise of his chin might have been a nod. He glanced at Professor McGonagall. "Hello again. How've your past two years been?"

"Stand up," Snape snapped before Professor McGonagall could respond. "Now."

Gazing at the tip of Snape's wand, which was pointed directly at him, Sirius obeyed slowly. Snape moved toward him, expression dark, and the two men stared at each other. Harry stood very still, afraid to move or even speak.

"Hello," Sirius finally said after a long moment had passed.

"Hello," Snape responded, as if by rote. He stared at Sirius. "You're not him, then."

Sirius shook his head. "No. I'm not."

There was no reply at first, then Snape's lips tightened. "I'm glad you aren't."

They stood there in silence, no one quite sure what to say next.

Chapter Text

Gold plates bearing food from the Great Hall had appeared in Professor McGonagall's office not long ago, accompanied by enormous goblets of pumpkin juice and water. Harry hardly touched his dinner, nor did Professor McGonagall or Snape. Sirius, meanwhile, attacked his meal with gusto, dispensing with utensils entirely and instead shoveling handfuls directly into his mouth.

"Sorry," he managed to say through a mouthful of steak and kidney pie. "It's been a while."

Professor McGonagall simply nodded and motioned for him to carry on, which he did.

"How did you know we were in the Shrieking Shack?" Harry asked Snape, who watched the proceedings with an inscrutable expression.

"I spotted you on my way back from the forest." To Professor McGonagall, he added, "The Weasley twins were skulking about at the perimeter again."

"They'll be the death of me," she said with a sigh. "If the three of you don't achieve that first."

"I'm certain when that time comes, your portrait will be lovely, Minerva," Professor Dumbledore spoke up from his own frame.

"As reassuring as that may be, hopefully it will be some time until we find out," she replied.

They fell into silence once more, one that was punctuated only by the sounds of Sirius resuming his meal.

"I'd like to recommend that no major decisions be made tonight," Professor McGonagall said after a moment had passed. "There's been a great deal of emotion from everyone, and we all need a good night's sleep before reconvening in the morning."

Harry nodded slowly, and after a moment so did Sirius.

"Did anyone suspect me?" the latter asked after a moment. He didn't direct this question to anyone in particular, instead focusing on the space between them. "Back... then? Was it obvious I was hiding something?"

Professor McGonagall shook her head. "It came as a great shock."

"What was I like?"

"Intelligent. Brilliantly so."

"Impulsive," Professor Snape added. "Bordering on reckless at times, but not when the stakes were too high to be ignored. I always— one always felt they could depend upon you."

"You say that like we were friends," Sirius said with a laugh. When Snape's already dour expression only soured further, he quickly sobered. "Wait, were we friends?"

"I wouldn't say we were friends, Black." Snape's voice was stiff. "But you were a reliable ally, or at least you seemed to be. I trusted you immensely."

"Oh." Sirius mulled this over. "I'm sorry about that."

"A foolish thing to be sorry for, given you claim to be someone else."

"Well, I'm sorry on his behalf, then. He sounds like a right dick."

Snape didn't deign to respond to this.

"It was a terrible surprise," Professor McGonagall said. "We suspected there was a mole within the Order, but no one suspected you— no one suspected our version of you, that is."

Sirius nodded slowly, deep in thought. "What do you think happened to him when I took over his body?"

No one replied at first. Then Harry said, "I wonder about that sometimes too. I mean, the whole reason Sirius and I are here is because humans can't destroy someone else's soul on their own. If that's true, shouldn't the people we replaced still exist somewhere?"

"Maybe they died. Or maybe they're in our world, in our real bodies." Sirius frowned, discarding this idea as quickly as it arrived. "But no, if the Ministry used the veil to execute people, they'd probably notice if some condemned bloke popped back out with stories about another universe."

"Maybe they were sent into the void, the same as us," Harry suggested. "And a new universe sprang up around them. And the people they replaced in that universe went into the void, and a new universe sprang up around them…" He trailed off. The whole idea made him uneasy.

"As mystifying and intriguing as the concept of infinity is, I'd suggest focusing on the many, more immediate, issues at hand," Professor Snape said, a hint of sarcasm creeping into his voice. "But feel free to ponder the subject on your own time, Potter."

Sirius spent that night in a small, unused room near Professor McGonagall's quarters, one the latter assured him was extremely secure. Harry wanted to join him, but both Professors McGonagall and Snape insisted he sleep in his dorm, lest he raise suspicion amongst his fellow Slytherins.

"We could make an excuse," Harry protested as he and Professor Snape made their way downstairs. The corridors were empty, but Snape cast a silent spell that apparently made them impossible to be overheard. "Crabbe and Goyle— no offence, sir, but they probably haven't even noticed I'm missing. And as for the other two, well, they're first years, aren't they? They don't have any reason not to believe what you tell them. Even if they didn't, what's the worst they could do?"

"Forgive me if I hesitate to be persuaded, Potter, given what I hear you managed to achieve during your original first year."

Harry grimaced. "That was different."

"Ah, yes." Snape's tone was even more sarcastic than it had been before. "Things are different when they apply to you, Potter."

"I didn't mean it like that," Harry protested, trying and failing to fight down a wave of anger. "And before we went down the trapdoor, we tried to go to Professor Dumbledore first, and Professor McGonagall, but he was gone, and she didn't believe us. It was a matter of life and death."

Harry paused. It wasn't lost on him that Quirrell and Voldemort would have been unable to retrieve the Stone even if he hadn't turned up (in fact, he'd inadvertently helped them get even closer to obtaining it), but he'd had no way of knowing that at the time.

"We thought it was life or death, at least," he conceded. When Professor Snape still didn't respond, he added, "I meant what I said back in September, by the way. I don't think I'm a celebrity. I don't want special treatment. I just want to be treated like any other student. I am just like any other student."

"I suppose you are, if one forgets the small detail of the time and dimension travel," Professor Snape said flatly, but he didn't insult Harry further. "I do believe you, Potter."

"Yeah?" Harry asked. When Snape glared at him, he thought a moment before rephrasing the question. "You do, sir?"

"Indeed. And I promise to treat you just as I would the multitude of other fifteen-year-olds trapped in a first-year's body flung my way."

Harry snorted, and before he could think too deeply at having laughed at a joke told by Snape, something occurred to him. "Sixteen, actually."

"I beg your pardon?"

Harry shrugged. "I fell through the veil in June, and it was around the same time when I arrived here. It's October now, so at some point I must have turned sixteen."

"Ah." Professor Snape thought this over as they reached the staircase to the dungeons. "I hope you don't expect a birthday party in the common room."

"Absolutely not, sir," Harry reassured him.

"Well, I'm glad we're in agreement on something."

They walked through the dungeon corridors in silence. Few students loitered about, but those who did made themselves scarce as Snape strode past, his expression clearly stating this was not the day to trifle with him.

"You'll tell your dormmates you missed dinner because you were serving detention with me," Snape advised as they grew closer to the common room.

"All right. What shall I tell them I did, then? Can't hurt to have our stories line up." Various ideas sprang to mind. "Maybe I went sneaking about the Forbidden Forest, or tried to duel Peeves—"

"No," Snape vetoed. "Nothing that will give them ideas or make them think you're the hero."

"I don't think trying to duel Peeves necessarily comes off as heroic, sir," Harry argued, but he didn't push the subject too hard. "What do you suggest, then?"

They'd reached the common room, and for a moment they stood there as Professor Snape considered the possibilities.

"You fell off your broom after flying dangerously," he finally decided. "If I hadn't been there to stop your fall, you'd have broken your neck."

"What? I'd never fall off my broom," Harry protested. "Not unless I had a good reason. I'm— sir, I'm not trying to brag, but I'm a good flyer."

"I've seen you tearing across the grounds on those school brooms." Snape raised an eyebrow. "You're lucky you haven't killed yourself yet."

"I haven't because I'm a good flyer— and sir, have you ever tried to fly on one of those brooms?" Harry sighed and said, "Fine. But I'll tell them you only thought I was going to fall off my broom. And I'll tell them you were overreacting."

"Somehow, I think I'll survive that indignity." As Harry turned to the stone wall, Snape motioned for him to wait. "You can also tell your housemates that for talking back, I've assigned you detention every Wednesday for the next month. Perhaps longer, depending on whether or not you've improved your attitude."

"What?" Harry winced as his younger-self's voice cracked.

"My office, every Wednesday evening as soon as you finish dinner," Snape said, then softened so slightly Harry wasn't even sure he had. "Don't be stupid, Potter. You won't be writing lines or scrubbing cauldrons. I imagine we have quite a great deal to catch up on."

The next morning at breakfast, Harry ate as quickly as he could, determined to make it back to Professor McGonagall's office as quickly as possible.

"Have you been taking lessons from Crabbe and Goyle?" Nott asked, looking simultaneously impressed and disgusted.

Harry grunted, finishing the last of his toast. "Just hungry."

"Didn't Professor Snape let you have any dinner last night?" Daphne asked, her face leaning firmly more toward disgusted than impressed.

"A bit," Harry mumbled as he swallowed, then jumped to his feet. "I'm off."

"Where to?" Nott asked, perking up. "Exploring the castle again? Mind if I join?"

"Erm-" Harry tried to think of an excuse, and finally just said, "I'd rather spend today on my own, mate."

"Oh." Nott's expression didn't change, and he turned back to his own breakfast. "Yeah, all right, then."

"Tonight?" Harry offered, already on his feet. "Or tomorrow evening? Gobstones until we drop, I promise."

Running up the marble staircase, Harry nearly slammed into Cedric Diggory, who was on his way downstairs for a late breakfast.

"Careful, Potter!" came Cedric's voice after him. "You nearly took us both out!"

"Sorry," Harry called over his shoulder, not slowing down.

The image of Cedric's face followed him all the way to Professor McGonagall's office. Not only the face he'd just seen, but the blank one in the graveyard he'd just witnessed again last night in the Pensieve. It lingered in his mind even as the gargoyle stepped aside, allowing Harry to hurry upstairs, where Sirius and Professor McGonagall were already waiting.

"All right, then, Harry?" Sirius asked, looking far cleaner and more well rested than he had the night before.

"Yeah." Harry tossed himself into the chair nearest his godfather. "You?"

Sirius just nodded.

Professor Snape arrived shortly after, and as he strode in, Sirius leaned toward Harry. "I know you don't have your cloak." His voice was low. "Is it safe to assume you don't have the map either?"

When Harry shook his head, Sirius turned to the two professors and cleared his throat. "Before we discuss anything, I'd like, as Harry's godfather, to make sure Harry has access to James' Invisibility Cloak. James would have wanted him to have it, and it's saved Harry's life on more than one occasion." Before McGonagall or Snape could speak, he carried on. "There's something more. A bit of parchment. At this point in our world, it would either be among Argus Filch's confiscated items, or in the possession of the Weasley twins."

A pause, as Professors McGonagall and Snape waited for elaboration. When none came, Professor Snape spoke up. "You'll have to give us more information than that, Black."

"Stay out of it. I wasn't asking y-" Sirius said sharply, before catching himself. He closed his eyes, then opened them, and in a more conciliatory tone, he continued, "I'm sorry. When you look at me, you see a different Sirius. When I look at you..."

"We didn't get on, yes, I've gathered that," Professor Snape said flatly. "I'll do my best not to hold a different set of circumstances against you, if you can extend the same courtesy toward me."

Sirius nodded once, then, after a moment, looking as though he hardly believed what he was doing, he stood up and extended his right hand. Professor Snape stared at it, then outstretched his own hand. The handshake between the two men was brief, but not nearly as quick, nor reluctant, as the one they'd exchanged in the hospital wing the night Voldemort returned.

"Right," Professor McGonagall spoke up, breaking the silence that ensued. "Sirius, would you please tell us more about this... parchment?"

Sirius glanced at Harry. Harry glanced at Sirius. They shared a small, nearly imperceptible nod.

"It's a map," Harry said at last. "It shows Hogwarts, and everyone in it. The people are dots, with names alongside them, and they move around."

Another silence, then Professor Snape let out something that almost sounded like a snort, as Professor McGonagall exclaimed, "I knew it."

"Did you?" Sirius asked, tilting his head.

"Not that you had a map, no. But, great Merlin, the amount of mischief you and your friends got up to, all while managing to evade detection..." Her lips twitched. "Despite the many differences between our universes, I suspect this may be a constant factor."

"Haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about, Professor. We were model students, never an ounce of trouble."

"I saw you with it a couple of times," Professor Snape said. "A tatty piece of parchment. I was never able to get close enough to see what it was, but you were quite protective of it." He paused, gaze sliding toward Harry. "And you'd like an underaged student to keep a constantly updating map of the castle in his possession? The same student who was already caught trying to sneak out of his common room late at night?"

"That was my very first night here," Harry protest. "It was ages ago."

"It was two months ago."

"Exactly! And it isn't as though I was sneaking out to, I don't know, fill the great hall with doxies. I was trying to speak with Professor McGonagall!"

Professor Snape opened his mouth, but Professor McGonagall spoke first. "Before we decide who will safeguard the map, perhaps we should verify that there is, indeed, a map." To Sirius, she added, "You said it was in Argus Filch's office, or in possession of the Weasley twins?"

Sirius nodded, and Professor McGonagall made her way to the door. She paused before exiting. "I expect to find you all here in one piece upon my return."

Professor McGonagall hadn't been gone long, but it felt like hours had passed. Sirius examined the slumbering portrait of Professor Dumbledore, and both he and Harry jumped when Professor Snape spoke up.

"He sleeps a great deal, but when he's awake one can sometimes forget it's not truly him." Snape paused. "It sounds like him. It looks like him. It has the same personality, more or less. But..."

Sirius nodded. "The portrait of my mum was like that. At first glance, she was the same vile bat as always. But she was... flatter, I suppose. Not just physically."

"Indeed," Professor Snape said, and they fell silent again until Professor McGonagall returned, a familiar bit of paper in her hand. "Argus's office, as it turned out."

Harry hardly noticed it. He was still watching the sleeping former headmaster's portrait. By now, he'd spent enough time in this office to know he heard far more than he let on. "Professor Dumbledore, there's something I need to ask you."

Professor Dumbledore slid upon a single eye, a small smile on his face. "Ask away, my boy."

Harry glanced at Sirius, then back at the portrait. "I need to know about the prophecy."

The room grew very still. Professor Dumbledore gazed down at Harry before saying, quite gently, "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

"That's rubbish," Sirius said loudly, his expression incredulous. "It's the whole reason James and Lily went into hiding!"

"Not here, it wasn't." Professor McGonagall stepped forward, glancing at Professor Dumbledore's portrait. "Unless..."

"Minerva, you have my word that neither I nor the Potters knew anything of a prophecy," he said, suddenly as alert as he'd been when Harry first arrived at Hogwarts over the summer. To Sirius, he asked, "You said it's the reason they went into hiding?"

"Yes! You have to know about it- it's the same prophecy Voldemort was after!" Harry all but exploded. "It's the whole reason he lured us to the Department of Mysteries!"

"Potter." Professor McGonagall's voice was sharp as she placed the Marauder's Map on her desk, fixing Harry with a strange look. "You told me you didn't know what You-Know-Who wanted from the Department of Mysteries."

"That's because I didn't know there was a prophecy until yesterday." Harry jerked his head toward Sirius. "He told me."

"I hardly know anything myself. We weren't told about it at the time. I reckon the only ones who knew were James and Lily..." Sirius trailed off, then turned to Professor Dumbledore's portrait. "And you."

The painting studied him carefully, a heavy expression on its face. "Sirius, Harry, I only wish I had the answers you seek."

"Then..." Harry shook his head. "Why did my parents go into hiding? Why did Voldemort single them out? Why did they die?"

A long pause. Then, his lips parting from their tightly formed line, Professor Snape said, "It was, I believe, partially due to me."

Harry's insides turned cold. "What? But you were working for the Order. You said-"

"Yes, I know what I said. I was working for the Order," Professor Snape snapped. He laced his fingers together, posture particularly straight. "I was also short-sighted. Foolish, even."

"I wouldn't be that harsh on yourself, Severus," Professor McGonagall said quietly.

"I'm perfectly capable of accepting my shortcomings, Headmistress," he shot back.

"He saved the lives of several Order members from certain death," Professor McGonagall explained to Harry and Sirius. "What you may not know is that Professor Snape's status as a double agent was a very tightly kept secret."

"Lily Potter knew," Professor Snape said, nodding in Harry's general direction. "I suspect James Potter did as well. Obviously, Professor Dumbledore was well aware."

"So, what happened?" Harry asked, his breath catching in his throat.

Professor Snape let out a low sigh. "It was an ambush. Despite their best efforts, several order members were cornered. I used a Stunning Spell on their attackers from behind. We were wearing hoods, but I was recognised by my wand."

"If you Stunned the Death Eaters from behind, how did they recognise your wand?" Sirius asked. "Unless..."

A strange silence fell over the room.

"Unless what?" Harry asked, and almost instantly he realised. Slowly, gazing at Sirius, he said, "Were you one of the Order members he saved?"

Sirius stared at Snape. "Was I?"

Another silence, followed by a curt nod.

A stream of swear words that sent the non-snoozing portraits into a tizzy of tutting erupted from Sirius as he simultaneously slammed a hand against the nearest hard surface.

"Indeed," was Professor Snape's only reply.

"So that's another instance I betrayed someone to Voldemort," Sirius said darkly. "Tell me, though, how this led to James and Lily going into hiding."

