Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

**Saturday, July 6, 1991 — Golders Green, London**

The house smelled faintly of rosemary and freshly laundered linen, which Lane decided was a sign she was finally getting the hang of her newfound domestic life. She was in the kitchen, barefoot and humming under her breath, flipping pancakes on a heavy cast iron skillet. The smell of browning butter and sugar filled the warm summer air. A bowl of sliced strawberries waited beside the stove, and she poured another ladleful of batter into the pan just as the kettle whistled.

Lane turned the heat down and moved with practiced ease to pour water over the loose-leaf tea steeping in a simple ceramic pot. The steam curled upwards like breath in winter. She let the scent of earl grey and lemon balm wash over her before setting the kettle aside. She glanced at the clock—10:23 AM.

“Alright, alright,” she muttered, wiping her hands on a tea towel. Usually by this time, Harry would already be downstairs, dressed and quietly sipping tea or reading on the living room floor with Kat draped across his legs. But they'd stayed out far too late the night before—a rare summer night adventure involving popcorn, a late show of *Jurassic Park*, and an impromptu walk home under a sky full of stars. It had been nearly midnight before they got to bed, and Harry, to her genuine surprise, had opted for a lie-in.

Lane turned back to the stove and flipped the final pancake onto the stack. She moved with calm precision, slipping the warm, golden tower onto a ceramic plate and sliding the whole batch into the oven on low to keep warm. She rinsed the pan and set it in the drying rack, then poured a second cup of tea, this one a touch weaker and with a splash more milk (Harry's favorite).

Balancing both mugs in her hands, she paused for a moment and smiled again thinking of how excited Harry would be to wake up to some pancakes. Then she turned toward the stairs, prepared to do something she rarely needed to: wake Harry up herself. As she moved slowly through the sunlit hallway, she found herself marveling, as she often did, at the surreal reality of her life. Twenty-eight years old, a little ahead in her career, living in a cozy house in Golders Green—and somehow, improbably, waking up on a Saturday morning to make breakfast for a ten-year-old boy who had once been her neighbor. It wasn’t a life she’d ever imagined, but it was hers. And she wouldn’t have it any other way.

---

It had been just under two years since Lane moved into Number 5 Privet Drive and found herself increasingly entangled in the life of the boy next door. Now, standing in the soft quiet of her beautiful London home, it was hard to believe how much had changed.

Recalling that first summer was like watching someone else’s memory projected across a screen. She had arrived at Privet Drive weary from a transatlantic move, armed with a job in strategy consulting and two cats who had absolutely hated the flight. She’d expected bland neighbors and beige walls. What she got instead was Harry.

She had not expected to know her neighbors outside of some light friendliness—a nod across the drive, maybe an occasional parcel taken in—but instead she had found herself inexplicably drawn to this lonely boy. There was a silence around him that felt unnatural for a child, like a carefully tended vacuum. From the awkward introductions to the day she stubbed her toe and cursed loud enough to make him laugh, to the moment she realized he had never really been allowed to be a child, he had fascinated her.  And that fascination had changed the course of her life forever.

It truly started with the hesitant way Harry had asked questions, always watching her face for signs of disapproval. The quiet shuffle of his feet when he came by to "help" carry boxes she could lift herself. The meals on her back porch.  The slow shift from visitor to helper to something like family. She remembered the late night she found him asleep on the couch downstairs. The way he blinked up at her, silent, and didn’t flinch when she lifted him into bed.

She remembered the answer from Harry about the cupboard under the stairs that prompted her own investigation, and the pictures the next day when she saw the tiny mattress and threadbare blanket crammed under the staircase. That was when she'd begun trying to report suspected abuse and preparing herself to be a foster parent, carefully following the steps she'd learned from her mother, who worked in family services back in Tennessee. But when she reached out to the local authorities, something strange had happened. Harry's records were missing. Not misplaced, not sealed—missing. Entire reports she'd filed had vanished from the system within days, and both she and Harry had vanished as well from the minds of the agents she had worked with.

And then came the visit from Diggle.

A strange, stammering man with wild eyes and an eccentric air, who appeared at her door late one evening with vague warnings cloaked in metaphor. He knew things he shouldn't, and had tried to identify Lane as the woman who had reported Harry.  Waved a stick at her threateningly muttering mumbo jumbo and trying to convince her to...do something.  Maybe even forget Harry? The whole encounter left her shaken.

She had called her mother for advice, and they spent several sleepless hours comparing notes, timelines, and reports, trying to piece together what was happening. Eventually, they formed a working hypothesis: whenever someone mentioned the name "Harry Potter" in conjunction with something suspicious to another soul, or even into a system—legal, medical, educational—it disappeared. Not metaphorically. Literally. As if they had never known it at all.  A hypothesis that had been confirmed when Harry was in the hospital.

Harry. The hospital. That horrible incident.

She had returned elated from visiting her parents just after Christmas, only to find Harry curled up on her back doorstep in the freezing cold. He was half-conscious, his skin blue with cold and frost, an eye swelled shut, and covered head to toe in blood and bruises. For one terrible moment, she had thought he was dead.

She remembered calling the ambulance and waiting on baited breath for the ambulance to arrive, terrified that whatever force had been keeping Harry from the foster system would forget to arrive to save him.  When they had arrived at her home to take him, she had refused to leave his side.

"I'm not leaving him," she had said, her voice shaking. "He's nine years old. He's scared and he knows me. I'm not leaving."

Something in her face must have convinced them, because they let her in, and thank god they did. She sat beside his hospital bed through every scan, every IV insertion, every whispered medical consult behind the curtain. It was only after they left him alone that she realized, in her panic, she had given them his full name.  When she went to the nurse's station to ask them to check on him once more, he had been erased from their files once again.

That was when she and her mother had confirmed their hypothesis: it wasn’t just an anomaly. Something—or someone—was actively erasing him every time his full name appeared. It was terrifying. And it was real.

 

In that moment, she had made a decision.  He was not going back to the Dursleys, and she would not leave him to the fate of whatever had been preventing him from a happy and peaceful childhood.  She informed the nurse he was only a child she found on the side of the road, and they had assigned him the name John Doe.

Again, the extent of his injuries shocked the doctors. Severe hypothermia, visible bruising, possible concussion. Facial lacerations, swelling, possible orbital fracture, and what they called "nutritional neglect." He hadn't eaten properly in weeks. Lane had suspected things were bad, but this was something else entirely. This was systematic harm. And someone had to answer for it.

She realized then that keeping Harry meant reinventing him. A new name. A new home. A new story.  It was the only way to keep the promise she whispered to him in that hospital bed: "You're never going back."

In the hours that followed, Lane knew she needed help beyond what she alone could offer. That’s when she had met with Officer James White, the kind and unflappable police officer she had met while getting fingerprinted for the foster parent program. After his incident, and after taking great pains to not mention Harry's name to him, James had been the only official willing to listen to her concerns without brushing them aside.

James didn’t laugh or scoff when she described what was happening with Harry. Instead, he came to the hospital the next morning with coffee, took a long look at the pictures and the hospital intake notes, and said, very simply, “Alright. Let’s fix this.”

It was James who suggested bringing in his older brother, Robert, a solicitor well known for taking on complicated cases. Robert was, at first glance, the opposite of his brother: reserved, methodical, the type of man who carried two pens in his breast pocket and read legal briefs like most people read novels. But his reputation was stellar, and more importantly, he listened. Really listened. Within an hour, he had taken meticulous notes on Harry’s situation and was drawing up possible paths to guardianship.

Together, the three of them made a team. One grounded in compassion, strategy, and just enough audacity to challenge whatever invisible force was working to keep Harry trapped.

The final idea had came from Lane: if Harry’s name couldn’t stay in any official system without vanishing, then he would need a new name—and a cover story to protect him long enough to ensure he didn’t disappear from someone’s desk before help could reach him.

They devised a strategy: Harry would claim amnesia.

Robert worked out the wording with painstaking care. If Harry couldn’t remember who he was, then Lane—as a registered foster parent, a license she had obtained at long last after completing her emergency application on Christmas Eve—could step in as his temporary guardian.

Within hours, the plan was in play. Lane had made sure to repeat the story in calm, firm tones: that the boy had been found injured and confused, no ID, no memory, and how she would be available to take him home if no one came to claim him.  Harry had sold his memory loss best he could, and by the grace of God, the doctors bought it.

The 72-hour observation period ticked by slowly, with case workers, nurses, psychiatrists, and doctors coming in and out. Lane didn’t leave his bedside. Not once. Not even to get coffee. She wasn’t taking any chances.

When the clock finally struck past the third day, and no family had come forward, Robert arrived with a carefully worded document for the attending physician. It declared the boy an unaccompanied minor under protective care. Lane had signed the foster documents with shaking hands.

Harry Potter became Henry Black.

The relief that swept through her when the hospital formally updated the files and they confirmed hours later that that file hadn't disappeared was indescribable. For the first time in weeks, she felt like she could breathe.

Later, when Harry asked her about the new name, Lane knelt beside his bed and took his hand. "We’re not replacing you," she said softly. "Harry will still always be your name. This is just... a disguise. Something to keep you safe."

Harry had nodded. A little solemn. A little hopeful. And that was enough.  He came home with her that night, and he had been with her ever since.

Immediately after securing the foster documents from the hospital staff, the final phase of the plan was put into motion. Robert sent his partner, a quiet, razor-sharp man named Finn, to accompany Lane back to Privet Drive to remove the obstacle that was the Dursleys. It had to be done carefully. While Harry—now Henry—was safe under her care, Robert had insisted they get something in writing, a paper trail, however fragile. If anything ever unraveled, they'd need proof of intent.

Finn and Lane had approached Number 4 on a blustery afternoon, briefcase in hand and the full force of their careful orchestration behind them.  Vernon Dursley answered the door, scowling before Lane had even spoken. Petunia hovered in the background, clutching a tea towel and Dudley had luckily been nowhere in sight.

“We’re here about Harry,” Lane said, and watched Vernon flinch at the name.

Finn stepped forward, her tone clipped but firm. “We have documentation you are going to sign. It's a transfer form—unofficial, but notarized—relinquishing all guardianship of Harry James Potter to Lane Elizabeth Black, under the name Henry Black.”

“You can’t do that,” Vernon growled. “He’s not your kid.”

Finn didn’t flinch. Instead, he calmly opened the briefcase and laid out the photos Lane had taken: the cupboard, the bruises, the hospital records. Then came the page and pages of notes she had painstakingly compiled over the months.

“We will report you for child abuse,” Flynn said coolly. “We have everything we need to open an investigation that will stain your name in public records for the rest of your life. Or, you can sign this document, acknowledge that you are relinquishing your guardianship of Harry James Potter, and walk away without interference.”

Lane stood tall beside him. “You’ve already abandoned him. This just puts it in writing. And if you sign it, we won’t pursue any charges.”

That had got Vernon’s attention.

There was yelling. Blustering. Accusations and red-faced protests. But eventually, Vernon had taken the pen and scrawled his name across the bottom of the page, hand shaking. Petunia signed too, lips thin and trembling. Finn countersigned as a witness, tucked the paper neatly back into his briefcase, and without another word, they turned and left.

The Dursleys moved out of Number 4 Privet Drive on February 12. Lane hadn't seen them again.

Harry Potter, as far as the world knew, had gone as well.

Legally, Lane had no claim to the boy named Harry Potter. But Henry Black? Henry was hers—at least as far as the paperwork showed. And if anyone ever came calling, she had a head start: a signed transfer, notarized and dated, with enough weight to slow down any inquiry. Just enough, perhaps, to protect him if things ever turned again.

The next day, Harry—Henry—had come home with her. Just like that. The boy who had once belonged to no one now officially had his own room, a warm bed, and a door that never locked behind him. He was still injured—his bruises yellowed, his ribs tender, and the fading shadows of pain in his eyes—but he was healing.

They had begun looking for a new house together. Something quieter, something that didn’t carry the ghost of Number 4 Privet Drive or the stale, watching eyes of suspicious neighbors. But more importantly, somehere that would be harder to find—in case Diggle or anyone ever came looking for the Dursleys or, worse, Harry himself. They couldn’t risk staying on the same street where everything had happened.

They needed a fresh start, and that fresh start was an Edwardian home right at the edge of Hampstead Heath—a light-filled, ivy-draped home with deep grey eaves and tall sash windows that made Harry pause in the driveway and whisper, "It looks like it could be in a storybook."

She'd walked the halls with Evelyn, the kind-hearted social care worker who had overseen Lane's case. Evelyn had made a careful show of noting how sturdy the bannisters were and helping Lane enroll Harry in the local private middle school. Quickly approved, they moved in on February 12—the very day the Dursleys had packed up and left Little Whinging for good. Harry never asked where they went.

From then on, things had been different. Better. Not perfect, but lighter.

Harry began to heal in earnest. Physically, the bruises and scrapes disappeared slowly over time, but mentally Harry bounced back at a rate that had frightened Lane at first. He was so accustomed to injury, so resigned to discomfort, that recovery came unnaturally fast. What took longer was something deeper. The true realization that he was safe, that he had someone would listen. That he mattered.

It took months for him to stop apologizing when he took second servings at dinner. Even longer to hang his coat in the hallway without glancing at the door. But he was trying. And slowly, something new had taken root.

After a few months were insufficient for him to adjust to his new life on his own, Lane had signed them both up for therapy, and they went every Wednesday at four.  While he as initially very reluctant to attend, and he rarely talked about his sessions afterward, Lane could see the difference in small ways. He started sleeping in later. He started humming when he brushed his teeth. He even rolled his eyes when she nagged him about zipping up his backpack—a small, mundane rebellion that nearly made her cry.  The first time he complained about how his new shoes pinched his toes, Lane knew they were making progress.

Once he was fully healed, and spring had rolled around, Lane had enrolled him mid-semester in a private primary school just at the end of their road. It was small, with just ten kids in his year, and had a librarian who loved dusty atlases as much as Harry did. He made few friends, but he liked his teacher, and he adored math. He also had a gift for history—Lane had once come home to find him building a timeline of the entire Tudor monarchy in LEGOs across the living room rug.

And slowly, but surely, they healed.

He had graduated fourth grade just a few weeks ago, the first time he’d ever had someone cheering from the crowd with a camera and flowers. Lane had clapped so loudly her hands hurt afterward.

Now, he was ten, about to turn eleven, and while he was still shy, still cautious, he was learning how to be a child. A real one. He played, and asked questions, and laughed with his whole body sometimes. And every time he looked at her with that quiet trust, Lane felt the weight of the world lift off her shoulders.

He was hers. And more importantly, he was becoming his own.

Lane blinked and drew herself out of her reverie, and began the climb all the way up to the third floor. At the top of the stairs, she eased open the door to Harry's room. He was still asleep, tangled in his sheets with Kat curled at the foot of the bed like a sentinel. His face was completely relaxed, peaceful. Lane smiled, and after a quiet moment watching him breathe, decided she could let him sleep a bit longer—they didn’t have anywhere to be until dinner. She let the door fall gently closed again.