"They'd always been targets," Professor Snape explained. "Lily in particular. She was a Muggle-born Slytherin attempting to make the house a more welcoming place at the very height of the Dark Lord's reign." He turned to Harry. "And yes, Potter, as much as it continuously seems to astound you, your mother and I were friends."

Harry couldn't find the words to respond, but this didn't seem to matter, as Snape carried right on. "My duplicity infuriated the Dark Lord. No one tricked him- and yet I had. He refused to take that indignity lying down. He planned to kill me, yes, but first he would make me suffer."

"By killing my mum," Harry murmured. "And her entire family."

Another curt nod. "Both my parents were gone by then. I had no relatives of note. The Dark Lord... he knew it would be the most effective way to destroy me before taking my life. He wanted to suitably punish me. Your parents went into hiding, and so did I."

"My mum," Harry said slowly. "You and she weren't just friends. She was your best friend, wasn't she?"

Professor Snape's expression didn't change. "Yes, Potter. I suppose she was."

Harry let this sink in, mulling it over. "But... sir, something doesn't make sense. In my world, I was told the Killing Curse backfired because my mum was given the chance to step aside, and she refused. I've heard her voice the night she died. It's what I hear when I'm near Dementors; I hear both my parents. Voldemort gave her the choice to live, if she stopped trying to protect me. If he was trying to punish you, why would he let her live?"

Professor Snape stared at Harry, as though seriously considering what he was about to say.

"Go on," Harry urged. "Whatever it is, I can handle it. It's not knowing things that drives me mad."

"I don't know for certain, Potter," Professor Snape said carefully. "But... I suspect the Dark Lord was not opposed to keeping your mother alive indefinitely."

"You mean... to torture her?"

"Perhaps. As I said, she was a Slytherin Muggle-born violently opposed to the cause. The Dark Lord found her existence especially detestable. If he wanted to punish both her and I... well, there's more than one way to break a soul."

Harry nodded. He didn't ask for further elaboration.

"You said you were partially to blame for my parents dying," he said at last. "But you're not. You tried to save someone's life. It's..."

It's the sort of thing I would have done, he thought, but couldn't bring himself to say aloud.

"I appreciate the exoneration, Potter." The reply was dripping with sarcasm, but not nearly as barbed as Harry might have expected.

"He's right." Professor McGonagall said. She turned to Sirius, her familiar steeliness slipping into her tone. "And as for you, I hope you realise you aren't to blame for the actions of an entirely different Sirius Black. I won't have you moping about when there's work to be done."

They'd reached several decisions by dinner.

"I will safeguard the map," Professor McGonagall declared. "Professor Snape will safeguard the Invisibility Cloak. During the summer holidays, Potter, you may do with them what you will. If, while at school, you find yourself in a desperate, life-or-death need to use either we will hand them over, no questions asked."

"Really?" Harry's eyes flitted between the two professors suspiciously. "No questions asked?"

"Obviously, one would hope you'd trust us enough to include us in your reasoning, particularly in a life-or-death situation." She paused. "But if you choose to trust us to keep them safe, we will trust you to use them wisely. We'll reassess at the start of your second year, by which time you will have at least experienced enough of life to be considered of age mentally, if not physically. Severus?"

Professor Snape grimaced, but after a moment he nodded.

Harry thought this over, then he nodded as well. "Fine. I'll trust the two of you."

He was looking at Professor Snape when he said it, and he was strangely aware he wasn't talking only about his Invisibility Cloak.

The second decision wasn't reached as quickly, but it was eventually agreed that Sirius would return to the Balkans.

"We can't just let Voldemort roam free," Sirius said. "He's useless in his current state, but it would be stupid to leave him unmonitored."

"One might say it was stupid to leave him for as long as you did," Professor Snape commented and, before Sirius could bark a reply, he held his hands aloft and idly said, "Your godson, yes, I know. I'm not blaming you, Black, just pointing out the reality of the situation. Have you thought how you plan to rediscover the Dark Lord upon your return?"

"The animals," Sirius said swiftly. "He can't have gone far, and any distance he has traveled will have been by possessing small animals. The creatures of the forests know about him- they communicate with one another to warn against certain areas that mean death."

"And what do you plan to do when you find him?"

Sirius shrugged. "Same as I have been, I suppose. Keep an eye on him. I might not be much more than an inconvenience, but he can't hurt me, and it's important we know where he is at all times."

"On your own, though?" Harry asked. "What if something happens to you?"

"I've managed for the past couple of years," Sirius told him. "I can manage a bit longer."

"But... won't you be lonely?" The impossible question remained unspoken, but Sirius understood.

"I'd love to have you join me," he said quietly. He glanced at Professors McGonagall and Snape before turning back to Harry. "But the Trace would out you in a moment to the Ministry. Even if it somehow didn't, could you imagine the manhunt if the Boy-Who-Lived vanished from Hogwarts? We'd never make it out of the country."

"Besides," said Professor McGonagall. "We'll need your help here, Mr. Potter."

Harry looked at her, not quite believing her, as Professor Snape rolled his eyes.

"Don't be obtuse, Potter. Your godfather may not be able to do much more than prevent You-Know-Who from gathering strength, but you can't imagine we plan to remain in that status quo indefinitely." He gestured at Professor McGonagall. "We'll devote ourselves to discovering the true nature of the Dark Lord's current form, and how it can be eradicated once and for all."

"I won't be of any use there. I don't know anything more about it than you, Professor."

"Of course you do," Professor McGonagall said. "You've seen him return. You've seen his new body. We are going to need your memories, Potter, and your stories." She paused. "And while I fully acknowledge you are older than you look, and that you've experienced far more than someone many times your age, you are an underaged wizard in every sense of the phrase. As Headmistress of Hogwarts, I have a responsibility toward you. I will work with you, Mr. Potter, and I will never keep you in the dark, but it would be a dereliction of duty to send you on this journey now, at this stage of your life, even if you would be under the care of a very capable wizard."

Harry turned to look at Sirius, who hesitated, then slowly nodded. "I hate to say it, but I think she's right."

He'd known it would turn out this way, but he felt his shoulder sag all the same. "What happened to you not trusting Professor McGonagall or Snape?"

"Yeah, well, I hadn't met them yet. Not properly, at least." Sirius inhaled deeply, then exhaled. To the other two adults, he said, "You'll look after him, then?"

"Yes, Black," Professor Snape said, as Professor McGonagall nodded. "You have our word."

"I'll write to you," Harry promised. "The same way we did before."

"I have something better for you." Sirus reached into one of the pockets of his tattered robes and emerged with a small package wrapped in what appeared to be filthy cloth. "You never used it the last time around, but maybe you will this time."

"What is it?"

"Your Christmas present. It's a pair of mirrors- your dad and I used to use them when we were in separate detentions. I slipped into my old house before coming here. If you need me, just say my name into it. We can use it to talk."

Harry unwrapped the package and stared at the mirrors, horror slowly rising in the pit of his stomach. "I didn't open it because I thought it might be something that would put you in danger. I didn't want to know what it was- didn't want to tempt myself. But if I'd opened it..."

He trailed off, realising that he'd have been able to talk to Sirius and would have never gone to the Department of Mysteries.

"It is what it is," Sirius said in a low voice. "Don't blame yourself. We're here now, aren't we?"

Ron isn't, Harry thought. Our entire world isn't. But he managed to nod, taking one of the mirrors and sliding it into his own pocket. To the two professors, he said, "I want to keep this on me. You can safeguard my other things, but this is mine."

He expected them to argue, but they just nodded. Professor McGonagall said, "I only ask you not hide anything, and promise the same to you. If I've learned anything from the ordeal of these past few months, it's that between the four of us... I want no more secrets."

Harry nodded. "Yeah. No more secrets."

Sirius left that night. They'd tried to persuade him to stay one more night, but he refused, determined to get back to Voldemort as soon as possible. Professor McGonagall found a broomstick for him, not one of the terrible school brooms with which Harry was forced to wrestle whenever he wanted to fly, but an only slightly out-of-date Cleansweep that turned out to belong to Professor McGonagall herself.

"I've barely used it," she said as she handed it over. "But I expect it returned in one piece."

"It will be," Sirius reassured her. "I'll take good care of it."

Something occurred to Harry then, something he was surprised hadn't come to him before now. "Professor. I don't want you or Professor Snape guarding my Invisibility Cloak." Before anyone could protest, he continued, "I want Sirius to take it with him."

"Harry." Sirius's eyes widened. "That's yours. I couldn't dream of taking it."

"I don't need to sneak around anymore, not how I used to. Besides, you're facing Voldemort! You'll need it more than me." Harry crossed his arms. "My dad would have wanted you to have it. I want you to have it."

Sirius opened his mouth, then closed it before stepping forward and embracing Harry tightly. They stayed that way for a long moment, one Harry wished would never end.

When they finally broke apart, Sirius said, "I'm only borrowing it, then. I'll bring it back."

"I know you will. Just... you know, be careful in the meantime. Don't let Voldemort get hold of it."

"I won't," Sirius reassured him. "And I'll be careful when I talk to you through the mirror. Voldemort knows I'm an enemy, but I don't think he realises I'm on your side. He probably thinks I'm trying to knock him off so I can be the next Dark Lord without any competition. Luckily for me, he's too weak to attempt Legilimency in his current form."

The moments before Sirius left seemed to span several lifetimes, while also slipping by in the blink of an eye. Harry watched as his godfather and Professor Snape conversed quietly, their voices too low to be heard. The Invisibility Cloak ran the risk of flying off if used on a broomstick, so Sirius Disillusioned both himself and Professor McGonagall's broom. An enormous bag filled with all the food and supplies they'd scrounged up hung from his shoulder.

"We'll talk as soon as possible," Sirius said. "Make sure no one overhears you."

"There's a spell," Professor Snape spoke up. "One I'll teach him, to prevent that." He glared at Harry. "You'll use it responsibly."

Harry just nodded, instead focusing on Sirius. He was hardly visible through the Disillusionment Charm, but Harry could see he was smiling sadly at him. "Be careful, Sirius."

"I will. You do the same."

They embraced again, and then Sirius was mounting his broom, pushing off from the ramparts of the Astronomy Tower, and the three remaining people watched as his faint outline disappeared into the dark evening sky.

"Hey." Harry flopped heavily next to Nott, who was lounging on a couch near the fire, or as near to the fire as he could get. The oldest years tended to hog all the best spots.

"Hey. Where've you been?"

"Just... wandering around the castle. Wanted to be on my own." He paused. "Sorry about this morning."

"It's fine."

"It wasn't anything personal."

"I didn't think it was." Nott shrugged. He hesitated for a moment before saying, "Just figured... you know. That time of year."

"What?"

Nott shrugged again, looking uncomfortable, and Harry suddenly realised.

Halloween.

He'd never focused much on the anniversary of his parents' deaths, partially because his Halloweens frequently involved fairly intense distractions including trolls, petrified cats, break-ins by supposed murderers, his name coming out of the Goblet of Fire...

Images of different versions of his parents flitted through his mind. Two Gryffindors who didn't get along but eventually fell in love. A Gryffindor and a Slytherin somehow coming together. Two different betrayals, two different nights in which they died.

Harry had been quiet for longer than he'd intended, and he finally said, "I owe you a game of Gobstones, don't I, Nott?"

"I'm game if you are." He stood up and started toward their dorm to retrieve the set. "And if you'd like, I don't care if you call me Theo."

"Oh." Harry paused. "Okay. You can call me Harry."

Theo made his exit, and Harry braced the side of his face with a hand, his elbow against the arm of the couch. The common room seemed to be swimming before him; he'd rather be in bed, but somehow the idea of something as simple as Gobstones seemed relaxing. He'd probably change his mind the moment the foul-smelling liquid was shot into his face, but that was yet to come.

He wondered where Sirius was, and how long it would take before he was back in the forest where Voldemort was hiding. He wondered how long it would be until he faced him down again. Voldemort was weak, but, deep down, Harry wondered whether he'd return again, despite their head start.

Don't be stupid, he thought. You have every advantage this time around. It's not like before.

All the same, he knew he'd face him in some form eventually. If he'd known then what he would later, that that day would come before he began his second year, he might have been startled, yet somehow unsurprised. Voldemort had a way of turning up when one least expected him.

But he didn't know that now. All he knew was that they had a plan, and that he was about to play a game of Gobstones.

Chapter Text

October slid into November, and life continued on. Harry attended his classes, receiving good marks without much effort. He and Hermione continued to revise together, spending long afternoons in the library together in the process. It wasn't how Harry would necessarily choose to spend his time, but he'd already lost Ron to this world, and he wasn't about to lose her as well.

Sometimes other Ravenclaw students joined them. Harry was pleased to see that while Hermione was hardly the most popular girl around, she had an easier time making friends in her new house than she had in Gryffindor. That being said, even the most studious Ravenclaw's eyes could occasionally be seen glazing over when Hermione found herself on a particularly passionate ramble about a new piece of fascinating information she'd just discovered in Hogwarts: A History.

When he wasn't in the library, Harry continued to explore the castle with Theo and the other first-year Slytherin boys. Blaise Zabini didn't say much, but he was decent enough company. Crabbe and Goyle were thicker than treacle tart, but they meant well, and Harry had slowly come to realise they hadn't had very many friends at all before coming to Hogwarts. Both were only children who came from estates which, by reading between the lines, Harry suspected were past their respective peaks, and neither seemed to have much to say about their parents.

"They latched onto Malfoy last time around," Harry mused aloud as he sat in Professor McGonagall's office one evening after dinner. "This time they haven't latched onto anyone, besides maybe each other."

They hadn't called Hermione a Mudblood again, not since Harry had snapped at them. He hadn't heard them use the term at all, actually. He thought back to some of the Slytherins he'd known the first time he'd attended Hogwarts, and he wondered at which point they'd stopped simply parroting their parents and instead began to truly stand by the things they said.

"You can't save them," Professor McGonagall reminded him when he brought this up. "But you can certainly be a good example."

The last thing Harry wanted was to be a good example. He just wanted to be a regular Hogwarts student, and to play Quidditch. Despite the former being an impossibility even in his old life, he'd at least had that second option.

"For God's sake, Potter, you'll wait until you're a second year." Professor McGonagall rolled her eyes when he brought this up for the dozenth time, even as she pushed the tin of biscuits on her desk toward him. "It's not a lifetime ban."

Harry internally cringed at this, remembering the actual lifetime ban that had been placed upon him by Umbridge. He'd verified through Professor McGonagall that Dolores Umbridge did, in fact, exist in this world, and worked at the Ministry. This version, however, held a middling rank in the Ministerial Wizarding Register Department, not Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic. According to Professor McGonagall, she hardly seemed as ambitious nor notable as the woman Harry had described, though he still had no desire to approach her in any capacity.

Umbridge and her lifetime Quidditch ban no longer holding any power aside, Harry doubted he'd be able to play next year, at least not as a Seeker. He'd learned with horror after Quidditch tryouts took place that Draco Malfoy had taken that role, likely due to his father's promise to buy the entire team a new fleet of top-of-the-line brooms. It was mortifying, puttering about the grounds on one of Madam Hooch's Shooting Stars while the Slytherin team raced around the pitch on Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones.

Slytherin trounced Gryffindor at their first match of the year, but Harry couldn't find it in himself to celebrate with the rest of his house. He still felt a loyalty to Gryffindor, even if it wasn't his house anymore. Besides, the last thing he wanted to do was congratulate Draco-bleeding-Malfoy for having caught the Snitch. He did, at least, manage to force a small nod that evening in the common room when they inadvertently locked eyes amidst the Slytherin celebration.

"Bet you wouldn't mind having a Nimbus Two Thousand One, wouldn't you, Potter?" Malfoy smirked as he sprawled across a nearby couch, soaking in his victory. "But I suppose your Muggle relatives wouldn't know what a broomstick was, even if they could afford one."

Harry was jealous, but he also couldn't help but see Malfoy as exactly what he was- a twelve-year-old boy who, this time around, didn't even have his lackeys following him about, hanging onto his every word.

He shrugged. "I'm a first year. Couldn't have a broom either way. Maybe next year."

And with that, he turned and walked away from Malfoy, though not so quickly that he didn't see the sour look emerge across his face.

Harry stared at the note he'd received that morning. He'd read it multiple times, but it still made little sense. Like most letters from the Dursleys, it arrived in a stamped Muggle-style envelope via a post owl, and he recognised the stationery inside as coming from a pad that usually sat beside the telephone at 4 Privet Drive.

As Professor Snape watched from across his desk, Harry read it again, trying to wrap his mind around the short message.

Dear Harry,

We trust all is well by you.

When should we expect you for the Christmas holidays?

Yours sincerely,
Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon

"I take it you didn't spend many holidays with your family," Professor Snape said at last. "Before, that is."

"I didn't spend any holidays with them, sir, not since I started coming to Hogwarts." Harry leaned back in his chair. "Except for summer, but that was only because they had to take me."

"Hm. I'd take that as an improvement from one world to the next, then."

"Yeah, but..." Harry trailed off, shaking his head. "I'd rather spend Christmas at Hogwarts than at Privet Drive."

"Poor Potter. I can hardly imagine your immense burden, having relatives who care to spend time with you."

Harry glared, but he couldn't muster any genuine irritation, not when Professor Snape's lip had twitched just the slightest bit.

"You were friends with my mum, sir. Did you ever meet the Dursleys?"

"I knew your aunt as a child." Professor Snape thought over his words for a moment. "I can't speak for who she is now, but she held very firm opinions on what was acceptable and what wasn't."

Harry nodded. "She was even worse the first time around. She hated magic. She still doesn't like it, and neither does my uncle, but... I think they're willing to at least try to come to terms with it, sir."