Padding back down the stairs, she set Harry's cup on the counter and carried her tea into the living room, sinking into her favorite chair. No sooner had she settled than Teto, her black and white cat, leapt lightly into her lap and curled up with a sigh. Lane stroked his back absently and let the warmth from the mug and the comfort of the moment soak into her bones.

The house they now lived in, nestled at the edge of Hampstead Heath, was full of color and light. The search to find it had been shockingly fast, and the moment she and Harry had laid eyes on it—quiet, close to the shops and the park, and with enough space for them both—they knew it was the place for them. The house had been practically move-in ready, needing little more than a few coats of paint and some personal touches.

Harry had claimed the largest bedroom on the third floor, declaring he liked the slanted ceilings and the massive windows, and seemed thrilled at the idea of having a whole floor to himself. The second bedroom up there became his playroom, a cozy space full of LEGOs, books, and a beanbag chair he’d picked out himself. Lane had taken the master bedroom on the second floor and turned the smaller second-floor room into her own study—a quiet retreat with tall bookshelves and a writing desk positioned beneath the window.

Each of them had their own bathroom. There were fireplaces on every level. It felt luxurious without being ostentatious, spacious without feeling lonely, and they decorated the place with beautiful mid-century modern touches, full of bold colors (lots of oranges and reds for harry and greens and golds for Lane) and comfortable chairs.

She had let him pick the wall colors for his room himself—a deep forest green and a navy blue—and helped him pin up posters of animals and astronomy charts. He even kept the same tiny desk from Number 5 where he wrote notes to himself, most of which she suspected were just doodles and small observations like “Teto sleeps 16 hours a day.”

The kitchen had been remodeled by the previous owners, sleek and functional, with open shelving and white tile that gleamed in the morning sun. The upstairs bathroom had a clawfoot tub that she used every Sunday night with a book and glass of wine. They’d even planted a fig tree in the back garden with the help of a very enthusiastic Harry and a very skeptical landscaper. Teto and Kat ruled the house with feline disdain, and most mornings found Harry curled on the couch with one or both of them in his lap.

Lane sometimes wondered if they'd done too much to the place. If maybe all the comfort was a way of trying to undo what had been done to him. She had splurged on the sheets he liked, bought more books than either of them could read, and made sure every room in the house had a place for him to sit softly. But then she’d see him smile at his reflection or argue gently with the cashier over his exact change, and she’d know he was healing.

---

Lane finished her tea and stood to rinse out her mug, halfway to the sink when she heard the unmistakable sound of small feet thudding across the floorboards above. A moment later, the familiar rhythm of hurried footsteps cascaded down the stairs.

“Sorry!” Harry called as he reached the bottom step, hair tousled and pajama shirt askew. “I didn’t mean to sleep in!”

Lane turned, mug still in hand, and smiled warmly. “You’re fine. We don’t have anywhere to be until later. Sit. Breakfast is ready.”

Harry's eyes widened as he caught sight of the plate of pancakes waiting in the oven. “You made pancakes?”

Lane nodded, pulling them out and setting a warm plate in front of him. “With strawberries,” she added, handing him the bowl. “Go on. Dig in.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. He slid into the kitchen chair and immediately began piling strawberries onto his pancakes, grinning wide.

“Did you sleep okay?” Lane asked, pouring him the tea she’d made earlier and setting it beside his plate.

He nodded, mouth full. “Yeah. I dreamed about being a lost boy. I think Hook might be my favorite new movie.”

Lane chuckled, and they ate together at the small kitchen table bathed in morning light, Kat weaving between their ankles and Teto perched like a sentry on the windowsill.

---

After breakfast, Lane sat sipping at her tea and tilted her head at Harry. "So," she said, watching him swirl the leftover syrup on his plate, "your birthday is in a few weeks. What do you want to do for it?"

Harry blinked, surprised. "Um... I don’t know. I thought maybe we would just celebrate at home? With a cake?"

"We can definitely do cake," she said, grinning. "But I meant more like—do you want to go anywhere? Do anything special?"

He looked thoughtful, chewing his lip. "Could we... go to the science museum again?"

"Sure," Lane said. "But we did that for your last school break. We can still go if you want, but are you sure you don't want to do something more exciting? You are turning 11 after all - about to be a proper middle schooler."

"Like the zoo?"

"For sure. You did love the otters."

He grinned. "They were excellent. But also... what if we went to the beach? Like, an actual beach? With sand and waves and those little carts that sell chips? We haven't gotten to go yet."

Lane set her mug down and nodded slowly. "A proper seaside birthday. I like it. Warm sun, cold water, way too much ice cream."

Harry brightened. "Can we? Really?"

"Absolutely," she said. "We’ll pack a picnic, drive down a few days early, maybe stay the week somewhere nearby. Make it an adventure."

"Could I bring my kite?"

"Yes. And we can stop for fish and chips on the pier."

Harry beamed. "Best birthday ever."

Lane smiled back at him, heart full. "It’s not every day a boy turns eleven. We’ll make it special. I promise."

Chapter Text

**Wednesday, July 24, 1991 — London**

Lane's commute to the Blythe & Murray offices had long since become second nature. They left the house a little after eight, walking Harry to his summer football camp at the park on the edge of the Heath, and she gave him a cheerful wave as he jogged over to join his group. Then she made her way through the bustling quiet of their Hampstead neighborhood toward Golders Green station where the Jubilee line train always came promptly. Twenty-five minutes later, she emerged at Chancery Lane, her mug of steaming tea half-drunk in hand and mind already running through her morning strategy session.

Work had been going unusually well lately. Since officially returning from maternity leave—technically, her foster placement leave for Harry "Henry" Black—she’d been promoted to Senior Manager, and her plate was deliciously full. Her intern, Michael, was far more capable than most, already anticipating half her questions and tracking deliverables like a hawk. The team, now three full-time associates strong, worked seamlessly under her guidance.

It didn’t hurt that Garrett, her longtime boss, had been promoted to Director in late spring. When he took his new role, he brought Lane with him, no hesitation. They had a rhythm, the two of them—him with his bird’s-eye view, and her with the ground game. On her way out that afternoon, she ducked her head into his office.

“Still good for my time off?” she asked, one brow raised.

Garrett looked up from his monitor and blinked. “Two weeks, starting Friday, right?”

Lane nodded. “Beach trip for Henry’s birthday.”

“Ah yes, Henry,” Garrett said. “Wish him a happy birthday for me.”

She smiled, even as something inside her tugged. Garrett had met Harry once. The fall everything changed, when the Dursleys had gone away for half-term break and Harry had stayed with her for the full two weeks. He’d come in that whole first week, sitting quietly in the corner of her office, and had charmed everyone with his big green eyes and quiet manners. But now, Garrett had no memory of that week. No recollection of the boy Lane had once called Harry Potter.

The forgetting always started subtly—people second-guessing themselves, growing confused. Then their memories reshuffled entirely. She’d learned not to mention the name Harry Potter aloud. When she filled out her maternity leave forms, she’d written Henry Black. That was the name the system would remember. The one the world allowed to exist.

“Will do,” she said, and slipped out the door.

---

The sun was low and golden by the time Lane stepped off the train and walked towards Hampstead Heath. The shouts of children and the rhythmic thud of footballs echoed across the open green. She spotted Harry immediately—cheeks flushed, hair wild, a determined look on his face as he darted toward the ball.

He saw her a moment later and waved, then jogged toward the edge of the pitch.

“Hey!” he called, breathless. “We won!”

“I saw that goal,” Lane said with a grin. “Very impressive.”

He shrugged, modest but proud. “Ollie passed to me. I think he’s starting to like me.”

“He’d be silly not to,” she said, ruffling his hair as they began the walk home.

After their first summer here, when Harry had gone to day camp at the local community center, something had clicked. He’d discovered he loved sports. Lane hadn’t expected it—he’d been such a quiet, bookish child when they first met—but that summer he’d tried everything the center offered: badminton, swimming, even a little fencing. But it was football that stuck.

Unfortunately, by the time they realized how much he loved it, it had been too late to enroll him in an official youth program. So that autumn, Lane made a note in her planner, and when spring rolled around, she signed him up the moment registration opened.

Now, in his second summer in Hampstead, Harry was thriving. The difference was visible. He’d grown nearly two inches since the move (now a healthy 4’7”), filled out slightly in the way healthy, active kids do, and his hair—though still a wild mess—had a bit of sheen to it. The dark circles under his eyes had faded. His skin had color again.

And on the pitch? He was good. Surprisingly good.

He didn’t have the flashy arrogance of some of the other boys, but he was quick, thoughtful, and had a good sense of where the ball was going before it got there. Lane had watched a few practices from the edge of the field and marveled at how naturally he moved.

This fall, he planned to try out for the middle school team. He talked about it often now—what position he might play, whether Ollie would be there, and if the school had team jackets. Lane didn’t care if he made the team or not. Just hearing the excitement in his voice was enough.

They took the long way through the Heath, winding down the path where the trees arched like a tunnel. Harry talked the whole way—about practice, a story his classmate Annabelle had told him, and the riddle he was trying to solve from a puzzle book. Lane let him chatter, interjecting now and then, her heart warm from the simple rhythm of his voice.

When they reached the local pub, Lane tapped him on the shoulder. “Dinner here?”

His eyes lit up. “Can I get the shepherd’s pie again?”

“Only if I can have a bite.”

They slid into their usual corner booth, the one beneath the chalkboard menu. Lane ordered a Guinness and the lentil soup, Harry the shepherd’s pie and ginger ale. As they waited for their food, she leaned across the table.

“Everything packed?”

Harry nodded. “I triple-checked. Clothes, kite, flashlight, my book... all in the suitcase.”

Lane arched a brow. “Toothbrush?”

He groaned. “I’ll get it when we get home.”

The food came and the conversation turned to their itinerary.

“Okay,” Lane said. “Tomorrow morning, we’re up at seven. In the car by eight. Brighton by ten if I don't have to pee every thirty minutes.”

Harry giggled a bit at that last part - Lane was notorious for drinking far too much tea on their drives and having to pull over frequently.

“We check into the rental cottage, go to the beach, get sandy, eat chips.”

“Exactly. Then we wander the town for a few days, hit every ice cream shop, and on the thirtieth, we drive west to Perranporth Beach.”

“And stay at the Headland Hotel!”

“For your actual birthday. Surfing lessons included.”

Harry beamed. “Best birthday plan ever.”

Lane pulled a small notepad from her bag. “Okay. Let’s confirm:

**Packing List:**

* Swimsuits (2)
* Towels (3)
* Kites
* Flashlight
* Sweaters
* Toothbrushes
* Books (2 each)
* Snacks
* Maps
* First aid kit
* Rain jackets
* Camera
* Sand toys
* Harry’s binoculars

“Looks good,” she said, tucking it away.

Harry leaned back in the booth and suddenly asked, “Hey… who’s watching the cats while we’re gone?”

Lane smiled. “Caitlin,” she said, referencing Harry's local babysitter. “She’s seventeen now and looking to make some extra money before her A-level courses kick in. She’s staying at her aunt’s this summer but agreed to come over every day to feed them, clean their litter, and give them a bit of attention.”

Harry looked thoughtful. “Do you think they’ll be okay?”

Lane reached across the table and gave his hand a squeeze. “They’ll be just fine. Kat will probably ignore her entirely and Teto will charm her out of half a bag of treats, but they'll be safe and fed.”

Harry nodded slowly, reassured. “Okay. I just… I didn’t want them to be lonely.”

“You’re sweet,” Lane said, ruffling his hair. “They’ll miss you, sure. But we’ll only be gone two weeks. And Caitlin can give us a call if anything happens - I gave her a note with the cottage and hotel numbers.”

They finished their meal, laughed at the chalk drawing someone had left on the pub wall of a horse wearing sunglasses, and finally made their way home in the soft twilight.

---

The sky was streaked with lavender when they turned onto their street, soft gold light glinting off the row houses’ windows. Lane's shoes clicked rhythmically on the pavement as Harry skipped ahead, the ball he'd been juggling under one arm now tucked securely into his hoodie.

“Race you to the door!” he called over his shoulder.

Lane laughed. “Slow down. You’re going to trip and break your nose right before we go to the beach.”

He grinned, didn’t slow down, and beat her up the steps by a mile. She kept telling herself she let him win (but really it was mostly her red bottoms that had been pinching her toes since 3).

“Victory!” he declared, striking a pose.

Lane rolled her eyes fondly and reached into the letterbox, pulling out a small stack of mail. Most of it was unremarkable: a Boden catalogue, a utility bill, a letter from her mother.

And then, at the bottom, an envelope that made her breath catch.  As Harry unlocked the door and headed into the kitchen, she remained outside on the stoop.

It was cream-colored, thick parchment, and bore a wax seal she didn’t recognize—an ornate ‘H’ surrounded by four strange creatures. Her fingers trembled slightly as she turned it over. The address was written in emerald-green ink:

**Mr. H. Potter**
**Top Floor Bedroom**
107 North End Road

Golders Green, London

She didn’t breathe.

Potter. Harry's Real Last Name. The exact bedroom. The handwriting. She began to breathe faster, feeling the first panic attack she'd had in a long time coming up through her chest.  She staggered, throwing out her hand just in time to catch the frame of the door

“Lane?” Harry asked, looking back at her from the end of the hallway. He squinted at her expression. “You okay?”

She slipped the envelope to the bottom of the stack. Her fingers were trembling, and her breath came shallow and tight. But she had to pull it together. She had to keep her voice calm, her face neutral. For Harry. She inhaled deeply, held it for a count of four, and let it go. Then again. That helped.

“Yeah,” she said, her voice almost steady. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just… stubbed my toe. You can go up and get ready for bed. I’ll lock up - and don't forget to pack your toothpaste!”

He nodded, already running up the stairs.

Lane closed the door behind her and locked it, then stood in the foyer for a long moment, heart racing.

She looked down at the letter again. Held it between both hands.

How had it found them? They lived here under a new name now, and there should have been no paper trail connecting Harry Potter and Henry Black - other than herself of course, which everyone had always forgotten. More importantly, who had sent it?

Carefully, she tucked the rest of the mail on the side table and kept the envelope in her hands. She crossed to the kitchen, sat at the table, and smoothed the letter flat. The wax seal stared up at her, waiting.

Hogwarts, it read.  With a flagged motto beneath reading **Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus -** never titillate a sleeping dragon? Her 4 years of High school Latin would be of no help here.

She rubbed at her eyes with her free hand. A part of her wanted to tear it open, to see what message had managed to thread its way through layers of false names and forgotten memories. But another part of her, the part that had spent the last year protecting Harry from every shadow, wanted to burn it in the sink.

And then the footsteps came from above.

“Lane?” Harry called from the landing. “Did we bring the rest of the biscuits in from the pub?”

“Nope,” she said, voice carefully even. “Left them with the bill.”

He groaned dramatically. “Tragedy.”

Lane smiled despite the thudding in her chest. “Go on and brush your teeth. Bedtime in fifteen, we can do a story before bed.”

She listened to him thump back upstairs, then turned her gaze to the envelope again.

Harry Potter. Not Henry Black.

Someone knew. Someone remembered.

And they wanted him.

---

Lane carried the letter upstairs with her, cradling it against her chest like it might shatter. She didn’t dare look at it too long or too closely. She stepped into her room, placed the letter carefully on her bedside table, and exhaled. She could deal with it after she put Harry to bed.