"I'd go, if I were you," Sirius advised from the mirror that night. "It's an entirely new chance to have a relationship with them. If my parents were still alive here..."

He didn't finish the sentence. Harry nodded, drawing the curtains around his bed even more tightly shut. Snape, as promised, had taught him the muffling spell he'd used the night Sirius was discovered (along with a stern warning of the fate that awaited him were he to use it for other, unsanctioned purposes).

"I suppose I'll go." Harry curled up on his side. "Are you any closer to finding Voldemort?"

"A bit. I know I'm not far. The animals haven't led me astray yet." Sirius looked tired, but in better health than when they'd last met. "Snape's treating you well?"

"He's fine. He's not my best mate or anything, but he isn't an outright prick." He paused. "He actually asked me to tell him about my friendship with Ron the other night. Can you believe that? I mean, I figure he just wants to know everything he can about our original world, but it felt eerie sitting with him and talking about summers at the Burrow."

As eerie as it felt, it continued all the same. November gave way to December, and the night before the Hogwarts Express was due to take most of the castle's inhabitants back to London, Harry found himself in Snape's office, presumably serving yet another detention, this time joined by Professor McGonagall, along with Sirius via the mirror.

"I feel like an idiot," Harry acknowledged, nodding at the mirror. "I keep thinking that if I'd only opened the package, I would have been able to contact you, and none of this would have happened."

"I told you not to dwell on that," Sirius said gently. "Harry, it happened, but there's nothing you can do about it now."

"We're in an entirely different universe because of me. Ron doesn't exist anymore- or he does, and he thinks I'm dead."

"Enough," Snape cut in. "It was a foolish mistake, but acknowledging and learning from it is one thing, while obsessively dwelling on it is another."

Harry couldn't help but shoot him an exasperated look. "You- I know you're probably right, sir, but I don't think you understand."

"Don't I?" Professor Snape arched an eyebrow. "Not on a one-to-one level, certainly not. But, Potter, if you stopped wallowing for a moment, you might recall that others present know what it's like to lose a friend due to a reckless decision made in the heat of the moment." He looked at him sharply. "Would you hold that against them the way you're holding it against yourself?"

Harry paused. Then, reluctantly, he shook his head.

"Besides," Professor McGonagall spoke up from the corner in which she'd been observing this exchange. "This doesn't at all negate what you've lost, Mr. Potter, but have you considered that this world, and everyone in it, exists solely because of you and Sirius Black?"

"I remember thinking that when you brought me here from the Dursleys." It didn't make Harry feel better, not exactly, but noting Snape's disgusted expression, he couldn't help but add, "I suppose, by that logic, we're sort of deities here, aren't we?"

"You're hardly a deity," she assured him. "And if I hear you refer to yourself as such again..."

"I won't," Harry said quickly. "I'm not. I know I'm not, Professor."

"Thank Merlin," Professor Snape said dryly. "I'd have to hex you otherwise."

"Does that mean I can get away with saying it?" Sirius asked. "You're too far away to reach me."

Professor Snape ignored him, instead jerking his head in Harry's direction. "We'll need to find a new reason for you to be here every week after the holidays."

"Can't you just keep assigning me detentions?"

"Every week for the rest of the year? When you haven't done something noticeable to deserve such a fate?"

"I could do something noticeable, if you'd like. I could swear at you in class- would that be enough?" Harry suggested, perhaps a bit too eagerly. At Snape's expression, he shrugged. "You are right, though. Theo and Daphne have started asking what I've said to you to keep landing myself here."

"And?"

"I don't think I should repeat what I told them, sir," he admitted.

Professor McGonagall chuckled lightly, earning herself a glare from Professor Snape.

The journey to London was mundane, which was something Harry didn't mind in the slightest. After endless games of Exploding Snap with Theo, and entirely too many sweets from the trolley, they found themselves pulling up to platform nine and three-quarters.

"Well." Harry got to his feet once the train lurched to a halt. "Have a happy Christmas then, yeah?"

"You too." Theo was already waving through the window at a small group of people who looked vaguely like him- the cousins who'd helped raise him, Harry imagined.

Uncle Vernon waited just past the barrier, studiously avoiding eye contact with anyone dressed even the slightest bit oddly.

"Well," he said as Harry approached. "You're back."

"I am."

They studied each other for a moment, then Uncle Vernon said, "School's been all right?"

Harry nodded, recognising this was not an invitation to go into detail. "Yeah. It's been fine."

"Good. Good."

And with that stimulating conversation complete, they started toward the car park.

It didn't take long to realise something was wrong at Privet Drive, but it took far longer for Harry to put his finger on what it was. His new dynamic with the Dursleys was difficult enough to parse without anything additional being off.

With a lack of anything better to do, Harry busied himself with his holiday homework. Given it was intended for first years, he finished it in its entirety by the end of his second day back. He spent as much time as he could stand in his bedroom, occasionally wandering around the house, which felt strangely silent after so many months spent hurrying through the bustling corridors of Hogwarts.

Only once did Aunt Petunia ask, in a hushed, strained voice, if he was coping all right with the funny business they'd dealt with over the summer.

"Yeah," Harry murmured back, keeping his voice low as well, though Uncle Vernon and Dudley weren't anywhere within earshot. "It's... things have been all right, I think."

"Good," Aunt Petunia said with a nod, and they didn't discuss it any further.

Each night Harry found himself lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out what was so damn strange about this visit. It wasn't just the fact that the Dursleys didn't outright despise him. It was something more, and Harry knew he wouldn't sleep well until he understood exactly what was different from his time here over the summer. It was difficult to remember much of that time; he'd spent much of it in a literal haze, one that only began to fade once he'd revealed to Aunt Petunia who he was and where he was from. Even then, there'd been so much to take in- he'd been far more focused on the changes to the magical world than whatever was happening here.

Despite having invited him back, the Dursleys gave him a wide berth. It was too cold to wander very far, meaning Harry wasn't able to spend most of his time away from the house as he had the summer before his fifth year. With a lack of anything else to do, Harry spent long afternoons in the living room, watching Muggle television. Dudley, who typically spent entire days and weeks doing just this, seemed to appreciate avoiding Harry more than he did watching The Great Humberto.

It was during one of these endless afternoons in front of the television that Uncle Vernon shuffled in, not quite meeting Harry's eyes as he sat heavily in an armchair opposite Harry. They nodded at one another, but didn't speak until at least ten minutes had passed.

"Have you spent the money we gave you?" Uncle Vernon asked at last, attention seemingly fixated on an advertisement for laundry detergent.

"Erm." Harry had spent it, after ignoring it for much of the term. After finding an older student to exchange the Muggle banknotes for wizarding Galleons at the tiny Gringotts outpost in Hogsmeade (while, of course, keeping a cut for themselves for having gone through the trouble), Harry had ordered the most boring, Muggle-like items he could find to bring home as token Christmas gifts for the Dursleys. "I did, yeah."

He paused, thinking of the oven mitts and packets of shoelaces at the bottom of his trunk. He'd managed to adhere to Uncle Vernon's request the money be used to purchase something normal after all.

"Good." Uncle Vernon still didn't look at him, gazing directly at the television set. "Your marks are good?"

"Yeah." Harry didn't tell him he was very nearly top of his class, and that he would be if he didn't go out of his way to ensure otherwise. "They're good enough."

Uncle Vernon grunted. On the television, tasteful music accompanied an announcer informing the general public of a Boxing Day sale on diamond rings.

"Tell me about it, then," Uncle Vernon said after a moment. "About your school."

"What?" Harry stared at him.

"I should know about where you go most of the year, shouldn't I?" Uncle Vernon asked, looking as though he'd very much like to stand up and leave the room, all while pretending he hadn't asked a thing. "Well, get on with it, boy. We haven't got all day."

Harry thought over his next words very carefully. Finally, he said, "The school is in a castle."

"A castle." Uncle Vernon shook his head, then mumbled, "That's traditional, at least. Better than the architecture those ruddy modernists come up with."

"I like it," Harry admitted. "A lot. It's a beautiful castle. It can be hard to find your way around at first," he went on, not mentioning the staircases that seemed to lead to somewhere else depending on which day it was, "But you get used to it pretty quickly."

"Are there sports?

Harry nodded, not mentioning Quidditch in particular. "I want to try out for my house team next year."

"Hm. And the instructors?"

"They're all right." Harry suspected he knew what Uncle Vernon wanted to hear, and he answered truthfully. "They're, you know, strict. Stricter than my old teachers. But they aren't awful or anything like that. My housemaster is probably the toughest professor in the entire school. He's fair, though."

Uncle Vernon made a noise that might have resembled something along the lines of approval. "Good. Coddling is the worst thing for a growing boy."

Harry thought of Dudley, but didn't speak. Uncle Vernon didn't speak either, and before long he stood up with a grunt and disappeared upstairs.

Later, when Aunt Petunia stuck her head in the room to summon Harry for dinner, he tore his eyes away from the current programme and asked, "This is a new television, isn't it?"

Aunt Petunia stiffened before returning to the kitchen. Over her shoulder, she said, "Don't ask questions."

It was Christmas Eve when Harry finally put two and two together. The Dursleys had always let him be, but now they were ignoring each other. Aside from meals, Harry couldn't remember the last time they'd all been in the same room together. Aunt Petunia typically spent holidays hovering over Dudley, doting on him even more intensely than usual, while Uncle Vernon took him on constant trips to the cinema and the funfair one town over, but everyone seemed to be scurrying about on their own private schedule.

Harry had hardly seen Dudley since he'd come home. He'd been avoiding his cousin, but now he realised the feeling might be mutual. He'd hardly thought of it as odd until now, given Dudley was petrified of him in his original timeline. But Dudley wasn't afraid of him here; as far as Harry knew, he didn't even know he was a wizard. The days before leaving for Hogwarts had been filled with great hilarity for Dudley as he gloated about Harry attending what he assumed, based on Professor McGonagall's appearance, was a school for hippies. Even upon being forbidden from saying the word hippie by Aunt Petunia, who shuddered at the very thought of unwashed rabblerousers, Dudley continued to be in fine spirits at the very idea.

Perhaps it was nothing, Harry thought, curling up on his side and trying to fall asleep. Perhaps Dudley was just under the weather. That's what Aunt Petunia had said earlier that day when Piers Polkiss turned up to see if Dudley wanted to go sledding down the big hill at the park.

Something still felt off. Dudley being ill was usually a matter of great importance in the Dursley house. Even the slightest cold had Aunt Petunia in a frenzy as she kept a constant vigil over the ailing boy's bed.

They're different here, Harry reminded himself as he got up to use the toilet. Who cares if Dudley spends more time in his room this time around? He's probably just playing computer games.

That, and Dudley was a year younger than Harry this go-around, meaning he hadn't gone off to Smeltings yet. This holiday wasn't a glorious, long-awaited reunion between parent and child.

Last time around Aunt Petunia cried and hugged Dudley because she missed him so much after not seeing him for three hours, Harry reminded himself.

This wasn't last time around, though.

It was on his way back from the toilet that he heard his aunt and uncle speaking downstairs. Their voices were low, but Uncle Vernon's inevitably rose whenever he was particularly agitated. He lowered it once more after a sharp Shh! from Aunt Petunia.

Harry edged closer to the top of the stairs, straining his ears as best he could. It sounded as though they were adding a few last-minute Christmas gifts to the pile under the tree, talking to one another all the while.

"-can't ignore it any longer, Vernon. You know we can't."

"We haven't ignored it." A heavy sigh. "If there's any chance the boy-"

"No." Aunt Petunia's voice was tight. "If there's anyone to blame, it's me. I think we both know it's me."

A long silence. Then, gruffly, Uncle Vernon mumbled, "I don't blame you."

Nothing more was said, and when their footsteps started toward the stairs, Harry hurried back to his bedroom and shut the door as quietly as he could.

Harry rose early on Christmas Day. Hedwig was rapping on his window with her beak, bearing gifts from his friends at school. Harry smiled as he opened Hermione's present- a large box of Chocolate Frogs, the same as she'd given him their original first year at Hogwarts. There was no Weasley jumper, and Harry did his best, with only partial success, not to think too hard about it. There was no flute from Hagrid, either. Harry always smiled and waved to him when they crossed paths, but the friendship that they'd forged upon his rescue from the Dursleys hadn't taken root this time around. He reminded himself to find a casual way to rekindle that bond once he was back at school. He missed Hagrid.

There was a pile of presents from his housemates, consisting of various sweets, a deck of Exploding Snap cards, and a voucher with a small line of credit for Quality Quidditch Supplies (For your broomstick next year! Theo had written). Harry smiled, giving Hedwig extra owl treats before making his way downstairs.

Dudley was awake and had already made his way through several large presents. The wrapping paper had been pushed to the side, along with the gifts themselves. Harry flopped onto the sofa, not commenting on his cousin's apparent inability to wait for his parents. Dudley grunted at him.

"Yeah, happy Christmas to you too," Harry said. "Anything good this year?"

Dudley grunted again, gesturing at the opened gifts, which thus far consisted of several new computer games, a car that transformed into a robot (and vice versa), and a small television set Harry imagined was intended for Dudley's bedroom.

"Nice." Harry stretched out his legs, silently wondering if he could, through sheer willpower, force the start of term to come more quickly than it normally would.

"Aren't you going to open yours?" Dudley finally spoke as he reached for yet another gift.

Ah. It hadn't even occurred to Harry that there'd be gifts for him, but this time around he supposed it only made sense. As thick as the fog he'd spent the previous summer was, he vaguely remembered being presented with some sensible new clothes on his birthday, along with a few Muggle sweets Dudley had promptly stolen from him.

His gifts were much of the same this time around. There were new shirts and trousers he doubted he'd ever wear, along with a small sampling of chocolate bars Harry suspected Aunt Petunia had bought at the till while paying for her groceries. Dudley's eyes drifted toward the latter, and Harry, thinking of the tastier, magical sweets he had upstairs, tossed them into his much larger pile.

There was a card as well, one with the most generic of messages, but Harry hardly noticed that, instead staring at what had been tucked inside. There was a small wad of banknotes, which added up to- well, Harry didn't think it was quite as much as Dudley's gifts totalled, but it was still more than all the gifts the Dursleys had previously given him put together. Thinking of the fifty-pence coin they'd sent him his first year at Hogwarts, Harry shoved the money back into envelope, and leaned back into the cushions of the sofa, stunned.

Finally, when he trusted himself to speak again, he turned to Dudley and said, "Did something happen here? I mean, did your parents get into a row?"

"What are you talking about?"

Harry shrugged. "Everyone seems to be avoiding one another. You're in your room all the time. Something's off, I just don't know what."

Dudley gave him a strange look he couldn't decipher before turning back to box in front of him, which was revealed to be a new VCR. After a moment, he said, "It's me, I think."

"What about you?"

Dudley shrugged. "There's been trouble. More than usual, I mean."

"What do you mean?"

"You know. The same as always." Dudley paused. "There's been a lot of trouble at school. I don't think I'm going to Smeltings next year."

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but he was interrupted by the sound of Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon's bedroom door opening upstairs. He fell silent as two pairs of footsteps made their way downstairs. Aunt Petunia's face fell as she walked into the living room.

"You've already started opening them!" she moaned.

"Sorry," Harry said sheepishly as Dudley allowed her to smother him in hugs and kisses.

"Well, it's Christmas, after all," Uncle Vernon said gruffly, shaking Dudley's hand and thumping him on the back once Aunt Petunia retreated to an armchair. "Can't blame a boy for being excited on Christmas."

Harry collected his own small pile of gifts, glancing again at the envelope, turned to his aunt and uncle. "Erm. Thank you. For... you know."

Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon glanced at one another, then back at Harry, the former saying, "We weren't quite sure what you'd like."

"It was really generous," Harry reassured them.

Uncle Vernon started to speak, then stopped, before trying again, and failing again. He finally settled on a grunt and a nod, and Harry suspected the contents of the envelope were intended to say whatever it was.

Dudley's door was ajar. Harry hesitated before knocking against the doorjamb as he stuck his head inside.

"What do you want?" Dudley jerked his head up from where he sat on his bed, tossing the book in his lap under the bed.

"I was just- wait, are you reading?"

"No." Dudley glared at him, then said, "Well, so what if I am?"

"There's nothing wrong with it. I just don't think I've ever seen you read voluntarily."

"Well, you don't know everything about me," Dudley snapped. "It's just homework, anyway."

"I don't think I've ever seen you do homework voluntarily either. Besides, it's Christmas."

"So what if it is?"

Harry took a step inside, and when Dudley didn't protest, he stepped in further. "I wanted to know more about what you said this morning. About not going to Smeltings next year."

Dudley gave him a long, hard look, as though gauging whether or not he was to be trusted. Finally, he let out an annoyed sigh and said, "It's like I told you. There's been trouble at school."

"What sort of trouble?"

"You know the sort of trouble."

Harry searched his brain, but he came up with nothing. Dudley had always come home with school reports decrying his bullying, from both primary school and Smeltings, but this had never phased the Dursleys much. If anything, Uncle Vernon seemed to be proud that his son wasn't a namby-pamby sissy.

"Tell me what you did exactly."

"That's just it- I don't know, not exactly." Dudley crossed his arms across his chest. "And you know we're not supposed to talk about it."

Harry shifted in place, wondering just how much context he'd missed by only becoming self-aware in this world just before turning eleven. "I won't tell your parents. I promise."

"You can't tell anyone."

"I won't."

Dudley looked at him suspiciously, then seemed to deflate somewhat. "I think I'm like you."

Harry stared at him. "I- what do you mean, you're like me?"