She crossed the hall and stepped up the stairs to Harry’s room.

The door creaked slightly as she opened it, revealing the cozy, softly lit space that had slowly transformed over the last year into unmistakably his. The walls were a dark, forest green—his choice—which made the room feel calm and tucked away, like a secret den. The wooden floors gleamed faintly beneath a shaggy rug that burst in oranges and reds, a fire-bright riot of color that clashed in the best possible way with his bedding. His duvet, a bold rust-orange with red piping, was pulled up to his chin.

Kat was curled like a sentinel at his feet, while his stuffed owl and penguin sat neatly at his side, right where he always placed them. The walls were dotted with football posters—his favorite team, West Ham, front and center—and one worn print of a phoenix in flight, the same one they had found together at a street market last autumn. He’d been enchanted by it immediately.

Harry was already in bed, tucked under the covers, the new Boxcar Children book they were reading, *The Haunted Cabin Mystery,* which had just came out that spring was resting on his chest.  He had been waiting for her.

“Sorry it took me a minute. You want to keep going?” she asked, nodding at the cover.

Harry brightened and scooted over. “Yes please. We just got to the part with the secret map.”

Lane smiled and settled onto the edge of the bed. Even now, a year into their lives together, he loved their nightly ritual of reading aloud. He might be growing into a confident, muddy-kneed little jock, but nothing had dulled his love of stories.

She picked up the book and began reading, her voice steady and warm. Harry listened, eyes wide, occasionally leaning over to glance at the page. When the chapter ended, she closed the book with a soft snap.

“Alright. Brush your teeth if you haven’t, and double-check the rest of your bag. We’re up early tomorrow.”

“I know,” he said through a yawn. “Seven o’clock.”

“Sharp.”

She kissed the top of his head and turned off the light as he murmured a sleepy, "Goodnight, Lane."

Back in her own room, Lane stripped off her clothes and stepped into the shower. The water was hot enough to fog the mirror, to let her pretend, for a moment, that everything was alright. She stood there longer than usual, arms braced against the tile, debating whether to open the letter.

Could it wait? Could it be dangerous?

Would it make things worse?

But when she stepped out, toweled off, and began washing her face and packing the last few toiletries into her overnight bag, she realized she had run out of excuses. It was just her, the envelope, and the night ahead.

She climbed into bed and picked up the letter.

She held it in her hands, turning it over like a stone. Nothing about it had changed. The weight of it, the unnatural smoothness of the paper. The seal with the ornate "H" and the sleeping dragon motto.

Eventually, she decided. No harm could come from opening it. No matter what, she could always burn it before Harry ever saw it, and if it was something bad, she could always reach back out to her solicitor Mr. White, and they could make a plan together.

Her curiosity finally won out.

She broke the seal.

---

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Mr. Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.

Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress

---

Lane stared at the letter for a long time.

Witchcraft? Wizardry?

She reread the lines twice, then turned the envelope upside down again. There was a second sheet.

---

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

UNIFORM: First-year students will require:

1. Three sets of plain work robes (black)
2. One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear
3. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)
4. One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings) Please note that all pupils’ clothes should carry name tags

Please note that all pupil's clothes should carry name tags.

COURSE BOOKS

All students should have a copy of each of the following:

*The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk
* A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot
* Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling
* A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch
* One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore
* Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger
* Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander
* The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble

OTHER EQUIPMENT

* 1 wand
* 1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)
* 1 set glass or crystal phials
* 1 telescope
* 1 set brass scales

Students may also bring, if they desire, an owl OR a cat OR a toad.

PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICK

Yours sincerely,

Lucinda Thomsonicle-Pocus

Chief Attendant of Witchcraft Provisions

---

Lane sat back, her first thought one of relief. It was nonsense. Some sort of spam, she reasoned. Absolute ridiculousness and made-up entities. She set the letter on the bedside table with a huff and leaned back into the pillows, patting Teto where he lay curled at her feet.

No one had found them. No one knew. The "H" must have stood for "Henry," and if she’d ever abbreviated Harry’s name on a form somewhere—a library card, maybe? An old school roster? Then maybe the magic hadn’t picked it up. Maybe it was all just a prank, or an elaborate marketing ploy by some fantasy-themed amusement park trying to boost attendance.

Lane reached over to the nightstand and picked up her book instead, willing herself to forget it. She opened to the dog-eared page and began to read.

She was halfway through a chapter in when something nagged at the back of her mind—the night Diggle had shown up at her door.

The man with the odd coat and the frizzy hair. He’d shown up late that one night night well over a year ago, talking in riddles and saying silly words she hadn’t understood. Had he said something about someone sending him? Someone... Dumbledore?

Her pulse spiked.

The name in the letter.

Was that who Diggle had said? She'd been so tired. And drunk. She hadn't written any of it down.

But the thought wouldn’t leave her. Her chest tightened. Her gut twisted.

Her instincts—the same instincts that had warned her something was wrong in the Dursley house long before she saw the cupboard—were screaming again.

This was not a coincidence.

Suddenly, the letter didn't feel silly or innocuous at all. It felt like a breach. Like a flare in the dark.

Lane got up, grabbed the envelope and pages, and walked back downstairs. She flicked on the kitchen light and turned the gas burner to low. Her fingers hesitated just a second before she held the parchment over the flame.

It caught quickly.

She dropped the edge into the sink and watched it blacken, the flames licking up the ornate script, curling the edges until the words were ash.

Better safe than sorry, she thought. They were leaving for vacation in the morning anyway. Brighton first, then the Headland. Two very different and distant beaches. No one could trace them there. She had booked the cottage and hotel in her own name. No one else knew. Harry's name was not on any of the reservations - not even as Henry Black.  They would not find them there.

Unless they had access to private records.

But still, it would buy them time.

She’d call Robert White, their solicitor, from Brighton. Explain what she could. Figure out what to do next.

Lane turned off the gas, rinsed the ash from the sink, and turned off the lights.

Back upstairs, she sat outside Harry’s door for a long time, listening to the slow, even rhythm of his breathing. He was safe. But she had never wished harder that she’d been able to foster him long enough for adoption to be an option. That would have made it cleaner. Safer. Maybe.

She crawled into bed, the space suddenly too vast around her, and turned off the light.

She lay there in the dark, her eyes open to the ceiling, the faint hum of the city filtering in through the windows. She tried to count her breaths, to match the gentle tick of the clock beside her bed. But it was no use. Her mind refused to slow.

She kept seeing the green ink, the careful script, the name—H. Potter—etched across the envelope like a warning and a promise. She thought of the way the flames had devoured the parchment, how even the edges had curled as if the letter itself didn’t want to go quietly.

Lane turned over, adjusting the pillow, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. The air felt too warm and too cold at once. She focused on the plan. The morning departure. The quiet drive. Brighton. She needed rest.

But sleep did not come.

Chapter Text

**Lane POV: Thursday, July 25 – Saturday, July 27, 1991**

Lane hadn’t slept a wink.

She’d tried—she’d gone to bed, counted sheep, tried her breath exercises, and even attempted reading something boring on purpose—but her mind spun endlessly. So instead she paced. And packed. And repacked. And gathered every legal document in the house related to Harry.

The custody paperwork. The identification card the foster system had issued under the name Henry Black. Her own copies of the transference paperwork she and Finn had bluffed the Dursleys into signing. She spread it all out on her desk, checking it for creases, sealing it into a folder, and then double-checking that the folder was in her travel bag. She'd bring it all, just in case whoever sent Harry the letters came after them on their trip.

It was the first time Lane had ever felt ill at ease about the UK’s strict gun control laws. She had always appreciated them after moving here—she’d even voted for such measures herself back in the States and supported them unequivocally. But tonight, the American in her wished for something more... immediate. Actionable. Something that might let her defend Harry in a real way than just half-baked stuffy paperwork.

All she had, in the end, was the machete. A relic from her uncle's service in Vietnam, it had lived in the back of her coat closet for years, and made the trip to the UK with her as a part of her step-dad's more paranoid nature. She didn’t know what she could possibly do with it—but having it in the trunk of the car made her feel a shred more prepared.

At exactly 7:00 a.m., she knocked on Harry’s door and gently woke him up.

He blinked at her from under the covers. “Is it morning already?”

“Yup,” Lane said, keeping her tone light. “Up and at ’em. We’ve got a beach to get to.”

She helped him get dressed, triple-checked the house, and then ushered him out with his bag. She didn’t even glance at the mailbox.

“No breakfast?” Harry asked as he loaded into the passenger seat.

“We’ll stop on the road,” Lane replied.

He gave her a look—curious, almost suspicious—but didn’t push. “Okay.”

They said goodbye to the cats, Lane leaving a final note on the kitchen counter for Caitlin, and climbed into her now older but still reliable Mercedes. With every mile they put between themselves and Golders Green, Lane found herself able to breathe a little deeper.

They stopped just outside of the London ring road for breakfast, pulling into a sunny roadside diner that smelled like sugar and coffee. Harry practically bounced in his seat and ordered a towering stack of pancakes with berries and whipped cream. Ever since meeting Lane, pancakes had become something of an obsession for him. It was nearly a struggle now to get him to eat anything else for breakfast at home, no matter how creative she tried to be. But they both laughed about it—how it was the one American thing that had truly rubbed off on him. Every time she teased him about it, he’d roll his eyes and smile, say he'd try something new next time, then ask for more syrup.

“You’re going to fall into a sugar coma before we even get to the water,” Lane warned.

“Worth it,” he said, already halfway through the first pancake.

By 11:00 a.m., they had arrived in Brighton. Check-in wasn’t until two, so Lane parked near the pier and they wandered along the seafront, past bright booths and souvenir shops. They grabbed fish and chips from a chippy near the boardwalk and sat on the pebbled beach to eat, watching the waves roll in.

Harry had gone nearly feral with joy the moment he saw the ocean, and Lane was immensely grateful for all the swimming lessons they’d taken over the past year. Within minutes, he was knee-deep in the surf, shorts soaked, laughing like he hadn’t a care in the world.

Eventually, he'd turned and shouted back to her, "Come on in! It’s not even cold!"

Lane had hesitated at first, standing at the edge of the shore with her sandals in one hand and the hem of her jeans rolled. But Harry’s grin was infectious, and with a resigned laugh, she kicked off her shoes, rolled her trousers higher, and waded in. One splash led to another, and soon they were both soaked, shrieking at waves and pretending to ride them like pros.

After a good hour of frolicking, they retreated to drier ground and set about building Harry’s first real sandcastle.

“Okay, what should we name it?” Harry asked, packing damp sand into a plastic cup and flipping it over carefully.

“Sandhill?” Lane suggested.

He wrinkled his nose. “Too obvious.”

“Castle Cat-and-Bird?”

He giggled. “Closer.”

They carved out walls, shaped towers with the bucket, and added a moat that filled and drained with the tide.

“I think it needs a guardian dragon,” Harry declared.

The mention of a dragon after the letter's motto sent tiny shivers down Lane's spine, but she obligingly crafted something vaguely serpentine on the seaward side anyway.

By the time it was done, the structure was crooked, glorious, and already crumbling.

But Lane looked at it and felt something twist in her chest. He was ten, almost eleven, with so much still ahead of him. And yet so much behind that should’ve been better.

She reminded herself then—firmly, quietly—to keep noticing the little things. The castle towers. The splash fights. The joy.

He still had a lifetime of childhood to catch up on, and she intended to make sure he got it no matter what.

By six, they made their way up the cliffside path to the little resort cottages Lane had booked months ago. Their particular cottage was a compact but charming place, nestled in a tidy row of ten. Inside was a small bathroom, a kitchenette with a microwave and mini fridge, and a cozy sitting room with two old armchairs and a gas fireplace. The bedroom had one queen-sized bed for Lane and a bunk bed on the other side of the room for Harry who immediately claimed the top bunk with a triumphant whoop.

They showered and changed, then walked to the lodge at the center of the property. The dining hall served traditional Brighton fare, and they sat under string lights enjoying their dinner while a nearby couple played soft jazz on a portable speaker.

Midway through the meal, Lane excused herself and made her way to the lodge’s front office. She asked to borrow the phone and called Robert White’s line. She didn’t get through to him, but his assistant, Clare, promised to return the call the next morning at 9:15 sharp.

Lane agreed. She would make sure to be there.

Dinner finished with Brighton's famous Banoffee Pie for Harry and a ginger tea for her. Afterward, they walked back toward the pier for ice cream. Harry chose mint chip. Lane opted for a classic flake cone.

They lingered near the water, watching the glow of the amusement rides against the sea.

“Ferris wheel tomorrow?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” she promised.

That night, as Lane finally drifted to sleep in the little cottage across from her snoring boy, the sea wind whispering through the cracked window, she let herself believe—just for a moment—that they might be safe after all.

---

At 8:30 the next morning, Lane was pulled from uneasy sleep by Harry bouncing on his toes beside her bed.

"Come on, come on! You promised the amusement park!"

Lane groaned but smiled, dragging herself upright. "Alright, alright. Just give me five minutes to be a human."

They dressed quickly—Harry in his favorite swim trunks, a long-sleeve navy swim shirt, his blue and purple West Ham hat, goggles perched on top, and glasses secured with a strap. Lane pulled on her pale lavender sundress over a navy bikini, added a wide straw hat, and slipped on sandals.

By 9:00 a.m., they were seated at the breakfast room in the lodge. Lane handed Harry a few pounds and said, "Order me a Belgian waffle and get whatever you want—within reason. I'm going to step away and take a work call.

Harry nodded, fully absorbed in scanning the breakfast options.

Lane made her way to the front desk. A young receptionist—a redheaded girl with a smattering of freckles—greeted her with a smile.

"Hi," Lane said. "I'm expecting a call shortly. Lane Black, Cabin 8."

The girl brightened. "Oh! Yes, Ms. Black. We actually have some mail for you."

Lane froze. "Mail?"

"Yeah, just came in this morning. I thought it was so cute—so exact!"

She disappeared into the back room and returned holding four cream-colored envelopes.

Lane took one look at the front and her stomach turned to stone.

**Mr. H. Potter**
**Top Bunk**
**Cabin 8**
**Brighton Beach Lodgeside Resort**
**Brighton**

"Friends of your little brother?" the receptionist asked with a giggle.

Lane nodded mutely, her heart pounding. It happened often—with her being so young, strangers often assumed Harry was her sibling. Usually, she let it go.

Before she could decide what to do, the phone rang.

The girl answered and held it out. "Good timing. It's a Mr. White for you."

Lane took the receiver, the receptionist stepping away into an alcove near the sitting room.

"Robert," she whispered.

"Lane," he said immediately, voice brisk but warm. "Clare briefed me—she said you’ve received some concerning letters about Henry? What’s going on?"

Lane took a breath. "Henry's received letters from a school. A school he's apparently been signed up for. They say term starts in September and that they expect a reply soon."

She paused, uncertain.

"At first I thought it was a joke, because it was so ludicrous. The name of the school alone, the tone of the letter, it read like something from a fantasy novel. But then I saw the name of one of the administrators. It matches something that man said, the man who showed up on my step before that awful Christmas with Harry."

Her voice dropped. "I can't be totally sure it's the same name. I didn’t take notes and I wasn’t exactly sober, but..."

She hesitated, failing to keep the plain panic out of her voice.  "That was at our home in London. Things have escalated - they found us here on our vacation in Brighton. There were four more letters this morning. Addressed exactly to Henry. With his real last name. From the same school. Even had which bed he was sleeping on in the cottage."

She barreled on, voice rising. "I don't know what to do Robert, I'm starting to absolutely freak. Out."

At this, the receptionist's curious gaze peered back over at Lane from the alcove. Sensing she was being too conspicuous, she gave a tentative smile, and turned, lowering her voice and gripping the phone even tighter.

Robert's voice stayed calm. "Did you open any of them? The new letters? Are they the same?"

"No. I haven’t. I don't know, I just got them.They're still in my hands right now."

"Do you think you’ve been followed?"

"I don't know - not by a person I don't think. I haven't seen anyone suspicious," she said, glancing around. "But I can’t be sure. I’m afraid to even say the name of the school that sent the letters aloud. What if that causes you to forget that too?"

There was a pause, then Robert continued. "Alright. I’m putting my associate on the line—Finn. Same one who worked with us before. You tell him the name. I'll have him call you back in an hour. If he doesn't remember what he says, we’ll know it's not safe to mention the name of the school."

A rustling, and then Lane was put on hold.  Five minutes later, a voice came back through the receiver. "Hi Ms. Black, it’s Finn. I'm not sure exactly what Robert was telling me, but we're going to give this a go.  He has stepped out of the room. Go ahead."

Lane looked down at the letter. "Finn, please remember that I received a letter from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

"Got it," Finn said. "I’ll call back in an hour. Sit tight."

Lane hung up the phone, her hands trembling, surprised at herself that she was able to manage a semi-convincing smile to the receptionist who came back to her post as she walked away. She stared down at the stack of letters.

What now?

She tucked them into her bag and returned to the breakfast room where Harry was starting the first bites of what looked like another mountain of pancakes.

He grinned. "I got you strawberries on yours. Is that okay?"

"Perfect," she said, trying to match his smile.

---

The next hour was horrible. Lane tried to get through breakfast as if nothing was wrong, but her mind was spinning in a million directions. She laughed at Harry’s jokes, commented on the syrup-to-pancake ratio, but it was all a show. Eventually, Harry noticed.

“Are you okay?” he asked, looking up from his pancakes.

After a pause, Lane offered a soft smile. “I have some bad news, bug. I might have to do a bit of work today. Last-minute and very important client. I’m a little disappointed.”

Harry’s shoulders slumped slightly. “Oh. That’s okay. I’m honestly just happy to be near the water. I'm good to just sit here if we need to.”

Lane’s chest tightened at that. No matter how much love, care, and joy she poured into his life, some part of him still didn’t believe he deserved it. She reached across the table and squeezed his hand.

“We’ll still find time to do something fun today. Promise.”

By 10:15, they had cleared their plates—Harry having eaten a frankly shocking ten pancakes—and Lane stood again, excusing herself for one last work call before they headed out.

She returned to the reception desk, pacing nervously in front of it. When the phone rang, the redheaded receptionist smiled as she handed it over.

“Someone’s important today,” she said lightly.

Lane grimaced and accepted it, already bracing.

It was Finn.

Robert had made him pick up the phone and call - he had no memory of their conversation earlier. No idea what she was referring to. He didn’t even remember her name.

Her stomach dropped.

She thanked Finn and asked to speak to Robert. When Robert came on, his tone was already heavy with concern.

“I guess the name of the school's taboo as well. I’m going to get James involved" James.  His younger brother - the officer who helped her with Harry when everything happened that last horrible Christmas, "but I’m not sure what we can do without names unless you’re ready to start court proceedings.”

Lane hesitated. “I don’t think I can. If we try to link Henry to his real name in a legal capacity, we risk everything we’ve built. If Henry's name disappears, we might lose all documentation. Henry Black could cease to exist.”

Robert exhaled on the other end. “Alright. Then here’s what I need you to do. Move to another resort in Brighton. Discreetly. Immediately. And call me again before 9 p.m. If I don’t hear from you, I’m contacting the police and filing that Lane Black is in danger. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Lane said. “I understand.”

"Good luck Lane."

She thanked him and returned to the desk, requesting to cancel the remainder of their stay. The receptionist, now a little wary, said she could refund only half the trip.

“That’s fine,” Lane said, her voice strained but firm. She took a deep breath and leaned forward on the counter, trying to steady herself. "It's a work issue. I need to find an open hotel in Brighton that has a private phone line in the room. Do you happen to know anywhere nearby with availability?"

The receptionist gave a sympathetic nod, clearly relieved at having finally understood the problem, and started typing on her computer. For the next several minutes, they quietly scanned through a list of resorts, inns, and bed-and-breakfasts in the area. Each one they tried either lacked a phone in the room or had no availability.

Finally, she looked up. "There's one left with an open suite for tonight. It's called the Clamper House. Bit on the posh side and at the farthest end of Brighton Beach, but it has what you asked for."

Lane hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Book it. Thank you."

She returned to Harry, knelt beside him, and offered an apology. “We need to change hotels. Work thing. I need a phone line in the room.”

Harry blinked. “Okay. Do I still get to go to the beach later?”

“Of course.”

He shrugged and popped the last bite of strawberry into his mouth. “Then no worries.”

They packed up quickly and drove a few kilometers down the beach to a much fancier resort called the Clamper House.  She parked a few blocks away in a covered garage, and helped Harry carry their luggage into the building.  She paid an arm and a leg at the front register, and took a moment while Harry was admiring the chandeliers to call and give Robert her new phone and room number, and tried not to scream from the anxiety in her chest.

To keep Harry from worrying, they dropped their bags off upstairs and Lane insisted they still go out for the day. They hit the beach, took a ride on the Ferris wheel, and spent the afternoon pretending nothing was wrong. Harry had a blast. Lane tried to.

Dinner was fancy seafood on a breezy deck. Harry devoured his, thrilled by the giant shrimp. Lane barely touched hers.

That night, once he was sound asleep, she locked the door, wedged a chair under the handle, and slid the machete under her pillow.

Sleep didn’t come easy, and she stayed close to Harry. Just in case.

---

The next morning, Lane slipped out of bed quietly, leaving Harry still curled under the blankets. She padded downstairs to the concierge with the intention of ordering breakfast in bed for both of them—It was Saturday, and they needed a treat, a small indulgence to make the strange tension of the past day feel like less of a shadow. It also gave her the perfect excuse to see if any mail came without alarming Harry.

"Can I place an in-room breakfast order for Room 12?" she asked.

The concierge smiled and pulled out a clipboard. "Of course. Name?"

"Lane Black."

The concierge flipped a tab, then looked up. "Oh, actually—before I forget—you’ve received some mail."

Lane’s stomach sank. "Mail? For me?"

"Well, it’s addressed to Mr. H. Potter. Room 12, Clamper House, Brighton Beach. There are quite a few of them. Ten, in fact. Must be popular!"

Lane stood frozen.

Ten. Not one or two. Ten. Even after they’d moved. Even without including his name for the booking. Somehow, they had found him again.

She barely managed to nod and take the bundle, her hands trembling as she walked slowly back upstairs. She hadn’t even remembered to place the breakfast order.

When she entered the suite, Harry was already hopping out of bed, smiling brightly. "Hey! I thought you were getting waffles!"

Lane sat down on the edge of the bed, the letters clutched to her chest, her face pale.

“Harry,” she said gently. “We need to talk.”

He blinked at her, confused. "What is it?"

She took a breath. “I haven’t been honest. The work thing—it wasn’t quite true. I wanted to protect you, but now I think you need to know.” She sat on the edge of her bed and gestured for him to do the same. She waited until he was comfortably ensconced, before she spoke.

"It started last week," Lane began, voice low and steady. "A letter showed up at our house in Golders Green. It was addressed to you, but not as Henry Black. It said... 'H. Potter.' And it came from some school I'd never heard of before."

Harry's brow furrowed. Lane continued.

"At first, I thought it was spam or junk. Something weird. But I couldn’t stop thinking about that man—Diggle. Do you remember me telling you about him?"

Harry nodded slowly.

"That was last fall, before Christmas. You were still with the Dursleys. He showed up on my porch out of nowhere. I’d never seen him before, and he was... odd. Eccentric. Wild coat, twitchy energy. And he had a stick - I'm not sure if I told you about the stick. Said strange things. I thought he might’ve been drunk or confused. He said he was sent to check on you. That someone named Dumbledore had asked him to."

Harry blinked. "Dumbledore?"

Lane nodded. "Yes. And that’s the name that made me think these letters weren't just spam. That's the same name I saw in the first letter - maybe still in these letters. One of the school officials or headmasters or something. It jolted me, seeing it in writing like that. I hadn’t thought about that night in months."

She rubbed her temples. "Back then, I didn’t know what to do. I half hoped I dreamed it, and then when you were injured, I told the Whites about his visit, but we were afraid to make a report. Not only was there nothing to trace him by, but we maybe would have had to use your name, or risk someone seeing it. So I let it go."

Harry looked concerned. "Do you think it’s the same people?"

Lane paused, hesitating on whether to tell him everything, but eventually decided that things had gotten so out of hand it was better to tell Harry everything. "I do. Or at least, I think they're connected. That’s why I didn’t tell you. I didn’t want to panic. We were leaving for Brighton anyway, and I thought it was the perfect excuse to get some distance. I hoped—foolishly, maybe—that it would all get left behind in London."

She sighed, eyes dark. "But then four more came to our room at the last resort, addressed exactly the same way. Containing the same exact thing. Even with 'Top Bunk' on the envelope. I still tried to convince myself it was a prank, something silly. I didn’t want it to be serious, but I ripped them up and tossed them into the sea yesterday when you weren't looking. That's when I had us move hotels here, to Clamper House."

She swallowed. “And then this morning... ten more. Here. At this hotel. We booked this room only yesterday, Harry. I didn’t use your name for anything. But the letters still found you. With this address. With this room number.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “That’s... creepy.”

“Exactly,” Lane said. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I wanted to protect you. I thought maybe I was overreacting, or that if I ignored it, it would stop.”

Harry stared, trying to process. “I thought you said this was just a work trip... that we moved hotels because of a client.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I was scared. I still am. I didn’t want to worry you.”

He was quiet for a long moment. “Did you talk to the Whites?”

“Yes. Robert is helping. He’s worried too. He’s having his brother James look into what we can do legally, but when we tried to get his associate to remember the school name Hogwarts, he forgot it completely. It looks like that's another forbidden name, so there's nothing we can do from a legal perspective here to protect you.”

Harry looked at her, his expression a strange mix of fear and curiosity.

“What do we do now?”

Lane exhaled, then looked down at the bundle of envelopes. “Do you... do you want to read one?”

Harry looked at her, then at the stack, and quickly shook his head, anger creeping into his voice. “No. I don’t want to. I don’t want anything to do with them.”

Lane was startled by his anger—something exceptionally rare from him. Harry was a quiet boy, gentle and careful with his emotions. She had only seen him truly angry once before, when someone at school had been cruel to a classmate he liked.

“If they had anything to do with me being left with the Dursleys—if they knew about me and didn’t come, didn’t stop...it...what they did—then I want nothing to do with them.”

His voice cracked, but his jaw was set. “They let me get hurt. Over and over. You didn’t. You saw me. You helped me. Please don’t let them take me.”

Before he could say anything else, Lane launched herself toward him, wrapping him in a tight, shaking hug.

“I will never let anyone take you,” she whispered fiercely. “Never. Not ever. You are mine and I am yours and they don’t get to just show up and change that.”

He clung to her, and she could feel his tears staining the front of her shirt.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I don’t know what to do. Nothing in my life ever prepared me for this. The only thing I can think of is to run.”

She pulled back just enough to see his face. “We can’t leave the country—you never got your passport from social services and I should have pushed for it—I’m so sorry. But... maybe we can go to the Headland early. See if they follow us there. If they do... we drive. Somewhere unexpected. Maybe we switch cars. Find someplace remote. I’ll call Caitlin and ask her to keep watching the cats. The house can sit empty. I don’t care about my job. All I care about is you.”

Harry blinked at her, eyes wet. Then he looked at the stack of letters, grabbed them, and said, “I’m going to rip them up.”

Lane nodded. “Go ahead.”

He tore them, one by one, with angry hands and flushed cheeks. Then he carried the pieces into the bathroom and flushed them down the toilet.

They packed in silence, quick and practiced by now, then rushed out to the car and pulled away from the Clamper House, the ocean sparkling behind them.

Chapter Text

Monday, July 30, 1991 (Late) - Tuesday, July 31, 1991

The storm outside howled like a living thing.

Rain slammed against the windowpanes, streaking rivulets down the glass, and the trees outside swayed violently in the wind. Lightning cracked across the dark sky, illuminating the rolling hills of Arnside and Silverdale for just a moment before plunging them into darkness once more. The fire in the hearth was little more than glowing embers now, casting long, weak shadows across the floor.

Lane sat at the end of Harry’s bed, staring out the window with tired eyes. Her fingers clutched the worn handle of the machete resting in her lap. It had become something of a talisman these last few days—not truly useful, but comforting. Something heavy. Something real.

A blue Peugeot sat outside the farmhouse, barely visible through the sheets of rain. They had stumbled into this place on the edge of desperation and luck—a farmer letting a single room attached to his old barn, his number posted at a roadside petrol station Lane had stopped at for fuel and coffee. She had paid fifty pounds in cash. He’d asked no questions. She had offered no information.

It had only been two days since they fled Brighton, and the exhaustion sat in every limb of Lane’s body. They’d left that Saturday morning for the Headland Hotel, arriving late in the evening, making the 6 hour drive with enough time to eat a silent dinner in their room and collapse into bed. Harry, terrified, had crawled into the sheets beside her for the first time. Despite his warmth and the comfort of having him close, she had sat upright all night, machete on the nightstand, eyes locked on the door.

That morning, thirty letters had been waiting outside their hotel room.

Despite it being a Sunday.

And so, they ran again.

She had left her beloved Mercedes behind, arranged for long-term parking at the hotel lot, and purchased a used blue Peugeot from a lodge a few doors down—no papers, all cash. It had taken nearly all of the vacation cash she had brought with them, but she was so afraid her car was being tracked, she thought it well worth the risk. They had driven north, spending a tense night in the forgettable town of Kirkby Malzeard, huddled together in the backseat of the car with the windows fogged and their breath misting in the cold.

No mail came.

But Lane refused to take comfort in that.  There was nowhere for the mail to be delivered to.

So they drove again. North and West. To the edge of the Lake District. To Arnside and Silverdale, one of the most remote places she could think of short of fleeing to the Isle of Man. Her plan, if no letters came here, was to buy a camper van the next day and install themselves at the nearby holiday park under a false name and the rest of her cash. They’d hide out until her leave ran out. And maybe longer, depending on if she could get Robert to mail them some emergency funds.  Robert, who was hopeful that with their departure of their predetermined holiday resorts, whoever was following them would not be able to find them again.