"I told you," Dudley said with a groan. "I don't know. I don't know what's wrong with you beyond being- being weird."

"Tell me everything," Harry said firmly, taking a seat at the foot of Dudley's bed.

"I used to blame you," Dudley admitted in a low voice. "When strange things happened. Mum and Dad always blamed you, so I figured it had to be you. But they'd happen even when you weren't around, and I just... tried not to think about it."

"Tell me the sort of strange things that happened."

Dudley shrugged, unable to meet his eyes. "Vegetables vanishing from my plate. Exam papers shrinking so small no one could read them. Whenever something weird happened at home, Mum and Dad would look at you straight away. But it kept happening, even when you went away."

A sudden memory came back to Harry of a blackened, warped kitchen appliance. "Last summer, when I spent a night at- at my new school. When I came back, there was something from the kitchen... it had been ruined."

"The food processor, yeah."

"Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon wouldn't answer when I asked about it." Harry shook his head slowly. "I figured you shoved it in the oven, or something stupid like that."

"No one would tell me where you'd gone, or who the woman in the funny outfit was," Dudley muttered. "It made me angry, and..."

He didn't finish the sentence, but Harry nodded slowly. "It just happened, didn't it?"

"I think Mum and Dad already suspected it wasn't just you," Dudley said after a long moment. "But that's the first time I thought it too. I don't know, though. It's not like we talk about it."

Harry nodded again, just as slowly. "You said there's been trouble at school?"

"I lit a teacher's hair on fire," Dudley said glumly. "At least, I think I might have. She was having a go at me because I punched that stupid Harrison kid, and it wasn't even my fault. I just got so angry..." He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "I just don't know how I did it, though. You turned that teacher's hair blue once. How did you do it?"

Harry leaned backwards, so that his back was resting against the surface of the bed. "Oh, God."

"Don't try and pretend you don't know what I'm talking about." Dudley moved forward and peered down at Harry. "You know."

Harry stared up at his cousin.

"You don't go to St. Brutus's School for Boys. You go to..." Here Dudley lowered his voice to a whisper, one so soft that Harry barely heard the next word. "Hogwarts. Don't you?"

An icy feeling had settled in the pit of Harry's stomach. "Where'd you hear that name, Dudley?"

"Spied on my parents once, after I blew up the television. They were talking about your mum, and how she'd gone there. They said they don't want me to go there too. Dad said they could handle me on their own, that maybe they could force it out- whatever it is- but Mum said she wasn't so sure." Dudley bit his lip. "I know you go to the same school your parents did. Mum and Dad said so before you left. That's what it's really called, isn't it? Hogwarts?"

Harry closed his eyes, willing himself to wake up from whatever this terrible dream was. "Dudley, I, erm... I think you really need to talk with your parents about this."

"Are you insane?"

"Please," Harry said quietly. "Talk to your mum. She'll be a bit weird about it, but I think she'll be likelier to tell you what you need to know. Tell her what you heard them talking about. And don't tell her you spoke about it with me."

Another long silence, then Dudley flopped backwards onto the bed as well. "I don't want to be like you."

"Yeah, I know." Harry paused. "It's not so terrible, though."

"I don't care. I don't want to be a- a freak. I don't want to go to a school for hippies."

"Dudley," Harry said, opening his eyes. "I hate to say it, but I don't think you have much of a choice."

Harry paced the length of his room, which wasn't very much, turned around, and paced back the way he'd come.

This couldn't be happening. He'd already been forced to endure a frankly impossible number of changes. A guilty Sirius, a decent Snape, dead Dumbledore, no Ron, being sorted into Slytherin... it was all just about all he could take. Now he was expected to simply accept that Dudley might be a wizard?

The thought of his cousin at Hogwarts caused his stomach to churn so badly Harry thought he might be sick.

It wasn't possible, he kept repeating to himself. There had to be a mistake. He thought back to the first time he'd met Hagrid, back in his original world. Hagrid had said Harry's name had been down for Hogwarts since he'd been born. Surely Hogwarts knew who was magical and who wasn't- how else would they know who to send letters to? He vaguely remembered Hermione saying something about a quill at Hogwarts that recorded the name every magical baby born in Britain.

If Dudley was a wizard, Professor McGonagall would know all about it. She would have said something, especially having heard Harry's retelling of his original life.

His thoughts flitted back to the blackened food processor from the summer before, of his aunt and uncle's reaction to him asking about it, and of all the memories he might have of Dudley if he could remember anything further back than that time. He thought about this for a while, then threw open his trunk and pulled out his mirror. In a hushed voice, he said, "Sirius? Are you there?"

A pause, then Sirius appeared before him. "I'm here. Happy Christmas. That's today, isn't it?"

Harry nodded, reaching for an ink bottle and quill. "I'm writing a letter to Professor McGonagall now. There's something I need to tell you."

Chapter Text

The next morning had come, and all three of the Dursleys had holed themselves up inside Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon's bedroom for the past two hours. Occasionally a voice would rise, but never for long. At first, there'd been quite a bit of shouting from Dudley, mostly along the lines of I don't believe you, and I don't want this, though even he had finally managed to keep his complaints to a volume the neighbours- and Harry- would be unable to hear.

"Sirius?" Harry pulled the two-way mirror close to him, speaking as softly as he could. He wondered if he could get away with using Snape's muffling spell; perhaps the Ministry would mistake it for underage magic from Dudley, but he wasn't about to take that risk.

Sirius didn't appear. Harry whispered his name again, and when he still didn't respond, he slipped the mirror back inside his trunk. Sirius was probably busy, or asleep. All the same, Harry would be tense until he heard from him. He hated to think of him on his own, in the middle of a far-flung forest with only other animals and what remained of Voldemort for something resembling company.

Another hour had passed by the time the door on the other side of the landing creaked open. One set of footsteps made their way to Dudley's bedroom, its respective door opening and closing with a thud. Several moments later, there was a sharp knock at Harry's door.

"What did you tell him?" Uncle Vernon demanded before Harry had even fully opened the door.

"I didn't tell him anything." He glanced back and forth between his aunt and uncle. "He told me he thinks he's like me, but he doesn't know what that actually means. He overheard you talking about Hog- about my school, and he wanted to know if that's where he's going next year instead of Smeltings."

"We've never spoken of your school where Dudders could hear," Aunt Petunia said, her face going white, as Uncle Vernon sputtered wordlessly at the mere concept of Dudley missing out on the glorious, hallowed halls of Smeltings.

"Well, you must have, because I didn't tell him." Harry paused. "For what it's worth, I overheard you on Christmas Eve talking about Dudley. I just didn't understand what you were talking about yet. He probably heard you another time you didn't realise one of us was listening."

A raspy noise emerged from the back of Uncle Vernon's throat. "Sneaking about, eavesdropping on your aunt and I..."

"I wasn't eavesdropping," Harry lied. "Not on purpose, at least. I just sort of overheard. Anyway, I really didn't tell him anything. I listened to what he said, and I told him he needed to go to the two of you. I knew you'd rather he finds out from you than me."

"We don't want him to find out from anyone," Aunt Petunia said sharply.

"Yeah," he said, after biting back several different responses. "Trust me, I know."

They stood in silence for a long moment. Harry didn't know what to say, and the feeling was seemingly mutual.

At last, Uncle Vernon cleared his throat. He didn't quite look at Harry or Aunt Petunia, instead addressing the space between them. "It's... you're certain it isn't... contagious, then?"

"If you're asking whether my magic rubbed off on him-" Harry saw his aunt and uncle flinch as though someone from his world might at the name Voldemort- "No, it didn't. It doesn't work like that. You don't have to feel guilty about taking me in."

"Don't be stupid," Aunt Petunia snapped. "We would have always taken you in."

"Indeed," Uncle Vernon muttered under his breath, his expression one of irritation as he nodded. "Don't be ridiculous." He let out a loud grunt, one that Hedwig hooted in response to, which he determinedly ignored. He struggled to articulate his next sentence, which was presumably a question, but not entirely delivered like one. "He was... always going to be like this?"

Harry thought of the conversation he and his uncle had recently had, of his inquiries trying to understand what Hogwarts was like. He thought of the Uncle Vernon he'd once known, and of the one he knew now. Carefully, he nodded. "It isn't a choice."

But you already know that, he thought. He didn't say it aloud.

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia looked at each other. At last, Uncle Vernon clapped his hands together and, gruffly, turned back to Harry and said, "Right, then. What happens if he doesn't go?"

Harry paused. He wasn't entirely sure. The first time around, the original versions of his aunt and uncle were determined that he would not go to Hogwarts, which ultimately ended with Uncle Vernon's rifle being bent into a knot, Dudley sprouting a pig's tail, and Harry going to Hogwarts. Would Professor McGonagall fight as hard for Dudley to attend? Somehow, Harry doubted this. As much as he despised admitting he might be special in any way, the whole Boy-Who-Lived thing had likely influenced the intensity with which his attendance was requested.

"I think the school will try to convince you to let him go," he finally said. "But I don't know that they'll force him to if you and he really don't want to. I... wouldn't really recommend that, though."

"Is that so," Uncle Vernon said flatly, not as a question, his expression one of slight sarcasm at, Harry imagined, entertaining the parenting advice of a seemingly eleven-year-old.

"Ignoring magic doesn't make it go away. Really, it just makes it worse." Harry paused again. "You know the weird things I used to do, without realising I was even doing them? When I was angry, or scared?" When neither of the Dursleys answered, he continued on. "That's what Hogwarts is for- learning how to control that. That way it doesn't just... explode out of you."

"I'd rather they teach you how to not use it at all," Uncle Vernon muttered.

"Yeah, I know you do. But I don't think that works either. I think you have to use it. Otherwise..." He shook his head. "If I stifle it, it'll just come bursting out the way it used to. The way it's bursting out of Dudley now." Harry shrugged. "It's... if it makes you feel better, it doesn't change who he is. It's not like he's a different person now. He's the same Dudley he always was, just..."

"Yes," Aunt Petunia said quietly. "We understand that."

Uncle Vernon raised his eyebrows, but after a moment he, too, nodded.

"Hey." Dudley found Harry in his bedroom an hour later. "So, your parents were murdered, then?"

"That's quite a good morning." Harry sat up straight and motioned for Dudley to take a seat.

Dudley hesitated, but after a moment's consideration he made his way across the room and sat down at the rickety desk in the corner of the room. "I always thought they died in a car crash. So, were they? Murdered, I mean."

Harry nodded. "Your parents told you, then?"

"Yeah. They said I'm a- a wizard, and that you are too." Dudley gave him a strange look. "You didn't tell me."

"They didn't want you to know," Harry said apologetically. "I only found out about myself when I was eleven, and I didn't know you were like me until yesterday."

"I don't want to be a wizard," Dudley said plainly. "I don't want to go to a hippie school. It isn't fair."

It was a surprisingly subdued reaction from the one Harry had been expecting. He'd anticipated a massive tantrum, one that rattled the very foundation of number four, Privet Drive. Harry imagined Dudley had already let out a great deal of his horror while with his parents and when he'd been alone in his room.

"It isn't really a hippie school," Harry told him. "They dress a bit funny, and you learn magic, but it's not so bad. Actually, I love it there. And the food is fantastic."

Dudley glanced at him when he said this, but even that didn't seem to fully sway him. "I'm a freak."

"You can do cool things no one else can." Harry paused. "You're special."

"I was already special and cool without being like you."

"Thanks. I'm flattered." Harry shook his head. "Listen, if you're going to be like that, why did you even come in here? I'm just another freak, after all."

"Because you're the only one here who knows what it's like!" Dudley pounded his fists against his knees with a desolate expression. "Mum and Dad don't understand what it's like to be magic! Just you, and-" He stopped speaking abruptly.

"And?"

Dudley shook his head. "No one. Just you."

"It didn't sound like that." Harry leaned forward, his brow furrowed. "Go on, then. Have you met another witch or wizard?"

"It's just a stupid imaginary friend, all right?" Dudley looked away. "One I made up who understands why I am the way I am. He isn't real." He glared at Harry. "And if you laugh at me, I'll beat you up."

Harry felt an uncharacteristic surge of affection for his cousin. It was easy to forget at times that he was still only ten years old here. "I'm not going to laugh at you."

"Yeah, because you're scared I'll beat you up." Dudley regained a bit of his usual bravado, though it was obvious it was only surface deep. "Your parents really were murdered, then? By a dark wizard?"

Harry nodded.

"Why?"

Harry had never known for certain back in his original life. He knew here, though. Thinking over his response, he finally said, "There was a war. They were on one side, and there was a dark wizard called Voldemort on the other."

"That's what my parents said," Dudley said quietly. "Mum only said his name once, and she looked like she was going to be sick. They said not to ask you about it."

"It's okay," Harry said, marvelling at just how unbelievably surreal this conversation was. "Anyway, they were already Voldemort's enemy, so he would have wanted them dead no matter what. But someone he thought was on his side was really on theirs, and was secretly a friend of my mum. Voldemort found out, and he was so angry he went after them."

"Why didn't you die?" Dudley peered at his scar. "Mum and Dad said he tried to kill you, but it didn't work."

Harry shrugged. "No idea, really. Something to do with magic- with my mum sacrificing herself for me. Everyone thinks I'm special because of it, but I'm not."

"Mum said people in that world know who you are." Dudley gave him a strange look. "You're not famous, are you?"

"Erm." Harry wanted nothing more to lie, but simply wishing he wasn't, in fact, famous had yet to succeed, despite his many attempts.

Dudley stared at him, then burst out laughing. "Oh, God, you're basically king of the freaks, aren't you?"

Harry might have been offended, but there was more bewilderment in Dudley's voice than outright hostility. "I'm really not."

"Am I going to be famous too? Because I'm your cousin?" Dudley hesitated. "I'm not saying I'm going, mind you."

"People might ask you about me, if you do go," Harry admitted. "I mean, they will ask you. But not as much as you'd think. Most of the time people forget about that and treat me like anyone else."

Unless something strange is happening and they need someone to blame, he thought to himself, which generally tended to take up more of his time at school than he'd prefer.

"How come we're the way we are, but Mum and Dad aren't?"

Harry shrugged again. "It passes down in families, I think. Sometimes it skips a generation or more. We must have some great-great-great grandparent on your mum's side who could do magic, and it didn't come out again until my mum. And us."

"Is that bad?" Dudley asked, pondering this. "I mean... I don't want to have magic, but if I have to, I don't want to have less magic than everyone else."

Harry shook his head. "It doesn't work like that. You're what's called Muggle-born. It doesn't mean you have less magic than anyone else. Voldemort didn't agree with that- that's why there was a war."

"Really?" Dudley looked at him, tilting his head. "He didn't like people like me?"

"He didn't like a lot of people, Dudley. But he lost the war. He's gone now."

"Sorry I couldn't answer you before," Sirius said later that night, Harry having lunged for the mirror the moment he heard his voice. "It wasn't safe."

Harry nodded quickly. "I understand. Was it- were you with him?"

"I was near him."

"So, you've done it, then." Harry exhaled. "You've tracked him down."

"Yes. He's... in rough shape."

"Tell me." Harry leaned closer to the mirror, his glasses sliding down his nose as his fringe brushed against the glass. "Or maybe you could you show me? What does he look like?"

"I don't think I should," Sirius said quietly. He glanced over his shoulder; it was difficult for Harry to see much of what was nearby aside from trees and the night sky. "He's weak, Harry. Weaker than he was when I left him. But I'm never quite sure what he can see. He doesn't know I'm working with you. If he did..."

"I understand." Harry thought this over, then added, "What do you think he would do if he found out?"

"I'm not sure. I don't think he could do much. Not in his current form. But I don't want to find out. Do you?"

Harry shook his head. The last thing they needed was a reinvigorated Voldemort, even more dangerously desperate to return than he already was. "So, what does he look like?"

Sirius made an odd noise with his tongue, then he shrugged. "Hard to say. I don't know if you can describe it, really. Maybe a bit like smoke? But not really. He's physical, but not physical. You can definitely see him, but you also can't really see him. Does that make sense?"

"No."

"No, it doesn't, does it?" Sirius sighed. "He's terrifying, is what he is. And pathetic at the same time. I don't know how to put it in words. I don't know if you'd be able to grasp it even if I held up the mirror in front of him."

"I don't like you being around him alone," Harry said, acutely aware that he was sitting on a bed, surrounded by four walls and a roof overhead, while Sirius was in the middle of a forest far from home. "I don't like you fighting my battles for me."

"They're not just your battles. Just because you have the scar doesn't mean you're the only one to have a grudge against Voldemort." Sirius shot him a small, tired smile. "It's just as much my battle as it is yours. Now tell me more about what's happening with your cousin."

Aunt Petunia cornered Harry outside his bedroom later that evening. "Did you know?"

"Did I what?"

She glanced in both directions, as though Uncle Vernon and Dudley weren't both downstairs, sitting side-by-side on the sofa awkwardly watching television and pretending nothing had happened. "You know."

"About Dudley?" Harry shook his head. "No, of course not. I already told you I didn't."

"But you..." She hesitated. "Given... what we discussed over the summer, I'd assume you..."

She trailed off again, and Harry understood. "Oh. Yeah- no. That's different from how things went the first time around. Dudley wasn't a wizard in my world."

Aunt Petunia remained remarkably stoic, only wincing slightly, but after a moment she asked, "Is there a possibility what happened to you will happen to you him?"

"You mean...?" When Aunt Petunia nodded, Harry, in turn, shook his head. "No, I don't think so. I fell through a sort of veil that took me here. It didn't just happen."

She nodded tersely, not asking for details. "Have you found out what happened to... to the Harry we knew?"