Behind her, in the dark of the barn, Harry slept fitfully, twitching with some dream. She turned back from the window and gently reached out, brushing his hair back from his forehead. Her chest ached.

This was not what she wanted for him.

Tomorrow was his birthday. He would be eleven.

And instead of celebrating with cake and football and swimming in the sea, he was here, on a stranger's farm in the middle of a storm, clutching a stuffed penguin and twitching in his sleep.

She watched him for a while - he was perfect in his sleep - as perfect as he was awake, happy or sad, curious or kind. She loved him.

Lane had known it for a long time now. She'd first realized it when he had been curled on their couch in Golders Green, in those early weeks after Christmas when he was still healing slowly, wrapped in a blanket with Kat curled at his side. That fierce, maternal, burning love had caught her by surprise.

She hadn't said it to him though. Not yet. She had been waiting until the timing felt right - until she was sure she wasn't going to frighten him by saying it. But the more this dragged on, the more she feared she'd run out of chances. She'd tell him in the morning - maybe whisper it as she woke him with a birthday hug. If there was ever a time for that confession, it was now.

For now, she stayed awake, blade in hand, watching the door.

Daring anyone to try and take him from her.

And slowly, just as the hands on her watch crept toward midnight, Lane's eyes finally closed, and for the first time in days, she slept.

---

Harry POV.

BOOM.

The whole farmhouse shivered and Harry sat bolt upright, staring at the door. Someone was outside, knocking to come in.

BOOM. They knocked again. Lane jerked awake, and Harry was alarmed to see her pause for only a moment before leaping off of the edge of the bed, machete in hand as she pushed him off the bed behind her, frantically telling him to run and hide.

But Harry didn't want to leave her - couldn't leave her.  Lane who was throwing herself between whatever was on the outside of that door, and him.  Lane, who had held him through his nightmares and protected him as best she could first through the Dursley's abuse (as he finally could bring himself to think of it as after months of therapy), and now through whoever was trying so desperately to find him. The same people who had erased him from seemingly every record. Lane who called him her little bug.

Lane, who had, against all odds, had become his Mum.

She was his, and he was hers. And he decided he was not leaving her.

Lane must have seen something in his stance from the corner of her eye and she half-turned, pleading.

"Harry, please--you have to--"

SMASH!

The door was hit with such force that it swung clean off its hinges and with a deafening crash landed flat on the floor.

Lane screamed, and not for the first time this week, Harry was afraid.

A giant of a man was standing in the doorway. His fae was almost completely hidden by a long, shaggy mane of hair and a wild, tangled beard, but you could make out his eyes, glinting like black beetles under all the hair.

The giant moved to step inside, and that was when Lane moved.

Harry saw her, trembling head to toe, take a step towards the giant, machete raised, and with a viciousness in her voice he hadn't heard before she yelled, "Stay back!"

The giant paused in the doorway, surprise clear on his face at the sight before him.

He must have been thrown at the sight of such a small woman with such a large knife, but clearly he was not that afraid, as he took a large step through the door and brought himself fully into the barn.

Lane held the machete higher. "Not another step, I warn you -- I'm armed!"

The giant laughed, and reached out towards Lane and the machete, but before he could touch her, she brought it down with a frantic stroke and a cry.  Not fast enough, as the giant managed to pull his hand back, but she had made contact nonetheless.  He took a startled step backwards, clutching his bleeding hand to his chest, and colliding into the wall, and sending the wall of old wooden signs crashing to the floor.

"What'd yeh do that fer?!" The giant bellowed.

Lane stood, panting, shock clear on her face at having actually cut him with a machete Harry was pretty sure she had only been holding as her own personal security blanket.  When she didn't respond to his question, merely gulping and raising the machete again, the giant whipped out something of his own, which he pointed threateningly towards Lane.

It was a pink umbrella.

Harry would have laughed at the ludicrousness of the situation, if he wasn't rooted stock still with terror.

The umbrella didn't seem to have any calming effect on Lane either, who merely tensed, eyes locked on the umbrella.

After a moment, she turned her eyes to Harry again, and started to say, "Please bug--"

But at her words, the giants eyes whipped towards Harry for the first time, and Harry flinched as the full weight of the man's wild stare landed on him.

"Harry," the giant began, but Harry merely looked to Lane in fear, for the first time taking her words to heart, and considering running into the fields to hide. His gaze shifted to the window - not that far, he thought.  I could make it.  He took a half step towards the window.

At this, the giant took another step forward and bellowed, "Harry, it's okay - I won't let her hurt you. I'm here to help you, don't be afraid."

Won't let her hurt me? Harry thought, mind racing - did he think...that Harry was being held hostage? Was his step towards the window a signal to this giant man that he was trying to escape...Lane?

He paused, escape forgotten, frantically thinking of what to say when Lane shifted again in front of him, moving to compensate for his half step towards the window, machete still raised.

But this had been the wrong choice.

At her movement back between him and Harry, the giant's gaze turned thunderous again.  He drew himself up to his whole height, and brought the umbrella swishing down through the air to point at Lane -- there was a flash of violet light, a sound like a firecracker, and then...nothing.

Lane was still standing there, right in front of Harry, staring down the giant with wide, terrified eyes.

"Stay back," she croaked at the giant, "Please."

But the giant merely looked at Lane, then at the umbrella confused.  He muttered something to himself, and brought the umbrella down again right at Lane. This time, there was a flash of blue light, and a whooshing sound like a windstorm inside the small hut. Harry closed his eyes at the onset of an even brighter light, but again, when he opened them, there was nothing.

Only Lane, machete raised, and one very perplexed looking man.

"This ain' right." The giant said, gaze flitting between the umbrella and Lane, until eventually he lowered the umbrella slightly.

Lane didn't lower her machete.

The giant leaned forwards towards Harry, and said, "Harry, is that you?"

Emboldened by the seemingly useless bright lights and the lowered pink umbrella, Harry took a step toward Lane, raising his hand to clutch the side of her shirt in his hand.  Her eyes flitted down to his in silent warning, and as she opened her mouth - presumably to tell him to run again, he faced the giant and spoke.

"Leave us alone."

Harry wasn't sure where this sudden bravery had come from - maybe it was the fact that he felt like Lane would never let anything happen to him - maybe it was the fact that the lights hadn't done anything - maybe it was something in the confused eyes of the giant man.  But he continued nonetheless.

"Please, mister, we don't want any trouble.  My name is Henry - not Harry. Henry Black.  I think you have the wrong people - we're tourists. Visiting on holiday.  I don't know who you are, and I don't know who this Harry is."

The giant paused, considering, and Harry powered on, "Please, you're frightening my mum."

Lane gave a jolt at that, her eyes flitting to his, and she wasn't the only one.

"Yer...mum?" The giant breathed, panic beginning to bloom across his face.  He stared at Harry, who nodded, and said, "yes, my mum."  He studied Harry's face, then stared at Lane, taking in her terrified position.  Taking in her defensive stance-how she was clearly desperately trying to cover as much of Harry as humanly possible.  To their luggage, the normal clothes spread out haphazardly throughout the barn. To the beach towels they had used to wipe themselves down with after a frigid run through the rain.

A minute passed, the giant's panic only mounting.  He took a step backwards, towards the door. Lane's machete lowered slightly.  The giant raised his hands, "I'm sorry. I...er...must have gotten the wrong barn.  I...er...you must not be who I'm looking for.  If she's really yer mum. The boy I'm looking fer...he don't have...I'm so sorry."

Lane barely concealed the relief on her face, and Harry saw her lower the machete even further (although not quite all the way).  He stepped behind her again, having said his piece, as she said "It's ok...I'm...sorry I cut you it's just...we weren't expecting someone to break the door down in the dead of the night."

At this, the giant looked even more stricken.

She continued, "my son Henry...he's right. We don't know who this Harry is.  We're t-tourists. On holiday.  But...if you leave now. We won't press any charges. We can just...forget this happened and go our separate ways."

The giant nodded eagerly, relief now warring with the panic on his face.

"Right...er...guess I'll be off then." He turned, leaning down to pick up the door, moving to set it back on his hinges.  As leaned down, he reached to tuck his pink umbrella back inside his coat when he paused.  Something about it made him take another long, searching look at Lane, considering.  Then, with a mumble that sounded suspiciously like "always been rubbish" he stowed it away, and raised the door.

With a pause, and long searching look at Harry, the giant grunted one last feeble apology, pulled the door shut, and was gone into the rain.

The moment the giant was gone, Lane sagged to the floor, dropping the machete.

Alarmed, Harry fell to the floor as well, craning to see her face, but she beat him to it.  In a flash, she had turned on her knees and pulled Harry into the fiercest hug she had ever given him. He threw his arms around her as well, and as she sobbed and frantically tried to pull him as close as she could, he did the same.

After a moment, he pulled back.  "Mum...are you all right?" But at the word Mum, Lane immediately devolved back into sobs and pulled him right back into her arms.

 

"Harry," she whispered, "thank god. thank god."

She held him like that for a minute longer, rocking side to side as the storm raged.

Her tears eventually subsided, and she pulled back, looking him in the eyes, her hands adjusting his crooked glasses, wiping tears from his eyes and uselessly attempting to flatten his flyaway hair.  Her eyes searched his face and she said, "are you okay?"

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

She nodded in return, understanding, then stood up suddenly, grabbing the machete and rushing to look out into the window.  She turned back to him and confirmed the giant was gone - that their car was still there - and began rushing about the barn to pack.

Harry moved with her, she was right - they needed to leave in case the giant came back.  His adrenaline was spiking on overdrive as he stuffed everything he could into his suitcase - it wasn't much - they had barely let themselves unpack.

When everything was situated, Lane threw on her jacket and turned with Harry's in her arm.  She knelt in front of him, and he felt her carefully put the jacket on him.

He could put his own jacket on, but something in the set of her jaw told him to let her do this for him.  When the last arm was in, and his jacket was zipped, she stood and turned towards the door.

"Harry?" she said.

"Yeah?"

She turned one last time, and looked at him, panic still clear across her tear-stained face, and with a suitcase in one hand, and machete in the other she looked unlike anyone Harry had ever seen outside the movies.  He waited on baited breath.

"Harry, I love you." She whispered.

His heart clenched.  She had never said that to him before.  She had called him her sweetheart, her little bug, given him kisses on his forehead every night before bed, and even called him love, but she had never said those words together. No one ever had for him. And despite the craziness of the last week and the fear of the gigantic door-ripping man, he felt something like pure light bloom in his chest.

He stepped towards her, cautiously avoiding the giant knife she held, and wrapped his arms around her middle.

"I love you too, Mum."

She squeezed him back, and after a moment, he stepped away.

She opened the door.

And they ran out into the rain.

---

They drove the first thirty minutes in silence, the only sounds the rumble of tires on wet asphalt and the storm's retreating growl in the distance. Harry sat with his knees drawn up to his chest, staring out at the dark countryside flying past them.

Finally, he broke the silence. "Where are we going?"

Lane glanced at him, then back to the road. "North," she said. "As far north as we can go. To the border."

"Scotland?"

"Yes. The maps said there's a tiny place just before it—Byrness. We'll stop there for the night."

"Do you think we're safe?"

Lane exhaled. "I don't know. That giant—he seemed convinced when we told him you weren’t Harry. And he seemed thrown when you called me Mum - I guess if he knows anything about you in real life he'd know your mum passed away and you're supposed to be living with your Aunt and Uncle. But better safe than sorry. He could be regrouping with others, and they may come after us again."

He nodded.

They drove on. The moors stretched dark and endless to either side. Eventually, they pulled off into Byrness, surrounded by hills and heather and silence. Nothing was open. The village slept, empty and still.

Lane parked the car on the side of the road. The engine kept running to stave off the cold.

Harry looked out at the moonlit moors, then turned to Lane. "I can keep watch if you want. I...you haven't gotten to sleep."

Lane turned to him, her expression soft but serious. "No, sweetheart. I appreciate it, but that's not your job. It's my job to protect you. And that reminds me—what you did back there? How you spoke to him? That was brave, and it helped. But next time, if I tell you to run—I need you to run."

Harry nodded, searching her pleading face before saying, "Okay," he said. But in his heart, he thought, *Fat chance.* He wasn’t going to leave her. Not ever.

That thought sent a ripple of guilt through him.

This was all his fault. Lane wouldn’t have had to leave her home. Her car. Her job. Spend all this money. Face down giants. Not if it weren’t for him.

He began to withdraw, curling back into his seat.

Lane caught the shift instantly.

"Hey," she said gently. "Don't do that."

He blinked at her. "Do what?"

"Don’t disappear on me. Don’t take the blame. This isn’t your fault, Harry. None of this is."

He looked down.

She reached over and took his hand. "I mean it. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I’m sorry I haven’t told you sooner, but I love you. You’re my son."

His breath hitched, and she paused.

"And if we make it out of this—if we get back to Golders Green—I want to adopt you. Officially. If you want that."

Harry stared at her, stunned.

Adoption. He hadn’t dared dream. She had never brought it up. And yet, hearing it now...

The light in his chest just kept expanding. But then he remembered. They were only here because of him. What if something awful happened to her?

He hesitated.

Her face faltered. She squeezed his hand again. "It’s okay. We don’t have to decide now. You can say no. Just... I wanted you to know. You’re loved. I love you. Always."

He nodded, eyes full, heart full. They sat in silence, the car warm around them, until Harry’s head began to drift sideways, eyes fluttering.

And finally, he slept.

Chapter Text

**Tuesday, July 31, 1991 – Byrness Village, Late Afternoon**

Harry had never had a birthday quite like this one.

It was drizzling outside, and the little inn room Lane had managed to get for them above the village pub still smelled like toast and old books. They’d been holed up here since just after dawn when they saw the first glimpses of light peek through the innkeeper's windows, and now that the storm had passed, the moors outside were quiet. Grey light filtered through the panes. There wasn’t much to do but sit, breathe, and listen to the occasional distant sheep or passing car.

And yet, Harry felt calm.

After everything—the running, the hiding, the panic, the sleepless nights—this tiny room with its faded floral curtains and wool blankets felt like a safe harbor. No letters had found them, and the giant man had not returned. The floor creaked when they moved, and the kettle was ancient, but there was warmth in the way Lane tucked in the blanket around him, in the way she checked the windows twice before settling in her chair.

She had been tense all morning, barely speaking except to reserve the room for them, and make sure Harry had clean clothes and his penguin. But when the innkeeper—a soft-spoken woman named June—had walked down the hall with a little cupcake and a candle for another party down the hall, she’d smiled. Really smiled, and asked her if she had another for Harry. Lane had looked at Harry and called him "birthday boy" with such gentle affection that it made his throat tighten. Her voice had softened, her eyes crinkled at the corners, and in that moment it felt, briefly, like things might someday be normal again.

They had shared the cupcake—half each—and Lane had pulled out a wrapped book from her duffel. "Didn’t plan on being in hiding when I gave this to you," she said sheepishly, "but... well, happy birthday, kiddo."

It was a book on Roman history. His recent favorite. A small gift, perhaps, but it meant the world.

Then they sat in quiet again. Lane scribbled something in a notebook, face tense with concentration. Harry read the opening chapter, though he had to reread every paragraph twice. His thoughts kept drifting to what was next—what could possibly be next. Until the knock came at the door.

Three soft raps. A pause. Then a fourth.

Lane was already on her feet.

Harry looked up. His stomach twisted.

She moved slowly to the door, hand brushing her hip where the machete still sat in its sheath, hidden beneath her sweater. The old door had no peep eye to the hallway, and so her voice was sharp and alert. "Who is it?"

A deep, warm voice answered. "My name is Albus Dumbledore. I believe we have much to discuss regarding young Harry Potter."

There was another pause. Then, a clipped, Scottish-accented voice added, "And I am Professor McGonagall."

Lane’s eyes flicked to Harry. He saw her jaw tighten. She turned back to the door. "We’re not opening anything until you explain what the hell that name means to you."

The man outside chuckled softly. "I imagine you have questions. May we come in? I assure you, we mean you no harm."

"You’ll understand if we’re a little wary," Lane snapped. "Your friend with the pink umbrella broke down our door last nights."

A sigh. "Yes," said the man—Dumbledore. "That is partially why we’re here. Hagrid... was not the best choice, in retrospect. I should have come myself. We weren’t expecting... well, we weren’t expecting you."

Lane paused before the door, machete still in hand.

"And who were you expecting?"

There was a pause. "Harry Potter."

"Of course you were," Lane muttered. She looked at Harry. "Stay behind me."

Harry was baffled she was even considering opening the door, but he realized, with a quiet sinking in his stomach, that they really had nowhere else to go.

She opened the door fully.

Two people stood there. One was a tall man with a long silver beard and a purple robe, eyes bright blue behind half-moon glasses. The other was a stern-looking woman in a tartan robe, her hair pulled up severely in a rather tight bun.

"Albus Dumbledore," the man said with a small bow.

"Professor Minerva McGonagall," said the woman.

They didn’t step inside. Lane stared.

"You said you weren’t expecting me. Who were you expecting to find him with?"

"No one," Dumbledore said honestly. "Harry was supposed to be... elsewhere."

"At the Dursleys?" Lane asked.

He nodded slowly.

"He’s not," Lane said flatly.

"So I see. Might I ask your name?"

Lane didn’t answer.

"Please," he said gently. "We’d like to speak with you."

"Why should I tell you anything? How will I know you won't erase me the way you've erased Harry." she asked.

Dumbledore blinked. "Erased?"

"From the system," she said. "From medical records. From schools. From everything. It was like he didn’t exist."

Dumbledore looked genuinely surprised. "That was not our doing."

"Then whose was it?"

He hesitated. "I had intended to keep him hidden, to keep him safe, but not...invisible.  Magic can sometimes have unintended side effects... but what you describe is unusual."

It was not an apology. And Harry felt a surge of anger rise up at the casual way this Dumbledore had written it off, as if everything Harry had been through was some minor mishap, a regrettable side effect rather than something to be truly concerned about. He clenched his jaw but said nothing.

Harry stepped closer to Lane, suddenly feeling very exposed.

"Harry," Dumbledore said kindly, turning to look at him. "May I speak with you?"

Lane stepped in front of him. "You don't get to talk to him."

He nodded. "Of course."

Lane hesitated, and then pulled out her wallet, flipping to the worn paper tucked inside. She handed over the foster certificate. "He’s mine."

Dumbledore studied it. "Henry...Black," he read. Then looked up. "Clever."

"That's his name," Lane said firmly. "Now."

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled again. "Then I owe both of you an apology."

He gestured politely to the small wooden chairs near the hearth. "May we sit?"

Lane didn't budge. "You're welcome to stand in the hall."

Dumbledore inclined his head slightly, unfazed. "We truly cannot speak of this in public," he added quietly. "If you allow us to enter, I give you my word—no harm will come to either of you."

Lane narrowed her eyes. "Swear it."

"I do," he said, with soft solemnity. "On my life."

She stared at him for a long moment, then nodded toward his robes. "Prove you’re not carrying any weapons."

To Harry’s astonishment, Dumbledore obligingly held his arms out and allowed Lane to pat him down—an awkward gesture, but one he submitted to without complaint. Then she turned to McGonagall, who looked far less pleased.

As they prepared to step in, Lane suddenly held up a hand. "Wait. The sticks."

McGonagall blinked. "The... sticks?"

"Yes," Lane said flatly. "I was threatened with a stick. And then an umbrella. I don’t care what you call them—if you have sticks, they stay on the table in the entry."

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. "That is entirely reasonable."

McGonagall opened her mouth to object, but he gently raised a hand. "Minerva, please. We are guests."

With visible reluctance, McGonagall removed her stick and placed it carefully on the small side table. Dumbledore followed suit, puling out an entirely different-looking knobby stick a pale white color, setting his beside hers with a calm nod.

They moved quietly to the small chairs by the fireplace, the room still and close around them. Lane stood between the visitors and the door, pulling Harry behind her with a hand on his shoulder. She gave him a look—sharp, deliberate—one he clearly understood to mean: Get ready to run.

She shut the door behind them, but notably, didn’t lock it.

Only then did she turn to Dumbledore and say, "You can talk."

"Harry," Dumbledore said again, voice calm, "you are a wizard."

Absolutely thrown, Harry blinked and forgot he had nothing he wanted to say to this man. "I'm a what?"

"A wizard. And a rather important one, as it happens. There is a school, Hogwarts, that teaches children like you how to use their magic. You’ve been on the list since birth."

Harry looked at Lane. She looked pale, but nodded for him to continue.

"The place from the letters?"

"From Hogwarts, yes," McGonagall replied. "Standard issue for incoming students. Though they were... persistent."

"You're telling me," Lane muttered.

Harry spoke up then, hesitant. "I... I didn’t read the letters."

Dumbledore paused, a flicker of curiosity crossing his face. He turned to Lane. "Did you?"

She nodded once. "I did."

"Interesting," Dumbledore murmured. He looked back to Harry. "May I ask why you didn’t read them?"

Harry shrugged slightly, but his voice was clear. "I didn't need to. They scared Lane. So they scared me."

Dumbledore considered this, the twinkle in his eye dimming into something more thoughtful. Then he nodded. "That is perfectly understandable."

He turned to McGonagall. "Minerva, would you mind retrieving an extra letter for young Mr. Potter while I continue?"

Harry cleared his throat. "It’s Black. Mr. Black."

He felt a strange flutter in his chest as he said it. He and Lane had always maintained that 'Harry Potter' was his real name—his birth name, his parents’ name. They called him Harry Potter whenever they were home or alone, yes out of respect for the people who gave him life, but also because that was who he was, and they didn't want him to truly be erased. But now, in front of these strange people who claimed to know him and wanted to pull him into their world, it felt safer—smarter—to insist on the name Lane had given him. The name on the papers. The name of someone who could not be so easily taken.

Dumbledore glanced at him, not unkindly, but there was something behind his eyes—a hesitation, perhaps—not quite approval. But he didn’t argue. He merely gave a small nod.

McGonagall produced a crisp envelope from within her robes and handed it to Harry. He looked to Lane first. She nodded.

He opened it slowly, carefully, and began to read.

The words were neat, oddly formal, and—to Harry’s relief—utterly ridiculous. Terms like "term begins on September first" and "platform nine and three-quarters" and "owl delivery" made it sound more like a prank than a real invitation. Who wrote letters like this?

He couldn’t help but wonder: how had Lane found it scary? It barely made sense. But obviously, she had been right. She had seen something beneath the surface—read between the lines. Maybe she always had.

Harry glanced at her again. She was watching him carefully, not quite hovering, but clearly anxious - her eyes flitting between Harry, the letter, and Dumbledore.

He’d underestimated her radar for trouble, that was becoming clear. And considering how highly he already thought of her, that was saying something.

He looked back at the letter, scanning it one last time.

One question rose above the rest in his mind, sharp and persistent:

"Why me?" he thought. "Why am I getting these letters?"

Dumbledore nodded and continued. "You see, Harry, not only are you a wizard who should attend school with his peers, you are also known to our world because of what happened to your parents. They were... well, they were heroes."

"They died in a car crash," Harry said automatically.

Dumbledore shook his head gently. "They were murdered. By a dark wizard."

"That’s enough," Lane cut in, stepping forward. "Until you can prove what you’re saying is true, I refuse to allow the memory of Harry’s parents manipulated in front of him. It’s cruel."

Albus Dumbledore merely nodded, raised his hand and, with a gentle flick, conjured a soft golden light that danced across the room, morphing into a bird that soared once around the ceiling and disappeared.

Harry’s mouth fell open.

"That was magic," McGonagall said simply.

Harry stared at Lane.  She stared at the golden light in silence, then slowly, deliberately, set the machete down beside the hearth. Moving closer to Harry, she put her arm around his shoulders protectively.

Dumbledore watched this quietly. Then, with a soft smile, asked, "Would you share your name now? And how you know Harry?"

She nodded once. "Lane. Lane Black. I moved into Number 5, Privet Drive, the summer or 1989. I met Harry by accident on the front lawn. It wasn’t difficult to quickly realize something was wrong. He was too small, too quiet. I started paying attention. Started documenting things. I tried reporting the Dursleys—social services, the NSPCC—but no one remembered. The reports vanished. The people I spoke to forgot I’d even called. It wasn’t until after I finished my foster care training, that night we were in the hospital where the nurses completely forgot about the boy on the ICU floor, that I finally figured it out. People were forgetting ‘Harry Potter.’ So, when the time came I could foster him, I changed his name to Henry Black."

McGonagall turned sharply to Dumbledore, her expression hard with accusation. Dumbledore shifted, but didn’t speak.

"And, what happened to the Dursleys" Dumbledore prompted.

"I forced them into signing over guardianship," Lane said bluntly. "Told them I’d go to the police over what they'd done. Threatened to expose them. Then I sent them away."

Harry blinked. "You...blackmailed them? I thought we just... fled and they didn't care enough to follow."

She looked down at him, arm tightening against his side. "I did what I had to."

He didn’t know what to say. Part of him was amazed. The other part—touched, and suddenly nervous. "But that’s illegal."

Lane ignored him and continued, voice steady. "We moved, Harry entered the system as Henry Black. He's been mine for over a year. I was planning to formally adopt him this fall. And things have been normal. Really normal. While what you just did is impressive, and even if magic is true, there has been no evidence of Harry himself having any such powers."

She turned to Dumbledore. "You can’t take him."

Dumbledore looked stricken.

It was McGonagall who spoke. "You mentioned...that something was wrong. And a hospital? What happened?"

Lane’s voice darkened. "They kept him in the cupboard under the stairs. There were verbal taunts, bruising even. He wasn’t eating. He wasn’t seen. I came back after the New Years, 1990 to find him half-conscious on my back porch. The Dursleys had beaten him - we had to rush him to the hospital."

Harry swallowed hard.

"I have proof," she added. "Photographs. Journals.  Hospital records I stole. Copies of school notes. I’ve kept everything. You think I just barged in and stole him? I documented every second. I didn’t bring it all with me, but it’s in London. I’ll show you, if you’re willing to listen. And if you’re not—my solicitor has copies. If he doesn’t hear from me in the next forty-eight hours, he’ll submit the full case to the courts. Your erasure spells or whatever be damned."

McGonagall looked furious. Her lips were thin as paper. "I told you the Muggles were no good," she snapped at Dumbledore.

Harry’s brow furrowed. Muggles?

Dumbledore looked down, genuinely ashamed. "I never expected this. I thought I was keeping him safe. It was our only option, to keep him at the--"

"Safe?!" Lane’s voice broke sharply. "He almost died in my arms. You’ll have to do a hell of a lot more than apologize for this."

Then, quieter, she said, "He belongs with me. He’s my son. He’s been safe with me."

Harry looked between them. His heart thundered.

"Can’t I stay with Lane?" he asked.

Dumbledore leaned forward slightly, his expression full of regret. "Lane. Harry. I am so sorry. For everything. I thought I was protecting him. I truly believed it was the only way. But I was wrong. I failed you."

He turned to Harry. "You were never meant to suffer. And I am ashamed that my decisions led to that."

Then to Lane, with a slight bow of his head: "Thank you. For taking care of him."

He didn’t know what to do. He absolutely didn’t forgive Dumbledore—but he did seem to really feel bad about what Harry had to go through. But that, somehow, made it worse, and Harry didn’t know if things could be made right.

He looked to Lane. She met his eyes and gave a small, cautious nod—an almost imperceptible gesture, but it was enough.

So Harry nodded too. He followed her lead. But he didn’t speak.

Dumbledore paused, then added, "That being said—Harry does need to attend Hogwarts. He is a wizard. The magic I’ve shown you today is magic Harry will one day be able to do, and more. He needs to be around people like him, to learn how to control his gifts."

McGonagall, who had been watching Dumbledore with something akin to surprise, nodded slowly and said, "You’d attend Hogwarts, but you wouldn’t be taken from Lane forever. We’d arrange transport for the holidays."

The word 'transport' jarred Harry. Transport for the holidays? Did that mean he’d only see Lane on holidays? The thought of being away from her for most of the year made his stomach turn. Lane, who Harry had thought was just beginning to soften slightly to the idea of wizard school, immediately straightened, her expression hardening.

"Absolutely not," she said sharply. "I appreciate that you apologized, and I can understand that maybe—maybe—mistakes have been made, but I only just got Harry. I’m not about to let him leave me for most of the year, and I’m certainly not going to send him off to a school run by people who once showed up on my doorstep threatening me."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Ah," he said softly. "I was hoping we might speak about that as well. May I ask—what do you remember of that night?"

Lane blinked. "What do I remember?"

Dumbledore did not look surprised. McGonagall, however, clearly did.

"You remember the whole night that Mr. Diggle showed up on your doorstep?"

"What do you mean 'showed up?'" McGonagall snapped, again furious.

Dumbledore folded his hands. "There was an alert of sorts, on the wards I set for Harry’s name within the social services system. I couldn’t risk Harry being removed from the Dursleys as he was supposed to be protected there, so I sent Dedalus Diggle to… intervene. He was only meant to handle social services, but apparently, he visited Ms. Black as well."

"If you knew there was a report," McGonagall said icily, "why didn’t we go get Harry?"

Lane and Harry both turned to Dumbledore at that, their faces incredulous and angry.

Dumbledore, however, simply looked old. "I didn’t know the extent of it. Diggle told me it was routine, investigatory. I will be having words with him, I assure you. And again, I am… deeply sorry."

Lane shook her head slowly. "That man was threatening me with a stick, asking about my social services report and mumbling gibberish. It really scared me, actually. I didn’t know what he was trying to do—if he was trying to hurt me or Harry, or just confuse us—but it wasn’t normal, and it wasn’t okay. I was terrified for him. You don’t just send someone like that to someone's door and expect it to be brushed off later. You need to understand, this wasn’t some harmless misunderstanding. It was dangerous, and it made me question everything. He deserves better than that. You don’t get to make decisions for him in the shadows."

McGonagall’s voice was sharp. "What exactly did Diggle try to do?"

Lane frowned. "I don’t know. He kept muttering something that sounded like ‘oblivious’ or ‘obvious’ or something like that. It was late and I was exhausted - I had just come back from the pubs. I didn’t understand what he was doing, but he definitely said it more than once."