Harry shook his head. For the first time, it occurred to him that his aunt was the only person who both knew the original Harry from this world and was aware his consciousness had been displaced. "I don't know. I try not to think about it too much. I mean, I do, but I try not to." When his aunt didn't respond, he asked, "What was he like?"

"Quiet. Rather solitary. Decent marks. Not much trouble, except when he was." Aunt Petunia's lips pursed at the very suggestion of accidental magic. "Not terribly different from how you are now, yet... different."

"Do you ever miss him?"

He received a look that was difficult to decipher. On the surface, she seemed irritated, but Harry understood there was more behind it. The more he thought on it, the more he realised that, as imperfect as his aunt in this world was, of course she missed him.

"If I'm ever able to speak with him," Harry said haltingly. "I don't know how I would, but if I somehow could... I'll tell him how much you've helped me."

Aunt Petunia jerked her head up in something resembling a nod. She hesitated, then said, "I'd like to ask one more thing of you."

"What?"

"If we ultimately decide to send Dudley to... to your school." Her eyes darted about once again, as though an eavesdropping neighbour might burst out from behind a doorway or through a window. "Dudley isn't like you. He's like your mother. She downplayed the difficulties she faced, having regular parents, but..."

"Things are different now," Harry said. "They're not perfect. But they're not like they were when my mum was there."

Aunt Petunia's expression didn't change. "If we permit him to go..."

"I understand," Harry said quickly. Before he could think too hard about what he was promising, he forced himself to say, "I'll look out for him. If he winds up needing it- Dudley's pretty good at looking out for himself."

"Thank you, Harry." And with that, Aunt Petunia turned back toward the stairs, the conversation decidedly finished.

Dudley and Harry only spoke of what they'd learned one more time before Harry returned to school. They sat in the living room, watching a mind-numbingly boring television programme while Dudley absently played with several army figurines he'd received for Christmas.

"Voldemort's a funny name," he finally said, glancing in Harry's general direction.

"It is pretty stupid," Harry agreed. "But be careful. People who know who he was usually get upset if you say his name instead of You-Know-Who."

Dudley nodded, thinking this over. "You say his name, though. Are you less afraid of him than everyone else?"

Harry thought this over as well. At last, he said, "He does scare me, if you want to know the truth. He killed my parents. He killed a lot of people. But he's going to be scary no matter what I call him, isn't he?"

"I guess." Dudley lowered one of his army figurines. "Is that what his parents named him, then? Or is Voldemort his surname?"

Harry shook his head. "He came up with the name himself."

"What's his real name, then?"

Harry hesitated, but answered truthfully. "Tom Marvolo Riddle." He paused, then added, "Junior."

"Oh." A strange look passed over Dudley's face before he turned back to the television. A long moment passed, then he said, "Marvolo's a stupid name."

The journey back to Hogwarts was as uneventful as the one to London a fortnight ago. As Harry awkwardly said goodbye to his uncle just before the barrier, he spotted Daphne approaching with her mother and younger sister. He raised his arm in a wave, which was returned by Daphne. He wondered briefly if her mother would hurry over with stories of his mother again, but Mrs. Greengrass just smiled and nodded warmly at Harry.

On the train, Theo and Harry played game after game of Exploding Snap with the latter's new deck. Theo spoke happily about his holiday, and of the ghost choir his family had gone to see on Christmas Eve. Hermione made an appearance partway through the journey, regaling them with obscure trivia she'd learned from the books she received for Christmas. She preferred to watch rather than play Exploding Snap but, after a bit of coaxing, she, too, joined in, jumping back further than any of them each time the cards exploded while simultaneously explaining to a bemused Crabbe and Goyle that Muggle cards generally did not, in fact, behave in such a manner.

As they grew closer to Hogwarts, they opened their trunks and retrieved their uniforms. As Harry pulled his robes over his Muggle clothing, his hand brushed against the letter from Professor McGonagall through the pocket of his jeans. He'd read it enough times now that he practically knew it by heart. The headmistress had written that she unfortunately knew nothing of a quill that wrote down the names of magical babies as they were born. There was a magic quill, but it instead wrote and addressed Hogwarts invitation letters the summer before the start of first term.

I'm afraid we won't know for certain about your cousin until that time, Professor McGonagall had written. But, given what you've told me, I would not be at all surprised if he is, indeed, a Muggle-born wizard.

Harry closed his eyes, remembering his promise to Aunt Petunia. The last thing he wanted was Dudley at Hogwarts, much less to look after him.

"D'you think I look better like this?" Theo asked, tugging at the brim of his pointed hat so it sat slightly askew on his head. "Does it look cool, or just stupid?"

"It's fine," Harry mumbled, only half paying attention.

"What's the matter with you?"

Snapping out of it as best he could, Harry shrugged. "It's nothing. It's just... my cousin might be a wizard."

"Oh." Theo glanced at Harry, as though trying to get better grasp of his reaction. "You only just found out?"

Harry nodded.

"That's not a bad thing, is it?"

Harry shook his head. "No, not really. I just didn't expect it, you know?"

"Maybe he'll be in Slytherin," Crabbe suggested. He paused. "But he's Muggle-born, isn't he?"

"That doesn't mean he can't be in Slytherin," Zabini spoke up from his spot in the corner, where he'd spent most of the journey simply observing and occasionally chiming in.

"Your mother was in Slytherin, wasn't she, Harry?" Hermione asked. "I read that she was born to Muggles in Great Wizarding Events of Twentieth Century."

Harry nodded slowly. "I can't imagine Dudley in Slytherin, though. Or any house, really. They might have to make a new one just for him."

He hasn't been that much of a jerk, Harry reminded himself. Not here, at least. Give him a chance.

There was still an inherent Dudley-ness to his cousin that spanned both worlds, but Harry had to admit his cousin wasn't nearly as bad here as he'd originally been. Dudley had teased him mercilessly over the past summer upon discovering he was being sent to a so-called hippie school, but it was clear this was a universe free of pastimes such as Harry Hunting.

Besides, Harry thought to himself as they spilled out onto the platform at Hogsmeade station, his aunt and uncle had turned out to be something sort of resembling decent in this world. Hell, even Snape was all right here. He already had proof Dudley was different from the one he'd once known; he'd seen him doing his holiday homework in his bedroom, hadn't he? Since when did the Dudley he knew read?

"Tell me more about your holiday, won't you?" Harry asked at last, turning back to his friends and pushing all thoughts of Privet Drive out of his mind as best he could.

"He's very weak," Sirius said the following evening as Harry, Professor McGonagall, and Professor Snape sat around the mirror in the latter's office. To Harry, he added, "Weaker than he was when we last spoke. It's almost as though he's fading away bit by bit."

"That's good, isn't it?" Harry asked hesitantly. "I mean, it's better that he's growing weaker instead of stronger, right?"

"It would be," Professor McGonagall said quietly, "If we knew why."

"You said the Dark Lord sustained himself on unicorn blood in your world," Professor Snape suggested. "Could it be a lack of access to unicorns?"

Harry shook his head. "He only needed the unicorn blood when he possessed Quirrell, not when he was on his own."

"He couldn't drink it now if he wanted to," Sirius said. "His form isn't physical enough to manage it."

No one spoke straight away. Finally, Harry leaned forward. "For all we know, maybe this happened the last time around. Maybe the longer he is without a body to possess, the weaker he becomes." When no one responded, he went on. "Maybe possessing Quirrell last time around gave him a bit of strength. It gave him enough time to run into Pettigrew and Bertha Jorkins, and to create that awful body, before properly coming back."

"Perhaps," Professor McGonagall said at last, but her expression remained grim. "But it all seems rather... simple, does it not?"

"Sometimes the simplest explanation is the best explanation," Professor Snape said, but he, too, was frowning. "Though it isn't the only explanation."

"Why do you spend so much time with that Mudblood?"

Harry looked up sharply from his homework. Malfoy stood several feet away, arms crossed and something between a smirk and a sneer on his face, and he leisurely took a seat on the nearest high-backed armchair.

"If you're talking about Hermione, she has a name," he said stiffly. "And I spend time with her because she's my friend. I know you aren't as familiar with the concept, given you haven't got any."

Malfoy's face darkened, and Harry heard a nearby older student choke back laughter. "I'd be careful if I were you, Potter. Haven't you heard what happened to the last Slytherin who ran about telling everyone how great Mudbloods are?"

Harry gripped his quill tightly, willing himself to remain seated. "I've heard about my mum, yeah. And from the looks of it, what happened was people like her made a difference. There used to be more people like you here, and now there aren't."

"There are more of us than you realise, Potter," Malfoy snapped. "I'm just the only one brave enough to say it."

"Or the only one stupid enough."

Malfoy's hand flitted for his wand, but he caught himself in time. "You're cheeky, for a first year."

"And you're an idiot, for a second year. What do you think would happen if you cursed me in the middle of the common room?" Much like how he felt about everything in this world, it was strange to be several years older and wiser than Malfoy. He'd once been his mortal enemy, edged out only by Voldemort, and now he was barely more than a nuisance.

Malfoy leaned closer, his voice hushed. "You won't always be surrounded by people, Potter."

Lowering his own voice, Harry whispered, "Imagine I'm hexed in the middle of an empty corridor. Who's the first person everyone will suspect?"

Malfoy raised his eyebrows, doubtful, but Harry simply tilted his head as the former realised the eyes of nearly every prefect in the common room was upon them. They wouldn't intervene, not at this stage. The Slytherin prefects, Harry had come to realise, let students handle their own battles, but they were always watching. After several long moments passed, Malfoy stood up and walked away.

Several nights later, Harry woke up very suddenly, not entirely certain what was happening. A sharp pain had shot through him; he was clutching something.

His forehead.

"You all right, Potter?" Zabini mumbled sleepily from his own bed.

"It's nothing," Harry muttered, realising he'd cried out in his sleep. "Bad dream."

For the first time, his scar had hurt in this world.

"I don't understand," Harry said that evening in Professor McGonagall's office. "Why would my scar hurt if Voldemort's getting weaker?"

"Don't say his name." Professor Snape peered down at him intensely, as though Harry's scar might suddenly leap to life and politely explain everything. "You said it hurt in your world when the Dark Lord was angry?"

"Yeah," Harry said, then corrected himself when Snape glared him. "Yes, sir. At first it only hurt when he was nearby. But in my fourth and fifth year..." He trailed off. "Sometimes, even if he was far away, when he felt something, I'd feel it too. Usually anger, but it could be anything, really, as long as he felt it strongly enough."

Professors McGonagall and Snape glanced at one another as, from the mirror, Sirius asked, "What did you feel when you woke up to your scar hurting?"

"I don't know." Harry wet his lips. "I was too startled to know what I was feeling. All I knew was that it hurt."

Several days later, the letters from Dudley began.

Chapter Text

Harry didn't recognise the handwriting at first. He stared at the Muggle-style envelope and lined paper within, its content short and somewhat stilted.

"Do Muggles really need that much help writing in a straight line?" Theo asked, peering at the letter as he reached for another piece of toast.

Harry shook his head but didn't elaborate. He read the letter again, then said, "My cousin wants to know more about Hogwarts."

It took him three days to write back, not because he didn't want to, but because the act of openly discussing magic with Dudley was something he still couldn't fully wrap his brain around. He did his best to answer his cousin's questions, most of which were about the day-to-day experience of a student, and what the professors were like.

"Try to be subtle when you deliver it," Harry advised as he tied his carefully written response to Hedwig's leg. "You know how they are."

Hedwig gave him a reproachful look, but she took flight with no other fanfare.

A reply followed several days later, and slowly, haltingly, painstakingly, Harry found himself in semiregular correspondence with his cousin.

"He wants to know what the cool house is," he said to Hermione one chilly January afternoon. They were sitting near the banks of the lake, Harry having convinced Hermione they'd spent more than enough time in the library that week.

Hermione smiled, warming her hands over the bottle of bright blue flames they'd brought along. "I imagine you told him Slytherin, then?"

"I haven't told him anything, not yet." Harry shook his head. "I can't imagine Dudley in Slytherin."

"You didn't imagine yourself in Slytherin, either."

"Yeah, but..." Harry shook his head again, harder this time. "He doesn't have a cunning bone in his body. The first time Malfoy tried to insult him, he'd probably punch him in the nose." He paused. "Not that I'd mind seeing that."

"I'd suggest he consider Ravenclaw; I love it here. But, then again, we aren't exactly the cool house. Gryffindor, then? Maybe Hufflepuff? Is Hufflepuff cool?"

"I can't imagine Dudley in any house. They'll have to create a new one, just for him."

"There must be somewhere for him." Hermione glanced at the folded letter in his hand. "Would you like me to write to him?"

"What?" Harry stared at her in horror. "Why would you want to do that?"

She shrugged. "I know what it's like to be different, and to find out the truth well after almost everyone else your age has."

"So do I!" Harry reminded her indignantly.

"Yes, but..."

"But what?"

Hermione studied him carefully. "Well... it's a Ravenclaw thing, I suppose. Our very first night a prefect told us it's our duty to learn as much as we can, and to spread our knowledge with the rest of the magical world. I want to do my duty."

Harry shook his head, stifling back a laugh. "I won't stop you from writing him, if you really want to. But, really, Hermione, don't get your hopes up for any sort of stimulating conversation."

Harry's scar didn't typically hurt, but ever since the initial jolt in January, there'd been two more occasions in which a sharp pain suddenly shot across his forehead, one that vanished as quickly as it came. Harry gritted his teeth both times this happened, desperately trying to understand the cause, particularly when Voldemort seemed to be growing so weak that Sirius could hardly detect his presence. One evening, as he idly listened to Crabbe and Goyle describe the ideal lineup of an all-troll Quidditch team, a strange thought popped into his mind. He sat very still, trying to gauge whether or not he was insane, then jumped to his feet and hurried out of the common room, hardly hearing Crabbe and Goyle's call after him.

He ran all the way to Professor Snape's office and yanked open the door without knocking. Two heads looked up sharply; Snape sat behind his desk while Malfoy, apparently serving detention, sorted particularly vile-looking Potions ingredients into separate bins.

"Potter," Professor Snape barked. "What is the meaning of-"

"Peeves got into your quarters, sir." Harry blurted out the first excuse he could think of. "He said he's turning it into an indoor swimming pool."

Professor Snape was on his feet in an instant, barking at Malfoy, "You will not move an inch," as he hurried into the corridor.

Harry had to run to keep up with him, catching up only when he'd rounded a corner. "Sir- sir, Peeves isn't really in your quarters-"

"What?" Snape whirled around, backing Harry against a wall and snarling, "There'd better be a good reason for this, Potter."

"It's just- I thought-" Harry tried to pull back from the irate Potions Master but was hindered by the stone wall behind him. Lowering his voice, he said, "What if Voldemort is possessing Sirius?"

Professor Snape froze, then grabbed Harry by his arm, hissing, "Not out here."

Harry had never been inside Snape's private quarters before, not in this life or the one that had come before. The chamber was small and rather simple, the walls unadorned. The furniture looked comfortable, but not particularly ornate. There were no photographs on display.

"Sit," Professor Snape said, pulling a chair out from under a small wooden table. He took a seat in an identical one on the table's opposite side. "I wondered if you'd eventually consider this particular possibility."

"You've already thought of it?" Harry stared at him incredulously.

"Of course I have, from the very moment He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named supposedly began to fade away. Do you think the headmistress and I are imbeciles?"

"I didn't think of it," Harry muttered, his cheeks reddening. "At least not until now."

"Do you want me to soothe your ego and tell you I don't think you're an imbecile?" Professor Snape rolled his eyes. "Fine, Potter, I don't think you're an imbecile. Are you happy?"

Harry glared at him but, somehow, managed to keep his tongue. "Sir, what do we do? If Sirius is possessed-"

"I don't think he is," he interrupted. Before Harry could cut in, he added, "And neither does Professor McGonagall."

"You don't?"

"Think it over, Potter," Professor Snape said, leaning forward, his fingers entwined. "The Dark Lord was deeply weak to begin with. He can briefly possess small animals, but a human- even a human in Animagus form- that would be more difficult. He'd need help. A willing host."

"Sirius would never allow Voldemort- fine, sorry, You-Know-Who to possess him. He'd die before that happened." He looked sharply at Professor Snape. "You do believe that, sir, don't you?"

A short nod. "I do." Then, "The Professor Quirrell of your world allowed He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named access to his body. And in doing so, he changed, did he not?"

Harry nodded slowly. He'd never met the old Professor Quirrell. Hagrid had described him as twitchy (much as the Professor Quirrell as this world was), but not nearly as twitchy and paranoid as he'd become under Voldemort's influence. Not to mention the face poking out from the back of his head. Small matter, that.

"There would be signs," Professor Snape explained. "I highly doubt the Dark Lord could, in his current state, successfully take over your godfather's bodily functions to the extent that not a single bit of his own awareness or autonomy remained. You're also forgetting that Professor McGonagall has a network of connections that guided her to Black in the first place."

"The animals?"

"Yes, Potter, the animals. From what I've been told, they can only communicate in the most rudimentary of ways, but they have kept a continuous eye on the situation, and there have been no messages of a human being taken over by the dark creature that lives deep within the forest."

Harry nodded again, a wave of tentative relief beginning to wash over him. "But..."

"But?"

"But what if you're wrong, sir?"

Professor Snape's lips twitched, Harry realised he'd almost smiled. "That's why the headmistress and I plan for me to personally check on Sirius Black over the Easter holidays, to ensure he is safe, and to see the situation for myself."

"You're going to Albania?" Harry gaped at him. "Does Sirius know? When were you going to tell me?"

"Black does not know, and you will say nothing of the sort to make him suspect otherwise." Snape fixed him with a harsh look. "The last thing we need is a worst-case scenario in which the Dark Lord is granted a head start. I plan to contact Black when I'm close, when there won't be enough time to formulate a plan or flee. I imagine after the initial surprise has worn off, your vindicated godfather will reluctantly understand the reasoning behind the lack of warning."

"You didn't answer my other question," Harry said. "Were you only going to tell me once you'd returned?"

Professor Snape rolled his eyes. "No, Potter. Believe it or not, I planned to tell you beforehand. Shockingly, I am a man of my word. However, please do accept my uttermost and deeply sincere apologies I did not include you on every step of the planning process."

"Fine. I forgive you, sir." Harry couldn't help but smirk at the glare shot his way in response. "But don't let it happen again."

"I shall pretend I didn't hear that," Snape advised him. "And you shall return to your common room, while I return to Mr. Malfoy." They were halfway to the door when he added, "And, Potter, if you need to speak with me while I'm preoccupied, for goodness' sake, just say you have a question about homework or some other nonsense. If you ever frighten me like that again, I'll hex you beyond recognition."

"I'll keep that in mind, sir," Harry promised, all the while imagining just what Snape's quarters would look like transformed by Peeves into a private swimming pool.

The days and weeks carried on, and there came a day in March when Harry wanted nothing more than to skive off his classes and hex anyone who came near. The small matter of him being a time and dimension traveller wouldn't keep Professor Snape from going mental, however- it figured he'd ended up a Slytherin in a universe where Snape actually held his house accountable for their actions.

Harry got through his classes as best he could and spent the majority of the evening flying (or at least attempting to) around the grounds on one of the school's Shooting Stars. He made it back to the common room with minutes to spare before curfew- the bloody portraits reported latecomers to Snape- changed into his pyjamas, and mumbled a distracted good night to his dormmate before climbing into bed and drawing the curtains firmly shut.

"Sirius?" he whispered, once he'd successfully cast the muffling spell he'd learned from Professor Snape. "Are you there?"

A long pause, then Sirius's face appeared. "Hey, there. How've you been?"

Harry opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He wanted to tell him what he'd realised this morning, that yesterday had been the first of March, that he'd spent the entire day playing Gobstones with Daphne Greengrass and exploring long unused parts of the dungeons with Theo, completely forgetting it was- would have been- no, was Ron's twelfth birthday. Upon glimpsing the date on the front page of a sixth-year's Daily Prophet that morning, the porridge he'd just taken a bite of seemed to curdle before even reaching his stomach.

How could he have forgotten? Was this just how life would be now, bits of the real world breaking away, piece by piece, fading away the longer he spent away from it?

"I'm fine," he said after a moment had passed.

He studied Sirius carefully. His face was thinner than the last time they'd spoken, his hair matted, but he didn't look possessed. Then again, just because Voldemort's face wasn't leering at them underneath Sirius's left eyebrow didn't mean the threat wasn't there.

He inhaled deeply, remembering everything Professor Snape had told him. He did trust Snape's judgment, as horrid as that seemed, and Professor McGonagall's. He was probably just being overly cautious.

"Just tired," he added. "I spent most of the evening flying. How are you?"

"It's strange," Harry said one evening, glancing out a window in the Headmistress's office and across the Hogwarts grounds below. "How you can get used to something over time."

Professor McGonagall didn't respond straight away, instead simply nodding before saying, "You aren't wrong, Potter."

Spring was upon them, and Harry found himself growing more and more accustomed to his new existence. Sometimes he wondered if new was even the accurate word to describe it. In two months, it would mark a full year since he'd arrived here.

"What do you think of your life now?" Professor McGonagall asked quietly. "Now that you've had time to adjust."

"It's..." Harry thought it over. "Not terrible. You've been great, Professor, and... I mean, I hate to admit it, but Professor Snape's been decent. More decent than I'd have ever imagined."

A small smile played at the corner of her lips, but she had the decency, Harry was relieved to see, not to say I told you so.

"He was just... so different in my world," he said, half to himself. "So were the Dursleys. I mean, they're still not great, but..." He trailed off. "I think they know that, too. I think they're realising they need to be..."

Better? He trailed off again, leaving the word unspoken. He was still writing off and on to Dudley, and so was Hermione, despite his repeated assurances she really didn't have to. She was thriving, it seemed, getting the opportunity to share the vast amount of knowledge she'd accumulated over the past year with another newcomer to the wizarding world. Dudley, to Harry's surprise, hadn't yet been scared off.

Yes, somehow Harry's time in this new reality had settled into something surprisingly decent. And yet...

He was lonely, Harry realised with a start. He enjoyed his friendships with Hermione and Theo. Blaise Zabini was intensely private, but he wasn't all that bad. Hell, even Crabbe and Goyle could be good for a laugh now and then- they were thick, but they weren't maliciously thick.

There was something missing, and Harry was certain it came down to him being sixteen, nearly seventeen, trapped in a much younger body. He was fond of his friends- including, though he was loathe to admit it, Crabbe and Goyle- but not in the way he'd been fond of his friends back home.

He felt like an older brother, or at least how he imagined an older brother might feel. He couldn't talk with his friends the way he'd talked with Ron and Hermione. He still missed Ron, deeply, and despite seeing her daily, he missed Hermione too. The Hermione he spent time with now was special to him, but they hadn't gone through even half of what they had in his memories.

Try as he might, he couldn't close the unspoken distance between him and the other first-years, and he wasn't about to imagine the older students would give him the time of day, Boy-Who-Lived or not. Even if they did, it would never be quite right- he'd never be able to be fully honest, not with the secret he carried everywhere he went.

He was grateful for the confidants he was lucky enough to have- Professor McGonagall, Sirius, even Snape. Hell, even Aunt Petunia. But it wasn't the same as the friendships he'd had before— even though Sirius knew exactly what it was like to be trapped here, they were thousands of miles apart. It wasn't the same as before, as having Ron and Hermione by his side.

Harry looked up at Professor McGonagall, trying to find a way to put this all into words, and immediately faltering. Somehow, she seemed to understand.

"It must be isolating," she said simply, and he nodded, leaving it at that.

The Easter holidays had always been a bit of a throwaway break during Harry's previous years at Hogwarts. Not nearly as many students went home as they did at Christmas; Ron and Hermione inevitably stayed behind. Between the professors piling on unreasonable amounts of homework and Hermione's intensifying preparation for their upcoming exams, Harry usually associated this time of the year with long days of revision.

The note from Aunt Petunia came several weeks before the holiday was due to begin. Just as before Christmas, she asked when to expect Harry home for Easter.

Harry hesitated, just as he had last time, but he didn't undergo a multi-day crisis of decision-making this time around. He knew he'd far rather spend the time at Hogwarts, but if his relatives were decent enough to actually want him back, he could return the favour by accepting their invitation. Besides, it couldn't hurt to check in with Dudley now that some of the initial shock had worn off for both of them.

They still wrote now and then, but not nearly enough to qualify as regular correspondence. Occasionally, a letter to Hermione would appear, but these had slowed as well. Hermione, from the kindness of her heart (and a seemingly pathological need to be as thorough as possible), had a tendency to answer Dudley's very basic questions in excruciatingly extensive detail.

A query about what Hogwarts taught resulted in a multiple-scroll epic covering the school's entire course catalogue, from the simplest of first year classes all the way up to the NEWT-level, annotated with personal thoughts and recommendations. A question about the events that had killed Dudley's aunt and uncle led Hermione to meticulously copy eleven pages from Modern Magical History about Voldemort and the war in her tidy handwriting. Wondering what the castle looked like inspired a recounting of the process the Founders used to build it (including where they sourced the stone from), as chronicled in Hogwarts: A History.

"Your cousin hasn't written in a while," Hermione commented as the Easter holidays grew closer. "I hope I haven't overdone it with my replies."

"Maybe a little," Harry admitted as her frown deepened.

"I can't help it! I just love learning things." She gazed at Harry. "It's different for you. You're brilliant, Harry, you really are, but you don't care about the material. Not the way I do. I'll never understand it."

I'm not brilliant, I've just done it before. Harry bit his tongue, instead saying, "That's why you're in Ravenclaw, and I'm not."

"I suppose," Hermione replied, but her frown remained.

The ride to London on the Hogwarts Express was quieter than the one in December. There were more than enough compartments to choose from, and Harry gazed out the window as Hermione got a head start on the homework they'd been assigned. He thought back to his old life and wondered how many times she and Ron had stayed at school because Harry didn't have anyone to go home to.

As the scenery flew by, Harry found himself thinking of Professor Snape, and how he was probably already on his way to Sirius. Harry had spoken to Sirius just the night before, the latter confirming that Voldemort was still present, but only barely.

"It's as though he's a shadow of a shadow," his godfather had murmured, deep within a thicket of trees. "I wish I knew what it meant."

"I wish I did too." Harry didn't reveal that he'd soon be seeing Professor Snape, hating himself all the while. He hoped Sirius would understand when the time came. "Be careful, won't you?"

"I will. Don't worry." Sirius smiled, but he was unable to hide the exhaustion from his face.

It was late afternoon by the time the Hogwarts Express pulled up to platform nine-and-three-quarters. Hermione brightened as they made their way through the barrier, turning to Harry and saying, "You must meet my parents before you leave- I've told them all about you. Do you think your cousin came too? I'd love to properly meet him."

"No clue." Harry scanned the crowd, his eyes falling on Uncle Vernon, who was in the process of checking his watch, his foot tapping impatiently. "There's my uncle."

Uncle Vernon had spotted him; he strode over quickly and, with a demeanour more akin to the counterpart Harry once knew, sharply said, "Right. Let's go."

"Erm, hi." Harry nodded at Hermione. "This is my friend, Herm-"

But Uncle Vernon had already seized control of Harry's trolley, nodding curtly at Hermione and barking the briefest of greetings before starting toward the car park at a speed Harry hadn't known him capable of.

"I'll write," Harry said quickly, leaving Hermione gaping after them. He rushed to keep up with his uncle. "What's going on?"

Uncle Vernon hardly seemed to hear him. He only paused to wrench open the door of a phone box, digging for change in his shirt pocket before making a call. Whoever answered must have done so on the first ring.

"Have you heard anything?" A pause, then, "We're on our way back now."

Uncle Vernon slammed the phone down, his face and neck flushed red. For the first time, he seemed to properly take in Harry's presence.

"What's happened?" Harry asked, staring at him with growing sense of apprehension.

"When was the last time you spoke with Dudley?"

"What?"

"Answer me, boy!" Uncle Vernon snapped, and Harry blinked in surprise.

Despite the initial similarities to the version of his uncle Harry (unfortunately) knew all too well, something was different. This Uncle Vernon wasn't angry, Harry realised- as similar as this current state was to one of rage, what he was actually witnessing was his uncle frightened.

"It's been two weeks, maybe?" he answered quickly. "I'm not sure."

Uncle Vernon leaned against the phone booth, his shoulders slumping as he released the rigidity with which he'd been carrying himself. Harry hesitated, unable to ask the questions now at his lips.

"Last night," his uncle finally said. "Your aunt went to check on him- he has nightmares, terrible nightmares- but he was gone."

"Gone?"

"He left a note on the bed. Said he was sorry, and he'd be back soon." Uncle Vernon's eye twitched, as did the corresponding corner of his bushy moustache. "You don't know anything about this?" When Harry shook his head, he simply nodded and said, "Right, to the car."

The police were at number four, Privet Drive when they arrived, the two uniformed man tearing their attention away from a weeping Aunt Petunia and redirecting it toward the new arrivals, particularly Hedwig.

"Is that an owl?"

"My nephew's pet," Uncle Vernon said through gritted teeth. "Do you have any news?"

They did not have any news, though they repeatedly assured both the Dursleys their son would be found, that a ten-year-old runaway couldn't travel too far undetected. Such a description of her darling little boy only made Aunt Petunia sob harder as she insisted her child would never run away, that something dreadful must have happened.

The policemen didn't seem terribly interested in Harry, but they did ask him a few perfunctory questions, which he answered as truthfully as possible. He went to boarding school in Scotland and exchanged letters with his cousin perhaps once a month or so.

"He might be jealous," the older and broader of the pair suggested. "You know how boys are. Older cousin comes home from school, there's bound to be-" He glanced at Hedwig again. "A certain amount of distraction."

"I really don't think it's that," Harry said, but neither seemed to hear him.

Did this have something to do with him? Was Dudley so horrified by the prospect of attending Hogwarts that he'd made a run for it? It didn't make sense. Harry was fairly certain his aunt and uncle would stand by Dudley if he decided not to go. Uncle Vernon had made the same offer to Harry back in September, after all.

It was dark by the time the policemen left, having knocked on every door on Privet Drive and the area around it. Aunt Petunia was too worked up to panic over the weeks and months of gossip this was certain to inspire, instead trembling at the kitchen table, tears streaming silently down her cheeks.

Harry approached carefully, pausing before he grew too close. On the table with a piece of notebook paper, jagged at the edges, Dudley's handwriting scrawled across in blue ink.

Mum and Dad,

I'm really sorry to worry you. I promiss I'll come back home soon.

Love,
Dudley

Harry stared at the note, then at the hunched form of his aunt. He took another step forward and slowly, despite his better judgement, found his hand moving forward. He placed it over his aunt's closed fist, freezing as she looked up, her body stiffening. He prepared himself for the anger, the slew of accusations bound to come his way. But her mouth didn't open, and instead Harry watched her free hand move just as slowly, taking hold of his elbow and pulling him against her side.

It wasn't a hug, not a real hug, but it was the closest they'd ever come to one.

The call came after midnight, though no one at number four was asleep. It seemed the police had been correct in their assumption that a ten-year-old couldn't stay hidden for long, particularly when they became hopelessly lost on their way to London. He'd been discovered, off-course, outside the waiting area at the train station in West Drayton, half-asleep and hungry.

"West Drayton?" Aunt Petunia repeated into the receiver, her tone a combination of joyous relief and utter confusion. "What was he doing in West Drayton? How'd he get to West Drayton from Little Whinging? Why would he try to go to London?"

The answer, relayed by Dudley through the policeman on the phone, was something vague about wanting to go to a new funfair in London all on his own. This seemed to appease the police, but not the Dursleys, nor Harry.

"It doesn't make a bit of sense," Uncle Vernon said, once the phone was hung up and Dudley was on his way home. "A funfair? In London? We'd take him to any funfair he wanted. And leaving in the middle of the ruddy night?"

"I don't understand," Aunt Petunia murmured, half to herself, pacing back and forth across the tile floor of the kitchen.

From his vantage point on the living room sofa, Harry remained relatively ignored. No one had sent him back upstairs, at least. He pulled his knees closer to his chest, unnerved at the wave of relief washing over him. It wasn't the relief itself that was surprising- of course he was happy his cousin was safe- but, instead, its sheer intensity. He'd been genuinely afraid at the prospect of something terrible happening to Dudley.

The police car didn't flash its lights, nor did it sound its siren when it arrived, but windows lit up and curtains shifted across Privet Drive all the same. Aunt Petunia, who would normally react to being the centre of a minor neighbourhood scandal the same way the average wizard might in the presence of a Dementor, hardly paid the neighbours any mind, opening the door and rushing to her son. She'd wrapped him in a tight embrace before he was even fully out of the car.

"I can't thank you enough," Uncle Vernon was saying to the police, different ones than before, as Aunt Petunia hurried Dudley inside, Harry watching from the bottom of the stairs.

Dudley pulled away from his mother the moment they were inside. Arms folded across his torso, he shoved past Harry, refusing to meet his eyes, and hurried upstairs. Aunt Petunia made to follow him, but the policewoman who'd driven him back was saying something about some sort of mandatory follow-up, one that Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were quick to begin assuring her really wasn't needed, that everything was just fine- just boys being boys, a lark taken too far-

Harry slipped away, taking the stairs two at a time, only coming to a stop outside Dudley's bedroom. The door was shut, and he knocked on it. There was no answer. "Dudley, it's me. Let me in."

"Go away."

"What happened? You tried to go to London?" Harry shook his head, wondering what was so important that his cousin had to leave in the middle of the night instead of waiting until his father went to King's Cross the very next day. He reached out to open the door, and realised it was locked. "Dudley, don't be stupid. Let me in."

"I said go away."

Harry stared at the locked door in bewilderment. Downstairs, the police were leaving, and the front door closed. A long pause, then two sets of footsteps started up the stairs. Harry moved aside as his aunt and uncle arrived on the landing, the latter striding straight to Dudley's bedroom door.

"It's locked," Harry said uselessly, even as his uncle jiggled the doorknob.

"Dudley Dursley, you open this door this instant," Uncle Vernon snapped, his tone sharper than Harry had ever heard it directed toward his cousin. "And you tell us where the hell you've been. After what you just put your mother and I through-"

"Darling." Aunt Petunia tried a gentler approach, pressing herself against the closed door. "Duddy, sweetheart, let mummy in. We won't be cross, I promise."

The look on Uncle Vernon's face made Harry think otherwise, but Aunt Petunia continued to promise there would be no scolding or punishment. That said, no amount of coaxing would make Dudley cave.

"Go away," he called out. "I'm sorry I worried you. But, please, go away."

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia glanced at one another. In a low voice, Uncle Vernon said, "Step away from the door, dear." Then, more loudly, "Son, if you don't open this door, I'm breaking it down."

Aunt Petunia put a hand to her lips, but Harry was surprised to see her direct a barely perceptible nod toward her husband. A long pause, then Uncle Vernon rammed his shoulder against the door, grunting loudly.