Dumbledore spoke gently. "He was attempting to perform the Obliviate Charm. On you."

McGonagall looked thunderstruck. "He *what*?"

Harry looked confused, and spoke again for the first time in a while. "What does that mean?"

Dumbledore’s voice was soft now. "It means to erase a memory. Diggle was trying to protect you, Harry—from being removed from the Dursleys."

Harry scoffed, crossing his arms.

McGonagall, however, remained dumbstruck. "What do you mean he 'tried?'"

"He tried twice, in fact," Lane added with a rather testy tone.

Dumbledore ignored her, eyes twinkling. "I was hoping we could speak of Hagrid’s visit as well."

Lane raised an eyebrow and threw up her hands. "As if we could forget."

"Hagrid tried magic too, didn’t he?"

"Just some lights," Harry said, frowning.

Dumbledore nodded slowly.

McGonagall frowned. "Do you mean… his spells failed?"

"Yes," Dumbledore said simply.

McGonagall crossed her arms. "Well, hardly surprising for Hagrid."

Dumbledore gave her a look. "Remember Minerva—Diggle’s did as well."

That silenced her. She blinked, processing.

Dumbledore turned to Lane. "May I test a theory?"

Lane was visibly wary now, arms crossed tightly, her posture rigid. Harry felt like he was barely keeping up—everything was happening so fast, and he didn’t know how to make sense of any of it.

She narrowed her eyes at Dumbledore. "What theory?"

Dumbledore folded his hands. "I would like to perform a spell on you."

Lane stiffened. Before she could even respond, Harry jumped to his feet, putting himself in front of her.

"No," he said firmly, his voice louder than he expected. "You are not doing anything to her. I won’t allow it."

The room fell silent for a moment.

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, surprised but not offended. Lane looked startled too—somewhere between exasperated and deeply moved—but Harry didn't care. He wasn’t going to let anyone risk hurting her. Not after everything she'd done for him. Not ever.

Lane peeked around Harry’s shoulder, patting his shoulder gently and murmured, "It’s alright, Harry. Not like we have much of a choice." Then, louder, she added, "What kind of spell?"

"Something simple and completely safe I promise," Dumbledore said gently. "Just a charm to change the color of your hair. Completely reversible."

Lane frowned. "And what would that prove?"

"A hypothesis," he said.

She tilted her head. "A controlled test?"

"Exactly."

She looked contemplative, and to Harry’s surprise, she nodded. "Fine. But not you. She does it."

Dumbledore inclined his head, looking almost resigned. McGonagall blinked. "Me?"

"Please, Minerva," Dumbledore said softly.

McGonagall rose and crossed to the side table to retrieve her wand. Lane’s eyes never left her.

Lane looked to Harry. "It’s okay."

She stepped out from behind him, ruffling his hair gently once more, then stood before McGonagall.

Harry watched her carefully. He could tell she was terrified—not in her face, but in the tiniest tremble of her hands. He didn’t think the others noticed.

McGonagall raised her wand and muttered, Capillum flavum, while tracing a complicated pattern in the air.

Lane squeezed her eyes shut.

There was a bright light, but...nothing happened. Lane’s hair, still long and brown and curly, remained entirely unchanged—no trace of blonde, not even a shimmer. It tumbled past her shoulders just as it always had, defying McGonagall’s spell as though nothing had touched it at all.

McGonagall blinked.

Dumbledore laughed softly, clapping his hands. "Marvelous."

Lane opened one eye. "Am I blonde?"

Harry grinned in relief. "Nope. Still you."

McGonagall looked to Dumbledore, baffled. He gave her a slight nod.

"May I try a few more?" she asked Lane.

Lane shrugged. "Go ahead."

McGonagall tried several more: Petrificus Totalus. Nothing. Colloshoo. Nothing. A light gust. A minor flare of light. But nothing affected Lane.

With each attempt, Lane’s shoulders relaxed. McGonagall grew increasingly flustered. Dumbledore’s smile widened with quiet delight.

Finally, Lane crossed her arms. "Satisfied your curiosity?"

Harry looked between them, confused. "Was something supposed to happen?"

Dumbledore looked at him kindly. "Yes. But it appears...Ms. Black is immune to magic."

There was a beat of silence.

McGonagall scoffed. "Preposterous. She must be a witch among muggles with some kind of powerful ward or my magic is sub-par in this cold."

Dumbledore tilted his head. "Do you truly believe that, Minerva?"

McGonagall opened her mouth, then hesitated. Her brow furrowed, and she looked unsure.

Lane raised an eyebrow. "So what? That can’t be that uncommon."

Dumbledore shook his head slowly. "It is. In fact, I’ve never met anyone like you before."

Harry glanced up suddenly. "What about me? Am I immune to magic too?"

Lane looked sharply at him, and McGonagall raised an eyebrow. Dumbledore held up a hand. "No need. I knew Harry as a baby, and saw his mother perform charms on him. He is not immune."

"Still," Harry insisted, stepping forward. "I want to try."

Dumbledore regarded him for a moment, then gave Minerva a slight nod.

"May I?" McGonagall asked, looking to Lane.

Lane looked wary but nodded once. "Go on."

McGonagall raised her wand again. Capillum caeruleum, she said with a gentle flourish.

Harry blinked as a tingling sensation crept over his scalp. Lane let out a small gasp. Harry darted to the mirror on the wall and let out a delighted laugh.

"It’s blue! My hair’s blue!"

Lane chuckled softly, though the sound was faint. Harry turned back to her, grinning, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes.

So he wasn’t immune. The magic worked. Which meant whatever was happening with Lane wasn’t a trick of the room or some kind of interference. It was her.

"I always knew you were super cool," Harry said with a grin.

But Lane didn’t look pleased. She looked... worried.

"What does this mean?" she asked, turning to Dumbledore. "For me? For Harry?"

Dumbledore sighed, folding his hands. "Why don’t we continue our earlier conversation—about the magical world, about Hogwarts, and why Harry has to go. And then, we can discuss the hows and whys of all this."

Lane gave a small nod.

Dumbledore turned to McGonagall. "Minerva, would you do the honors? She is, after all, my Deputy Headmistress."

McGonagall straightened slightly. "Hogwarts is a school of witchcraft and wizardry, founded over a thousand years ago. It’s located in the Scottish Highlands, hidden from Muggle eyes. Students attend from ages eleven to seventeen. We teach subjects such as Transfiguration, Charms, Potions, Herbology, Defense Against the Dark Arts, and more."

"What’s Herbology?" Harry asked, squinting.

"The study of magical plants," McGonagall replied. "You’ll learn to identify, grow, and use magical flora—some of which have healing properties, others defensive or even offensive abilities."

"That sounds... kind of brilliant," Harry said, eyes wide.

Lane frowned slightly. "What about Defense Against the Dark Arts? That one sounds ominous."

"It is one of our most important subjects," McGonagall said. "You’ll learn to defend yourself against dark creatures, harmful spells, and various magical threats."

"Like curses?" Harry asked.

"Yes. And hexes. Jinxes. And the creatures that use them."

"How many students are there?" Lane asked.

"Roughly a five hundred to a thousand at any given time," Dumbledore replied. "About one hundred to two hundred and fifty in each House in our fuller years."

"And it’s a boarding school?" Lane pressed.

"Yes," McGonagall said. "Students stay at Hogwarts from September to June, with breaks for holidays."

"What are Houses?" Harry asked.

McGonagall’s eyes lit up slightly. "Ah yes. Students are sorted into one of four houses—Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. They live, learn, and compete together during their time at the school. It becomes something like a family."

"Do I get to choose?" Harry asked.

"Not exactly," Dumbledore replied.

Lane cut in. "Why has no one ever heard of this?"

"Because it’s a secret, magic itself is a secret," Dumbledore said simply. "But as Harry’s guardian—and given that it is obviously impossible to remove the knowledge of magic from your mind—you are now granted knowledge of our world."

Lane narrowed her eyes. "And if I wasn’t? You’d try again to erase me?"

"No," Dumbledore said solemnly. "I would not."

Harry could see that this promise was a turning point for Lane—she seemed to calm a bit, probably strengthened by the fact that he couldn't do it if he tried. Her stance eased, and uncrossed her arms, still alert but not bristling.

After a moment's consideration, Harry spoke. "The school sounds... really cool. But earlier you said you knew me as a baby. And my parents. Can you tell me about that?"

Lane nodded beside him, pulling him down to sit on the loveseat across from Dumbledore and McGonagall, scooting closer until their shoulders touched.

Dumbledore’s expression shifted to something far sadder. He folded his hands in his lap. "Minerva and I were your parents' teachers. James and Lily were brilliant students. Kind, clever, loyal. When the first wizarding war broke out... they were among the best of us. But the Dark Lord who had risen to power at the time—Lord Voldemort—he found them. And he killed them."

Harry's throat tightened. Dumbledore continued, voice low.

"He tried to kill you too. But for reasons we still do not fully understand, he failed. That’s why you have your scar. That’s why I placed you with the Dursleys. There were protections on that house, from your mother, that would keep you safe from dark wizards, but would only hold while you lived with her blood relatives. It should have been the safest place."

That mollified Harry a little—at least there had been some reason for him to have been placed with the Dursleys, though it didn't make him feel completely better.

Still, he asked, "Why me? Why did I survive?"

Dumbledore looked at him, then at Lane. "Ah. Much like young Ms. Black here, there is much about that night that remains a mystery."

Harry accepted that, though privately he felt Dumbledore wasn’t telling him everything. But that was the least of his worries. His world was spinning from the revelation that his parents weren’t drunks. That they had loved him.

Lane must have sensed his disquiet. She pulled him even closer onto the small sofa, wrapping an arm around his shoulders as she looked at him gently.

"See?" she murmured. "I told you. They must have loved you very much."

It was too much.

Everything from yesterday to now had happened at such breakneck speed—being hunted by strangers with umbrellas and sticks (wands, he supposed), learning that he was a wizard (which he still wasn’t entirely convinced was real), the mystery of Lane's magic immunity, and now… now he had to contend with the knowledge that his parents had been murdered. Not drunk drivers, not some stupid irresponsible accident. Murdered. By a wizard.

And Dumbledore had said they had loved him. That thought alone sent a painful, confused tremor through his chest. For so long he’d believed he had been abandoned. That maybe there was something broken in him. But they hadn’t left him by choice. They had tried to protect him. They had died trying to protect him.

And then there was Lane.

He looked at her now, still by the door, her jaw tight, her hands fisted at her sides. She had remembered him when others hadn’t. Had fought tooth and nail to keep him, to protect him from the people who had just left. She had outmaneuvered magic. That should have been impossible, right? How could he have possibly deserved not one mum, but two? He didn’t know how any of this worked, but it sounded like it wasn’t supposed to happen. She wasn’t supposed to remember.

But she had.

And the idea of what might have happened if she hadn’t… it made him want to be sick.

He didn’t even want to think about that world. A world where she forgot him. Where he had no one.

He barely understood how deeply he relied on her until now. He’d known she was important. He’d known she cared. But only now was he realizing how much of his whole world she had become. And how close he’d come to losing her.

The magic. The evil wizard. The school. It was all noise right now.

He needed to sit. To breathe. To think.

Maybe sensing a bit of what was going on in his head, Dumbledore and McGonagall rose to their feet. Harry watched Lane stand with them abruptly, alarmed again by the movement.

Dumbledore raised a hand gently. "My apologies," he said, his tone warm. "I did not mean to startle you. But I believe you both have much to think about."

He looked to Lane. "With your, situation, I have the beginning of an idea for an arrangement—one that I believe might appeal to you and young Mr. Potter here, for his attendance at Hogwarts. While I did mention it would be beneficial for Harry to be among others like him to learn magic, our government does require that he attend."

Lane’s eyes narrowed again, but she didn’t interrupt.

Dumbledore continued, "The good news is, you may rest easy in the knowledge that you are no longer being watched or followed. You are safe to return home."

He paused, his eyes kind. "I will visit you both tomorrow evening—after dinner—in your home in Golders Green, to go over the proposed arrangement in full."

Then, with a slight bow, he added, "Again, I offer my deepest apologies for the fear we caused you both."

Lane didn’t relax, but she nodded once. Harry, still seated, didn’t speak. But he watched closely as the two professors quietly retrieved their wands from the side table, offered brief goodbyes, and stepped back into the hallway.

Chapter Text

Lane POV: Byrness/Golders Green, July 31, 1991

The door clicked shut behind Professor Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall with a sound far too quiet for the weight it carried. Lane stood still, heart thudding, as though the door might reopen and suck them into some new layer of madness.

Thankfully, it didn’t.

The door remained shut, and when she leaned out a few minutes later to check, the hall was still empty.

Harry stood near the hearth, pale and blinking, his expression mirroring her own stunned disbelief.

"Well," Lane said, her voice emerging scratchy and uncertain. She cleared her throat. "Alright. Let’s... let’s order some tea and talk." She thought, after at least a year of being Harry's guardian, she'd have a better solution for his big problems than tea, but it seemed that for right now, at least, that was the best idea she had.

They didn’t move for several minutes after the innkeeper brought it up, but the warmth of the pot eventually coaxed them both to the window seat. Rain dotted the glass in soft rhythms. The tea was strong, dark, bracing. It tasted like earth and spice and steadiness.

They drank it in silence for a long while. Then Lane finally asked, "That all really happened, right?"

Harry looked over at her. "Unless we both just had the weirdest dream ever."

"Magic is real," Lane muttered, disbelieving. "And apparently, I’m immune to it."

"And I’m not," Harry added. "I’m magical."

She took another long sip of tea. "They want you to go to a boarding school. In the Highlands."

"And they’re showing up at our house tomorrow night to convince us."

"Great," Lane said, running her fingers through her very tangled hair. "Just fantastic."

She set her mug on the windowsill and leaned back against the frame, the wool of her jumper scratching lightly against her arms. The rain had tapered off into a light mist, the kind that softened edges and blurred distance.

"I feel like I need five more pots of this tea just to process," she said quietly.

Harry let out a breath that might've been a laugh. "I think I need five more years."

Lane turned her head. "You alright?"

"I think so," he said. "You?"

"Ask me tomorrow," she murmured.

The tea steamed between them, the scent of bergamot and something herbal grounding her more than anything else had that day.

"Do you believe them?" Harry asked. "About the magic?"

Lane glanced at him, then back out the window. "I didn’t. Not until McGonagall turned your hair bright blue."

Harry smirked. "I kind of liked it. Suited me."

"Don’t get any ideas."

He took another sip. "You didn’t even flinch when her spell didn’t work on you."

"Oh, I flinched," Lane said. "Internally."

"Why would someone be immune to magic?"

"That’s a great question," she said, leaning her head against the frame. "I was hoping that whole time you’d ask Dumbledore so I didn't have to."

Harry shook his head. "Didn’t want to give him the satisfaction."

And despite everything that had happened, Lane grinned slightly. "Good instinct." She could always trust Harry to be her greatest source of joy.

A pause.

"Are we really going to go back home?" he asked.

"I think so. Vacation’s kind of ruined, unless you want to go back to the beach for the rest of your birthday week."