Harry gaped at the sight of his uncle hurling himself against Dudley's bedroom door, swearing under his breath all the while. Finally, there was a click as the lock disengaged and the door swung open, Dudley leaping out of the way as his father rushed over the threshold, unable to stop his momentum. Aunt Petunia rushed forward, embracing her son once more and shooting a look at her husband that combined both gratitude and a sentiment that seemed to say Let me take it from here.

Uncle Vernon grimaced as he rubbed his shoulder, turning to Harry, who was still outside the door. "Get to bed."

Harry ignored him, watching as Aunt Petunia ran a hand through Dudley's blond hair, whispering that whatever was wrong was something that could be solved, that he was safe now.

"I'm not," Dudley said quietly. "And neither are you."

"What does that mean?" Uncle Vernon asked loudly. When Aunt Petunia shot him a look, he struggled to moderate his tone. "Dudley, we want to help you. Is someone threatening you?"

"It can't be drugs," Aunt Petunia murmured, and Harry was suddenly transported back to a very similar conversation they'd had last summer, back when he'd revealed his previous life to her. "Not at your age."

Dudley hesitated, then said, almost desperately, "Yeah. Mum, it's- it's drugs. I'm on drugs. That's what this is. I'm sorry I worried you."

Aunt Petunia pulled back sharply, but Uncle Vernon shook his head at her. To his son, he asked, "What sort of drugs?"

Dudley hesitated again, and Harry realised he didn't even know the names of any drugs. "All of them."

Uncle Vernon exhaled, shaking his head again. "It's not drugs."

"Diddy-widdy, dumpling." Aunt Petunia tried to take his hands in hers, but he had them wrapped around his torso again. "Daddy and I want to help you. Whatever it is, whoever has frightened you, they can't hurt us."

"Yes, he can," Dudley burst forth, so passionately that even Harry startled. "He said he can, and I believe him. He kills parents."

A strange sensation had worked its way into Harry's stomach, and he stepped into Dudley's room. "Who are you talking about?"

Dudley froze, finally meeting his cousin's gaze. Finally, he said, "You should leave. Before he knows you're here."

"You're talking about Voldemort," Harry all but whispered. "Aren't you?"

Aunt Petunia let out a small, strangled noise. Uncle Vernon whirled around, jerking his head in all directions, as though the Dark Lord might be perched on the ceiling.

Dudley squeezed his eyes shut. "He was my friend. I don't know where the book came from- it just turned up one day."

"The book? What book?" Uncle Vernon asked as Dudley squeezed his arms around himself even more tightly.

"He said he was my friend." Dudley was practically babbling. "He said the things that Hermione girl wrote in her letters about him weren't true, that he'd been misunderstood. He said he didn't want to hurt you-" He turned to Harry, then jerked his gaze away again. "He just wanted to meet you. The diary was a present for you, and I opened it-"

"It's okay," Harry said quickly, trying to keep his voice as calm as possible. Memories of the Christmas holidays flitted through his mind; he thought of walking in on Dudley writing in a small book, and how he'd allowed himself to be convinced it was perfectly normal. "Dudley, it's okay, really. I know what the diary is. It's going to be okay."

"Would someone tell us what's happening?" Aunt Petunia hissed, her eyes wide.

Harry took a step toward Dudley. "Do you have the diary on you? Did you bring it with you when you left?" When his cousin didn't answer, he focused his attention on his torso, and the arms he still had wrapped around himself. "Is it under your shirt?"

Dudley's face crumpled, and he nodded. Uncle Vernon reached for his son's arms; Dudley tried to push himself away, but he was no match. His arms were wrenched upward, and the book fell to the floor. Harry darted forward, staring down at one of the last things he ever expected to see at number four, Privet Drive. Tom Riddle's diary stared back at him, and Harry slowly bent down to pick it up.

The moment his fingers touched the cover, Harry gasped, rearing back. Over the past almost-year he'd grown almost accustomed to this universe surprising him in an ever-changing myriad of ways, but it wasn't until he made contact with the diary that he realised this artefact was quite unlike the one he'd encountered in his own universe. There was something inside, something trying to make its way out. Something not quite human, yet somehow realer than the memory of a teenaged Tom Riddle, Jr.

Harry thought of Sirius watching Voldemort's essence slowly ebb away from the forests of Albania, and for the first time he understood exactly where it had been ebbing away to.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

When Harry awoke, he found Dudley curled up in the bed across from his, staring directly at him. He bit back his surprise, managing to say, "Sleep well, then?"

"Yeah." Dudley gestured at the empty potion bottle on the table beside him. "You were right. I didn't dream at all."

Sunlight streamed through a paned window. Dudley pushed himself up slowly and looked across the Hogwarts grounds. "Tom... Voldemort described what it was like here, but I thought it would be, I don't know, gloomier."

"It can be, when the weather is bad, but it's never depressing. I love it here," Harry said, sitting up and looking out as well. "Both versions of Hogwarts."

Dudley made a small noise in the back of his throat. Not turning to look at Harry, he said, "After Christmas, when you went back to school, I heard Dad tell Mum that you seemed to have grown up very quickly. Guess he was right."

"Guess so," Harry agreed.

"This is weird. It's weird, isn't it?"

"It's definitely weird, Dudley."

"Those memories you showed us..." Dudley swallowed, still not looking at him. "I didn't like those memories."

"I'd be worried if you did."

"Why were we like that?"

Harry shrugged uncomfortably. "I dunno. I don't know what went on in their heads. They..." He thought back to something the Snape of this world had once said about the Petunia he'd known growing up. "I think they had their ideas of what was right, and it was hard to sway them. A lot harder than it is here."

Dudley thought this over, then nodded. "It was weird seeing you older. It was weird seeing me older."

"It's been pretty weird being tossed into a younger body, too."

"That version of me that was attacked by Dement... what were they called?"

"Dementors."

"Yeah, those. Is it weird that I don't like that version of me, but I really want the leather jacket he was wearing?"

Harry couldn't help but smile. "He really liked that jacket, too. Don't worry, I wouldn't take it as an omen. It was a cool jacket."

They couldn't leave the corridor, not with the castle still containing plenty of students and staff. Professor McGonagall had arrived earlier, holing up in the next room over with Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, while Harry made his way over to Sirius's quarters, allowing Dudley a chance to think things over on his own.

"I'll bet you didn't imagine when you first met my dad that things would turn out like this," Harry said, trying to flatten his hair while a freshly shaven Sirius admired the Hogwarts grounds through the window, much as Dudley had.

"I did, actually." Sirius chuckled lightly. "The first thing I thought when I met James Potter on the Hogwarts Express was that one day I'd break out of Azkaban twice, go back in time to a different dimension with his son, and spend a few years living in a forest with Voldemort. Had all the dates saved in my diary and everything."

Harry smiled, but it was mixed with exhaustion no amount of Dreamless Sleep potion could rectify. "You're staying, then?"

"No reason for me to go back to the Balkans now that Voldemort's back in Britain." Sirius turned away from the grounds, toward Harry. "I'm sorry I wasn't able to take care of him for you." Before Harry could reply, he added, "And if you say something about me fighting your battles one more time, I'll throw you out this window."

"Fine." Harry knew Sirius was right, but he still couldn't help but think it. "I'm glad you're staying."

"I am, too." Sirius paused. "Your family seems better this time around."

"They are. They've surprised me. I didn't think they had it in them."

"A lot about this world surprises me."

They talked for ages, covering everything they could possibly think of. It was nicer, Harry thought, to have Sirius in flesh-and-blood beside him, as opposed to reflected through the glass of the mirror.

"I keep expecting things to be the same, and then something weird happens." Harry shook his head ruefully. "Do you know about house-elves here?"

"What about them?"

That had been a particularly confusing conversation with Professors McGonagall and Snape. Harry, insistent they rescue Dobby if he was still with the Malfoys in this world, was asked why Dobby didn't just leave.

"It's different here," he explained to Sirius. "If you leave out food and gifts, maybe a house-elf will turn up and help clean your home as a way of repaying the favour. If you get along, maybe they'll stay for a bit. But it's not... you know, the way it was back home."

"Hm. Hermione would be thrilled."

"I think Professor McGonagall was on the verge of discovering a way to create a portal to our world and becoming Hermione's second-in-command in S.P.E.W.."

"It would be an interesting way to return, at least."

At some point, lunch appeared on silver plates, and they helped themselves to hearty servings.

"Invite your cousin," Sirius suggested. "He's had more than enough time to think on his own, hasn't he?"

So Harry did, and as they ate, he marvelled at the sheer absurdity of sharing a meal, however stilted, with Sirius Black and Dudley Dursley in a forgotten room at Hogwarts.

"How much did He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named see?" Professor Snape asked later that morning. They were in his office, Harry having accompanied him with the aid of the Invisibility Cloak.

"It's hard to say. A glimpse, but enough to understand who I really am."

"How much did he see? Did he see his resurrection?"

"I don't know. Some of it, I think." Harry tried to remember, but the whole thing was a blur. "I think he saw a bit of the graveyard, but not the specifics of how he came back. He knows he came back, though."

"Which, I imagine, will only redouble his efforts to do so here, now that he knows it's been done before."

Harry sighed heavily. "Peter Pettigrew died here, and he was never a traitor to begin with, but how do we know who supports Vold- You-Know-Who, and who doesn't? Did Barty Crouch, Junior swap places with his mother before she died?"

"I'm afraid I know as much as you do, Potter. I saw very little of the Dark Lord's inner circle during my time as a spy. Some were under the Imperius Curse, most weren't. He kept us separated, never wanting his followers to grow too powerful as a collective."

"Do you think..." Harry trailed off, not wanting to say what he was thinking, but forcing himself to all the same. "Sir, do you think I should try to learn Occlumency again?"

"In the long run, yes, I do think it would be extremely beneficial. If the Dark Lord tries to gain more insight on the details of his revival, he very well may try to look inside you once again." Professor Snape fell silent, before speaking once more. "You've never told me why your lessons with my counterpart ended. I've gathered he could be... temperamental, but if his loyalties were with Professor Dumbledore, I can't imagine why he'd stop something so essential."

"I wasn't very good at it. We weren't making much progress," Harry said, then he hesitated. "There's something more, sir. Something I haven't told you."

"I've suspected as much. Well, then, out with it, Potter."

Harry sighed. "The night we had our final lesson, I got there before you. You'd put some memories you didn't want me to see in a Pensieve."

"Ah." Professor Snape studied him closely. "I can only imagine what you did next, Potter."

"I shouldn't have," Harry said quickly. "I know I shouldn't have, sir. But I did, and I saw... well, I saw that my father wasn't very kind to you when you were younger."

Professor Snape thought this over, then said, "Show me."

Harry wasn't sure how this would work, viewing a memory of a memory. Besides, the Pensieve was with Professor McGonagall. He realised quickly, however, that Professor Snape had something else in mind.

"If you'll allow me," he clarified, and after a moment's thought, Harry nodded. "I won't look at anything more than that, Potter."

Harry nodded again, and he forced himself to lock eyes with Professor Snape, bringing the memory of that awful day to the front of his mind. Then Snape was inside his thoughts, and Harry was dipping his head into the Pensieve, finding himself in an exam room with his father, and Sirius, and everyone else. They were going outside; Snape was in the air, his greying underpants on display. Back in Snape's study, Snape shouting, a jar of dead cockroaches exploding over his head-

Abruptly, they were back in Snape's office, Harry breathing heavily.

"I'm sorry, sir," he finally said, after steadying himself. "I never should have gone in the Pensieve without your permission. I know you and my father got on better in this world, even if you weren't best mates. But that's part of why you hated me so much. I look so much like him, sir, and you thought I was just like him."

Professor Snape made a small noise with his tongue. He seemed deep in thought. "I like to think I've spent enough time with you these past couple of terms to have a reasonably good idea of what you're like, Potter. I wouldn't say you're like the James Potter of that memory, though for all I know you might have regularly attacked your schoolmates."

"I haven't- Sir, I wouldn't do that-"

"I know that, Potter. Whatever the Severus Snape of your world thought, I'm capable of some degree of nuance." Professor Snape leaned back in his chair. "I will teach you Occlumency, but I need your world you'll never violate my privacy the way you violated the other Severus Snape's privacy. I simply won't have it."

"Absolutely," Harry said quickly. "You have my word, sir."

"Well, then." With that, Professor Snape extended his right hand, and Harry didn't hesitate to shake it.

Harry and the three Dursleys sat together in relative silence. After all that had been said the previous day, no one quite knew what should come next.

"Well." Uncle Vernon fiddled with one of his shirt cuffs, dark circles under his eyes. It was obvious neither he nor Aunt Petunia had taken advantage of the Dreamless Sleep potion.

"Yeah," Harry said, and they fell silent once more.

"We don't want either of you going to Hogwarts," Aunt Petunia said at last. "Frankly, what we'd both like is to pack up and move where no one can find us. But we've spoken with Professor McGonagall, and we understand why that might not work."

"Voldemort will find you, if he really wants to," Harry agreed. "He was able to trick his way into Privet Drive, which should have been impossible with the protective charms on it."

He started to explain what this meant, but Uncle Vernon waved a hand. "We know about the charms. We've always known about them. Didn't work so well, though, did it? That Voldemort chap walked right through our front door, or thereabout."

"He didn't, though," Dudley said glumly. "I let him in, through the diary. That's probably what made the difference."

"You didn't know what you were doing, Dudley," Harry said. "You did your best."

Aunt Petunia nodded empathically, squeezing her son's hand tightly. "That being said, if our home isn't safe, who's to say leaving the country and changing our names is any safer?"

"He left when that Mrs. McGonagall turned up," Uncle Vernon said, half to himself. "We couldn't make him leave. She did." He looked sharply at Harry and Dudley. "I don't like any of this, but..." He focused on Harry now. "If that Voldemort intends to hunt you down regardless of where we go or what we do, I want my family safe. If there's to be a next time, I want both you and Dudley to have a fighting chance. Even if that does mean..."

He grimaced and waved a hand at the castle around them.

"Listen," Harry said, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "Voldemort is always going to come after me. You're right about that. Especially now, given what he knows. But if you make a run for it, I don't think he'd bother coming after you. If you and Aunt Petunia and Dudley do want to leave the country, change your names-"

"Have you paid attention to a word we've said?" Aunt Petunia asked sharply. "We're not leaving you. Don't you remember what I said the day you told me who you really are? I will always help you."

"Too right," Uncle Vernon agreed gruffly. "You had a rough go of it with us the last time around. I won't apologise for something I haven't done, but I will do whatever it takes for you to understand things are different here."

"I said something else that day," Aunt Petunia said after a moment's hesitation. "I said I would always help you, but that I couldn't manage knowing the things you were telling me." She took a shaky breath, looking as though she might be sick. "I still can't, but I'm going to try to learn how."

"What's going to happen to Sirius?" Harry asked that evening, sitting with Professor McGonagall in her office. "He's staying, but it's not as though he can rent a flat over a shop in Hogsmeade. And you can't shut him up at Grimmauld Place again, Professor. You can't."

"I have no intention of doing anything of the sort, Mr. Potter," Professor McGonagall said. "Particularly given how that turned out the last time he experienced it."

"Where will he go, then?"

"That," she said with a sigh, "Is something we haven't ironed out yet. Ultimately, I'd like very much to clear Sirius's name with the Ministry, which is a battle I can't even begin to comprehend. But believe me, Potter, we will iron it out."

"I know we will." Harry thought of how depressed Sirius had been in his childhood home and tried his best to push it from his mind. "What do you think You-Know-Who will do next?"

"Just as much as you do. I suspect he'll bide his time for a bit, then focus on resurrecting his body, now that he knows it's been done. Without help, though, that may be difficult." She looked perturbed, adding, "But now that he's back here, he'll have greater access to his old followers."

"Who do you think he'll go to first, Professor?"

"That's just it," she said carefully. "I'm not sure he trusts any of his old followers. He didn't when he was at full power, and now, more than eleven years after he lost everything, not one tried to find him. Not one tried to bring him back. Even when his former closest ally, Sirius Black, returned to him, he seemed to return with new allegiances."

"So, he's angry," Harry mumbled. "And afraid. I don't like that combination, Professor."

"Neither do I."

It took some convincing for the Dursleys to accept number four, Privet Drive was safe to return to, but Professor McGonagall repeatedly explained the protective spells around it had significantly strengthened, and that she highly doubted Voldemort would try the same route again.

"I'll stay in close contact," she reassured them, and Uncle Vernon let out a grunt that didn't seem pleased, yet wasn't dismissive.

Harry was to return with them, to avoid any awkward questions about turning up early before the holidays ended. He didn't particularly mind; he'd prefer to be at Hogwarts, but Privet Drive wasn't as awful as it had once been, if one discounted the minor incident of an appearance by Lord Voldemort.

They travelled by Floo from the fireplace in Professor McGonagall's office, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia visibly and audibly hating every second of the process. Uncle Vernon swore up a storm upon stumbling into the living room, while Aunt Petunia ran straight to the downstairs toilet, one hand clamped firmly over her mouth.

"That was..." Dudley stumbled to the nearest sofa and threw himself down. "That was... fun, I think. Can we do it again?"

"I should damn well hope not," Uncle Vernon managed to splutter, before rushing in the same direction as Aunt Petunia.

"It grows on you," Harry reassured Dudley.

The remainder of the holiday passed with surprisingly little drama. There'd been a great deal of talking and explaining at Hogwarts, which now gave way to what Harry imagined was the Dursleys processing everything that had happened over the past few days.

Dudley refused to step foot in his bedroom, much less sleep in it. The first two nights, he slept in his parents' room, at which point Harry reluctantly considered offering to share his own bedroom for the rest of the holidays. Dudley snored, but so did Crabbe and Goyle, and he'd grown used to them. Before he could bring himself to ask, Dudley sidled into his own bedroom, jaw set with determination, though he left the door open all night.

"How old are you supposed to be again?" Uncle Vernon asked gruffly one evening as they passed one another on the upper landing. It was the first time they'd acknowledged this particular elephant in the room since returning to Little Whinging.

"Fifteen when I got here. Sixteen not long after. I'll be seventeen... Well, I'm not certain of the exact date, but sometime over the summer."

Uncle Vernon grunted. He stared at Harry, seemingly attempting to reconcile this information with the eleven-year-old boy in front of him. He didn't appear to much enjoy this task.

"Can't say I envy you," he said at last. "Wouldn't mind getting a few years back myself, but no one deserves to go through those years twice."

Much to his surprise, Harry laughed. Had Uncle Vernon just made a joke? "I've been dreading my second puberty, yeah."

Uncle Vernon grunted, and he clapped Harry on the shoulder in what seemed an encouraging way, or close to it, before passing him by.

Aunt Petunia was particularly quiet. She and Uncle Vernon hardly spoke. Harry had no desire to think much about the state of their marriage, but he wasn't stupid enough to think Aunt Petunia keeping Harry's background quiet for nearly a year had done it any favours.

"I understand why you told me not to tell Dudley or Uncle Vernon," Harry finally said one morning after breakfast, when it was just the two of them in the kitchen. "It's like you said, you were trying to protect them."

Aunt Petunia stiffened, and after a long moment she said, "I should have thought more about protecting you, too." She straightened her posture, and brusquely said, "Help me wash these dishes, won't you?"

Harry nodded, relieved that was the extent of the conversation.

All three of the Dursleys came with Harry to King's Cross. As they approached platform nine-and-three-quarters, he heard Aunt Petunia whispering instructions to Uncle Vernon and Dudley on how to approach the barrier. Harry turned to her in surprise, before remembering she'd had a sister who'd gone to Hogwarts, one she'd written letters to and probably saw off each year. Of course she'd know.

"Are they going to make me dress like that?" Dudley asked in horror once the Hogwarts Express was in sight and they were surrounded by a swarm of parents in various attempts to mimic Muggle outfits.

"You won't," Harry assured him.

"I should hope not," Uncle Vernon muttered as a man wearing a formal suit paired with a multicoloured hat with a small pinwheel on top passed them. He'd recoiled several times upon stepping foot on platform nine-and-three-quarters, but he hadn't yet attempted a mad dash back toward the Muggle part of the station, which Harry considered something resembling progress.

"Harry!"

Harry looked up to see Hermione hurrying toward them, her parents behind her. He grinned as she came to a stop in front of them. "Have a good Easter?"

"It was lovely. I got loads of reading done." she said brightly. "And you?"

"Oh, you know. Quiet." Harry jerked his head toward his cousin. "By the way, this is Dudley."

"Hullo," Dudley mumbled to Hermione. "Sorry I haven't written back in a while."

She didn't seem particularly bothered, instead lighting up even more and sticking out a hand, which Dudley slowly shook. "I was worried I might have overdone it. Did you get my latest letter about the history of broomsticks?"

"Yeah. I'm still working through that part about tail material regulation."

After dinner, Harry and Theo wandered aimlessly about the Hogwarts grounds, each sharing how they'd spent the holidays. Harry left a few parts out in his recounting. Theo had stayed at Hogwarts, and he filled Harry in on what he'd missed- Peeves wreaking his usual havoc, along with a rumour Hagrid had been discovered hatching a dragon egg in his hut.

"A dragon egg?" Harry asked, staring at him.

"No one knows if it's true or not. Zabini reckons it's just a silly story that got out of hand."

Harry didn't chime in with his own opinion, instead just nodding. It made sense Hagrid hadn't told him. Why would he? They weren't close this time around, not like before. There'd been so much happening. Still, he thought to himself, that was no excuse. He vowed to find a way to connect with Hagrid soon. If he was anything like the man Harry remembered, it was a relationship he wanted to keep.

"Oh, look, there's the dog. Have you seen him yet?"

Harry stared, mouth falling open. At the edge of the lake, a very large, very familiar black dog was playing fetch with a group of third year Hufflepuffs.

"He just turned up last week. Probably a stray from Hogsmeade, but he seems tame enough. Filch tried to shoo him off the grounds, but apparently Professor McGonagall took a liking to him and said he could stay as long as he doesn't cause any trouble." Theo laughed. "Who would have imagined old McGonagall had a soft spot for dogs?"

"Never would have guessed," Harry said, grinning widely.

Harry and Sirius were able to meet inside the Room of Requirement several days later. Sirius was sprawled comfortably across an overstuffed sofa, looking cleaner and better fed than Harry had seen him in ages.

"Hogwarts suits you well, Bubbles."

Sirius snorted. The Gryffindor second-years had taken to calling him that after a particularly energetic romp in the lake. "Rubbish name, isn't it? But I've been called worse."

"Where do you sleep? Not outside?"

Sirius shook his head. "I'm still in one of those unused rooms. I eat there, too. Whenever I feel cooped up, I transform and go out."

"That sounds loads better than Grimmauld Place."

"You've no idea. The younger years can be a bit rough, but it's nothing a gentle growl won't solve."

"So, you're staying?" Harry sat next to his godfather. "For good?"

Sirius hesitated. "For now. But not for good."

"But-"

"For now," he repeated firmly, though his expression wasn't a conflicted one. "I may not have the tattoo, but I was a Death Eater here, Harry. At the very least, I was one of Voldemort's closest followers. I've no idea who knows what about me, or about my Animagus form. All I need is for the child of a former Death Eater to describe me, and for a parent to put the pieces together. I'm still an escaped criminal, after all."

"But that's so unlikely," Harry protested. "Sirius, you can't think that'll actually happen."

Sirius shrugged. "Probably not, but even so, someone needs to keep an eye on Voldemort. He's here in Britain, and he knows about you. He knows he came back once before. You know as well as I that he's going to try even harder to do that now."

"So, you're just going to do what you did before? Wander about in a constant stalemate, if you even find him in begin with?"

"He can't be left to his own devices," Sirius said firmly. "Look what he managed to do even with eyes on him. We need someone in the field, and McGonagall and Snape can't devote their lives to that. They have a school to run." When Harry still looked at him questioningly, he added, "I want this, Harry. I was miserable at Grimmauld Place. I wanted to help. Don't you remember?"

Reluctantly, Harry nodded.

"It drove me half-mad. I feel useful again. I can't bear losing that- I've lost it too many times now."

Again, Harry nodded, even more slowly this time. "But you'll be careful, won't you? Promise me you'll be careful."

"Just so long as you promise the same."

"Who do you think sent the diary?" Harry asked several evenings later as he, Professors Snape and McGonagall, and Sirius sat in Snape's office. Presumably, Harry was serving detention every Thursday for the next month for having "forgotten" his Easter Potions homework at home. "Do you think it was Lucius Malfoy?"

"I'm afraid there's no way of knowing," Professor McGonagall said. "I've already put in an anonymous tip to the Ministry that he may be hiding illicit items, but I doubt they'll find anything truly damning. I hate to say it, but it could have been anyone."

Harry sighed. It was much harder to relive the past when things refused to stay the same. "Do you think You-Know-Who is strong enough to possess someone now, Professor?"

"No," she said after a moment's thought. "No, he seemed too weak for that. But I do believe there was something in that diary that strengthened him, even if only the slightest bit."

Harry nodded. Part of him wished Professor Dumbledore was here- he'd know what to do, wouldn't he? But another, increasingly growing part of himself found himself trusting Professor McGonagall might have a few good ideas as well.

He hadn't told anyone what he'd overheard the evening he'd returned to school on the Hogwarts Express. He'd managed to slip away to Professor McGonagall's office for the briefest of chats, but he'd found himself pausing outside the ajar doors at the top of the spiral stone staircase.

"...understand why he fled," Professor McGonagall was saying to someone. "There was nothing I could do to stop him, Albus. I couldn't contain or destroy him. Why would he flee?"

"Minerva," came the former headmaster's voice. Harry flattened himself against the wall, staying very still, as the portrait spoke. "Don't tell me you're this modest."

"I don't-"

"Minerva."

A pause, then Professor McGonagall spoke curtly. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Am I being ridiculous?"

"You most certainly are. Why would the Dark Lord flee because of me? It's undoubtable he took the risk to return to Britain before he was entirely ready because he learned of your death, and that I now run Hogwarts."

"Indeed. I don't disagree with you there. But Voldemort has always had a tendency to underestimate those who oppose him, at least until confronted by them. He saw inside you, just as he did everyone else in that room, and what he saw frightened him enough to retreat." A long pause, then, "There's a reason I named you my deputy, Minerva."

Harry slowly backed away down the staircase as quietly as possible. He'd come back later.

Now, as they sat in Professor Snape's office, Harry stared at the diary sitting on the otherwise bare mahogany desk. "What do we do with it?"

"Destroy it, I'd imagine." Sirius frowned. "But how? Dudley tried ripping the pages out, and burning it, but it repaired itself."

"How did you destroy it the last time? You stabbed it, if I recall correctly?" Professor Snape asked Harry, also frowning.

"Yeah, with a Basilisk fang. I don't know where we'll find one of those, sir."

They'd, of course, already searched for the Chamber of Secrets not just in the abandoned girls' toilet haunted by Myrtle (who, it seemed in this world, had chosen to move on after her death), but in every lavatory scattered across the school. If there was a Basilisk hidden deep within the depths of Hogwarts, no one had any idea how to find it, and the diary wasn't offering any hints.

"I imagine we've been given a clue of some kind, though I don't know yet what it means," Professor McGonagall said, a very cat-like expression of concentration on her face. "We may not be able to find Basilisk venom easily, but perhaps by researching the sort of artefacts that can only be destroyed by something with that sort of strength..."

"It's a start," Sirius agreed. "At the very least, we may be able to find what can destroy it in the process."

"Detention with Snape again?" Theo asked several weeks later as Harry returned to the Slytherin common room.

"What?" Harry shook his head. "No. I just came back from the Owlery. I had to send a letter to my family."

He realised as he said it that it was the first time he'd referred to the Dursleys not as the Dursleys, or my aunt and uncle, or my relatives, but instead as my family. He tried not to think too hard about it.

"Oh, all right." Theo paused. "So, what are you really doing when you have detention with Snape?"

Harry stared at him. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, come on, do you think we're stupid? The entire year has a bet going round. I've got eight Sickles on him and McGonagall trying to figure out how you defeated You-Know-Who, and them still not being able to sort it out." Theo rolled his eyes. "Don't look at me like that. I don't care that you're the bloody Boy-Who-Lived, and most other people don't either, but did you really think no one would notice you vanishing once a week for the entire year?"

"I've had detention. You know that."

"Come off it. You're the brainiest student in our year, except for Granger."

"Snape hates me. And I'm not that fond of him."

Theo rolled his eyes. "All right, now and then you talk back in class. But you aren't really losing your temper. I've seen you actually angry, and it's not like that."

"I am angry," Harry protested. "And I don't only get detention for that. Sometimes I forget my homework."

"Yeah, I've noticed that too. Funny how you only ever forget your Potions homework, and never anything else." Theo shrugged. "You don't have to tell me anything. I get it, you're the Boy-Who-Lived. I know that probably makes your life weird in ways I can't understand. I'm just trying to tell you it doesn't change anything here." When Harry just stared at him, he said, "Anyway, do you want to play Exploding Snap? The other boys are arranging a tournament, and I want you as my partner"

Harry nodded carefully, then said, "Yeah. I think I'd like that. Who are we up against?"

"I'm leaving the day after next," Sirius told Harry several days later in the Room of Requirement. "I'm going to find where Voldemort grew up. We reckon he might have gone there. Can't imagine he's particularly sentimental, but it doesn't hurt to look."

"You'll keep in touch, won't you?" Harry asked. "You'll use the mirror?"

"Of course I'll use the mirror. Do you think you'll be rid of me that easily?" Sirius raised his eyebrows. "While you're here, there's something I think we've both forgotten."

"What do you mean?"

"You have an important choice to make." When Harry just stared at him quizzically, Sirius smiled. "Once I leave, I'll make a quick stop at Gringotts. McGonagall will have my head if I send you a Nimbus Two Thousand and One over the summer, and a Firebolt the next, but I'm fairly sure I can get away with one or the other."

"Sirius." Harry couldn't help but begin to laugh. "You don't need to buy me a broom again."

Sirius waved a hand. "The Firebolt is a better broom, but you'll have to wait a year longer, and I've seen you struggling on that bloody Shooting Star. The Nimbus may be less powerful, but it is top-of-the-line, and you'd have it sooner."

"You know I can afford to buy a broomstick myself, don't you? You don't have to do this."

"And you understand the concept of gifts, don't you?" Sirius tousled his hair. "Let me do this, Harry. I want to."

Harry paused, thinking it over. "I loved my Firebolt. But I loved my Nimbus, too."

"Think it over," Sirius advised him. "You have time. The Nimbus Two Thousand and One doesn't come out until early summer."

The year carried on, and so did life. The younger students' disappointment at the disappearance of Bubbles was tempered by a persistent rumour he'd been adopted by a friendly, eccentric witch passing through Hogsmeade, and that he was currently prancing about on a large country estate.

Letters came from the Dursleys, and Harry sent letters back. Dudley began to write to Hermione again and, much to Harry's relief, he didn't say a word about what had happened during Easter.

Mum says thank you for the photo of the Slytherin common room, Dudley wrote to Harry. Dad jumped out of his chair and nearly had a heart attack when it moved, but once he got over it, he said at least the decor was somewhat traditional. Mum told us it was nice to see more of where Aunt Lily spent her time at school.

In another letter, he wrote, I still feel stupid about everything that happened. Voldemort scares me, and I know he scares Mum and Dad too, but I'm going to be as brave as I can. Harry paused when he read this. Hermione was firmly convinced Dudley would be in Ravenclaw, just like her, but Dudley's wording made him think of a different house.

No, he thought firmly. Absolutely not.

Then again, stranger things had happened.

Harry passed his end-of-year exams with flying colours, though he, of course, came second to Hermione.

"You would have beaten me if you just focused more," Hermione said, though she was grinning widely. "You're so bright, Harry-"

"Hermione." Harry laughed. "Just accept the victory, won't you?"

Even Crabbe and Goyle just barely passed, and the two were ecstatic that evening in the Slytherin common room. Instead of being disappointed at their success, as he'd been at the end of this year the first time around, he congratulated them both and even accepted their invitation to play Gobstones. They were all right, really, when they weren't attached to Malfoy's hip.

Speaking of Malfoy, Harry did his best, as always, to ignore him. There were plenty of comments hissed his way, but Harry understood things were different this time around. Harry was a Slytherin, and that apparently meant something. This house didn't yet feel entirely like home, but it was a far cry from the Slytherin he'd once known. He was quietly grateful for his mother and other Slytherins like her taking the brunt of it, standing strong, and making a difference when all was said and done.

The Slytherins he was thankful for, he had to admit, included Professor Snape. He didn't know what was weirder- having a decent relationship with the Dursleys, or genuinely respecting Snape.

Before long, they were packing their trunks and preparing for the journey back to London.

"You'll have to visit this summer," Theo said as they climbed into the wooden boats that would carry them back across the lake. "My cousins would love to meet you."

"I'd like that." Harry said. It wasn't the Burrow, but Harry was surprised to find he really did want to see where Theo lived and meet his family. "I'd invite you to my aunt and uncle's, but I don't think you'd find Little Whinging very interesting."

"I don't know about that. I've never been to a proper Muggle home. Is it true they actually use electricity?"

Harry waved to the Dursleys. He'd just been introduced to an enthusiastic lot of the infamous cousins, all of whom looked vaguely like Theo, and had only just managed to break away. The Dursleys didn't seem to notice him; Aunt Petunia was deep in conversation with a woman Harry recognised as Mrs. Greengrass. At least, Mrs. Greengrass seemed deep in conversation, much as she had upon greeting Harry on his trip to Hogwarts back in September.

"She really was a lovely person," Mrs. Greengrass was saying. "She had a way of making one feel welcome wherever they were."

"Yes," Aunt Petunia response was soft. "She certainly did."

"She was a good friend. She spoke of you often, you know."

"Did she?" Aunt Petunia's eyes widened slightly, but before she could say anything more, Harry heard Daphne sigh deeply behind him.

"Mum."

"Daphne!" Mrs. Greengrass beamed widely, holding out her arms to her oldest daughter, as Daphne's sister ran to hug her as well.

"Well, then," Uncle Vernon said, clapping Harry on the shoulder. "You're back."

"I'm back."

"Did you bring me anything?" Dudley asked, peering at Harry's closed trunk.

"Yeah, there's a baby hippogriff in there." When Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon stiffened, Harry added, "I'm joking. I'll teach you to play Gobstones this summer, though. I have my own set. I think you'll like it."

"Just so long as the neighbours don't see," Aunt Petunia said. She looked him over. "I hope you haven't eaten too much on the train. There'll be lamb chops and roast potatoes for dinner."

Harry smiled. He hadn't known the Dursleys even knew he liked lamb chops and roast potatoes. "Great."

They started out of the station together, Harry thinking to himself that had no idea what to expect from this world. He doubted he ever would. But it would certainly do, at least for now.