"I don't know. I kind of just want to go home.  Can't believe that was my birthday," Harry murmured.

Lane glanced over at the small alarm clock beside the bed. "Still is. For a few more hours."

He set his mug down and curled his legs underneath him. "Do you think I should go to Hogwarts?"

She didn’t answer immediately. "Well, they said it was a legal requirement, but screw that, I think you should only go if you want to."

"I don’t want to go if it means leaving you."

Lane's voice softened. "You won’t. Not if I have anything to say about it."

Harry gave her a look. "You always have something to say about it." He shifted in his seat, drawing his knees up tighter under his chin. "I don’t really know how we’re going to get out of this," he admitted, his voice soft.

Lane gave him a sideways glance and nudged his ankle with her foot. "Hey, I’m immune to the crazies, and you can probably spell us to another continent if you try hard enough. We’ll be fine."

Harry didn’t smile. Not really.

Lane’s expression softened and she knelt down to pull Harry into a tight embrace. "Hey. It’s okay. We’re going home. And this time, since we have time, we’re stopping for a real cake—not just a cupcake."

That coaxed a hint of brightness into Harry’s eyes. "Like the kind Nathan had at his birthday parry, with two layers?"

"Absolutely. The full birthday treatment. Pick any flavor you want."

He nodded, a little more heart in his voice. "Okay. That sounds good."

"Good," Lane said, bumping his knee gently again. "Then it’s settled."

---

They didn’t finish the pot of tea. Lane packed up their things with a mechanical rhythm—mug back on tray, backpack zipped, suitcase snapped shut.

Harry helped quietly, repacking the clothes that had spilled into the room’s corners, gathering his stuffed penguin and the wrapped book Lane had given him. As they stood in the doorway of the room, she glanced back once to make sure they hadn’t left anything.

A worn sweater had escaped their pursuit, along with an umbrella she brought from home in case it rained on the beach.

After a pause, she decided to leave the umbrella.

They descended the stairs, thanked the inkeeper with quick nods, and stepped into the misty afternoon. The rain had stopped, but the clouds still hung low. The road through Byrness was quiet—only the sound of birds in the hedges and the hush of damp leaves.

They loaded their bags into the Peugeot and began the long drive south.

Lane didn’t speak until they were out of the village.

"We’ll head to the Headland Hotel first," she said. "Swap back to my car. Return this one. Then—home."

Harry nodded. "Okay."

The road unwound before them, grey and green, hills rolling past like gentle waves. The first leg of the trip was silent. Neither of them had the energy to fill the air with guesses or reassurances. The air was heavy with everything they hadn’t said.

It wasn’t until they saw the sign for the Headland that Lane exhaled.

"God," she muttered. "I didn’t realize how much I missed my car."

"I did," Harry said. "It smells normal. This one smells like a bit of mold to be honest."

Lane laughed under her breath. "Fair point."

The Mercedes was right where they left it, wet from the rain but intact. Lane grinned when she touched the steering wheel. Familiar. Solid. Hers.

After the transfer, the Peugeot was abandoned in a lot next to the hotel, and when they were finally back on the motorway heading toward Golders Green, Lane turned to Harry.

As the countryside unspooled around them—endless hedgerows, quiet villages, and the occasional herd of sheep—Harry leaned back in the passenger seat, his window slightly cracked. The wind whipped strands of hair across his forehead, but he didn’t seem to mind.

"Okay," she said. "I need to talk about some of the weirdness Dumbledore mentioned, if it's all right with you, but we don't have to talk about your wizardness until you're ready so just let me know. That all said, why do you think I’m immune to magic?"

"Maybe," he said, breaking the silence, "you have some kind of magical block. Like a shield."

Lane arched a brow without taking her eyes off the road. "Like I’m secretly carrying dragon scales? Like in the Hobbit?"

He shifted to face her more fully. "Or maybe someone did it to you. Like... a spell to make you immune."

"Against my will? That’s creepy." She paused. "But not impossible, considering everything."

"It doesn’t have to be creepy. Maybe it was for protection. Like from something worse."

"Hmm. You think I was enchanted to be untouchable by magic?"

"Or maybe," Harry mused, watching the blur of trees, "you’re remotely descended from people who could cancel magic. Like a whole family of magic-mutes."

Lane laughed. "That sounds like a '70s grunge band."

"Or a superhero team."

"Next on *The Magic Mutes*—Episode Three: Hair Dye and Hexes," she intoned dramatically.

Harry snorted. "You’d be the leader."

"Obviously."

A moment passed before Harry’s voice softened. "Do you think... you’re dangerous to them? Like, could you hurt them just by being near?"

Lane gripped the steering wheel tighter. "If I was, I doubt Dumbledore and McGonagall would’ve strolled in so calmly."

"Unless they didn’t know."

That made her pause.

"Now that’s a worrying thought."

Harry rested his chin in his hand. "Maybe it’s genetic. Maybe your mum had it."

Lane blinked. "My mum? Magic-proof and never mentioned it?  To be fair, she remembered everything about you—your name, the files, the records—all of it. Which makes me wonder... maybe whatever spell Dumbledore used to keep you hidden only worked within England. Maybe it didn't extend to the U.S. or to people who were outside its influence."

She frowned, her fingers tapping the steering wheel. "It’s just a theory, but if that’s true, it might explain why she could still hold onto the truth. It also makes me wonder if I should ever bring her up to Dumbledore at all—just in case. If we ever needed to leave... really leave... we might need that option. I don’t want to burn a bridge - we might need to run again someday."

He looked at her thoughtfully. "Maybe, if it's in your blood, she could protect us too.  Or at the very least, get the American social services on our side."

Lane glanced at him, a strange mix of affection and awe rising in her chest. "You’re scarily good at this strategy stuff you know."

He shrugged. "It helps when your life turns out to be a fantasy novel, and your mum's a strategist." Harry joked.

Lane laughed, and sobered. "You think they’ll try to test me again?"

"Definitely. But don’t let them. Not unless they answer your questions first."

Lane smirked. "Deal."

Harry leaned back, stretching. "I’ll stand guard when they come tomorrow."

She quirked an eyebrow. "With your penguin?"

"With whatever I need."

Lane glanced sideways and smiled. "Brave lad."

Harry grinned. "Brave Mum."

---

The sun was setting behind them when they passed the last rest stop before the city, the sky washed in bruised lavender and gold. Lane rolled her window down to let the breeze in. After such a long drive, she needed air.

Harry spoke quietly. “Do you think they really knew my parents?”

Lane didn’t answer right away. When she did, her voice was gentler than it had been all day. “I think they did. The way Dumbledore talked about them... it wasn’t just polite. It felt very personal.”

Harry looked down at his lap. “He said they were heroes.”

“If what he said was true, they were,” Lane said. “And they loved you. I'm sure that’s the part he wasn’t lying about - and I always told you they did.  How could they not?”

Harry was silent for a moment. “That’s good.” Then, more quietly: “I didn’t know if they did.”

Lane reached across the console and squeezed his hand.

He kept staring out the window, and Lane let him have time to process. She drove all the way from Manchester to Birmingham before he spoke again, speaking slowly, “so... this Lord Voldemort.”

Lane winced. “That name is so much.”

“I know.”

“They said he tried to kill you.”

He nodded. “And it didn’t work.”

Lane’s voice dropped to a murmur. “That’s terrifying.”

Harry turned to her. “I wonder how. Why me?”

“I wonder how much Dumbledore isn’t telling us.”

“Probably a lot.”

Lane exhaled slowly. "He honestly doesn’t seem evil," she said after a pause. "I mean, I don’t think he’s the kind of man who condones child abuse, or who would hurt someone on purpose. He seemed... regretful. Like he really believed what he did was for the best."

Harry didn’t say anything, so she went on.

"McGonagall looked like she wanted to hex someone. That was different. She was genuinely appalled—like she hadn’t known how bad things were. I believed her more than him. Dumbledore... I don’t know. He looked sad, yes, but also like someone who’s used to keeping secrets. And to justifying the consequences."

She gripped the wheel tighter.

"Probably thought he was doing the best he could," she said, quieter now. "I mean, who would’ve thought family could be so cruel to each other?"

But that thought turned inward almost immediately, her jaw tightening. Of course family could be cruel. "That doesn't excuse him at all though," she reassured Harry, who nodded in her direction.

Lane’s mind drifted uncomfortably to her own childhood. To her father.

Well, she thought grimly, she'd had her own version of cruelty at home. Her dad had been flesh and blood, and it hadn’t stopped him from breaking things that couldn’t be put back together. Dumbledore should have known better. The world didn’t run on good intentions.

Still, it didn’t seem like they had much of a choice now. The magical world had found them. And if Harry had to go to this school—and it sounded like he did—then they'd have to deal with Dumbledore.

Lane didn’t have it in her to trust him yet. But McGonagall? She seemed more transparent. Easier to read. If Lane had to lean on anyone tomorrow, it would be her.

“Lane?” Harry said softly.

She blinked and turned toward him. She hadn’t realized she’d zoned out, her thoughts spiraling far past the lines on the road.

“Sorry,” she murmured, shaking her head slightly. “Was just... thinking about Dumbledore.”

Harry tilted his head. “It's almost like he plays chess with people.”

Lane glanced at him, startled. “Exactly.”

She was struck again by how perceptive he could be. He had always been a thoughtful kid, even in those early days when he was still healing, sat on the couch with a book half-open and his feet tucked beneath him. But over the past year—through all the quiet time he'd had to himself and the steady encouragement of his therapist—he'd truly begun to embrace that side of himself. His love of reading, his curiosity, his willingness to ask the hard questions. He had become sharp-eyed and careful with his words in a way that made Lane deeply proud.

Not that he wasn’t still the brave, sporty kid who loved muddy football matches and late-night movies. This trip alone had proven he still had nerves of steel and the heart of a lion. But he had rounded out. He was becoming whole. Fully himself. And Lane, more than anything, felt honored to witness it.

Harry had continued on, “I think he wants me at the school because of what happened with the evil guy though. Not just because I’m magical, or even because of the law.”

Lane nodded. “Yeah. That tracks. But, to be fair he did look at least a bit... sad...not 100% scheme-y.  Especially when he talked about your parents. It was clear he cared about them deeply. Again, not that that excuses anything.”

“He said he made mistakes.”

Lane gave a bitter laugh. “Haven’t we all.”

Harry hesitated. “I think... I want to know more. About them. My parents. Not just from him.”

Lane’s grip on the wheel tightened. “We’ll find out what we can. I promise.”

They drove the rest of the way in contemplative silence, the city lights of London beginning to bloom on the horizon.

Their street in Golders Green was still and familiar. The ivy on the front of the house looked, if possible, even more green from the recent rain, and Kat was already perched in the window, tail twitching in excitement to see them.

Lane parked, turned off the engine, and let her head fall back against the seat. "We finally made it," she breathed.

Lane hadn’t been sure they’d really be making it home until they pulled into the drive. Every mile they put between themselves and Byrness felt a little safer, yes, but some part of her had been holding its breath the whole way. It wasn’t until she saw the crooked garden gnome that Harry once picked out in Little Whinging that she finally let herself believe it—they were safe. They were home.

The relief hit her all at once, as sharp as exhaustion. Her body ached from the tension she hadn’t allowed herself to feel, and her mind, so sharp and alert on the road, now swam with foggy thoughts. She was absolutely, bone-deep exhausted. But she would take that exhaustion a hundred times over for the chance to hear the sound of the front door unlocking and Harry moving through the house like it still belonged to him. Because it did.

Harry didn’t reply—he just opened his door, grabbed his bag, and headed toward the front steps like a boy whose body remembered home before his mind could catch up.

Inside, the house was exactly as they’d left it. Slightly stale air, two notes from Caitlin on the fridge reporting on the cats, and the quiet, undeniable sense of safety at home.

Lane dropped her bag in the hall and hung up her coat while Harry dashed upstairs to make sure everything was still in place. It was. Every poster. Every book. The worn beanbag. The forest-green walls. He must be feeling relief.

Thirty minutes later, they were both showered and in fresh clothes. Lane wore her favorite barrel jeans and tank top, hair damp and curling at the ends. Harry came down in his West Ham hoodie and track shorts, glasses cleaned, penguin under his arm like a talisman.

“Pub?” she asked "I'm too knackered to cook."

He nodded.

The walk to the Rose and Crown was brisk, the July air cooler than expected. Familiar shops lined the way—closed now, lights off, shutters drawn—and the quiet hum of traffic in the distance underscored their steps.

They entered the pub without fanfare. The interior smelled of old wood and vinegar, with soft music playing over the speakers and a rugby match murmuring from the small telly in the corner.

Their usual booth was open. They slipped in. A waitress appeared, recognizing them with a smile. Lane ordered a corned beef sandwich and a pint (maybe two, she thought, if she needed it). Harry asked for the fish and chips, and ginger ale with extra ice.

Then came the comfortable, decompressing silence. Lane stirred the ice in her glass. Harry picked at his chips.

The food came hot and fragrant. They ate slowly, quietly. The tartar sauce was too strong, and the fries too hot to eat at first, but neither of them seemed to taste much.

Lane watched Harry from across the table. His shoulders were still too tight for a kid who’d just turned eleven. She wanted to say something—anything—but the pub felt like a fragile place. A place where magic did not belong.

So she let the silence sit between them, like a third companion.

They got Harry a slice of two-tiered red velvet cake, which he absolutely devoured as their Golders Green community sang him happy birthday with surprising enthusiasm. Lane hadn’t expected it—hadn’t planned on it—but when the waitress brought the cake out with a candle already lit and a few of the nearby patrons joined in without hesitation, she couldn’t help but smile. Harry, red-faced and a little shy, grinned through every note and took a big bite the second the song ended. The grin stayed as he polished off the whole plate. They really had made themselves a home here.

When the last crumbs were gone and the candle safely extinguished, Lane asked, “Ready to head home?”

Harry nodded, eyes a little tired. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

They stepped out into the London night and turned toward home, street lamps flickering above them like soft stars.

Back at the house, they peeled off their shoes in tired silence. Lane flicked on the living room light and glanced at the small pile of mail on the table—mostly junk, thankfully nothing with any more green ink.

Harry trudged up the stairs. "I’ll get ready for bed," he mumbled.

"Alright, bug. I’ll be up in a few," Lane called after him, and headed to the kitchen to pour herself a glass of water.

The weight of the day finally began to settle once she was alone. She brought the glass upstairs to her room and placed it on her nightstand, moving with sluggish, automatic motion.  She changed into her softest pajama pants and an old Vanderbilt tee, washed her face, brushed her hair. Then she sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the notebook on her desk.

With a sigh, she opened it.

She flipped past pages of meal plans and vacation notes and found a fresh sheet.

Questions for Dumbledore:**

1. Where exactly is Hogwarts?
2. How much does it cost?
3. Is there day-school lodging?
4. Can I move nearby?
5. Who is Lord Voldemort?
6. Why did he want to kill Harry?
7. How did Harry survive?
8. What protections were supposedly on the Dursleys' home?
9. Why didn’t Dumbledore check in earlier?
10. Why does no one remember Harry? Was it a specific spell? Or blanket thing?
11. What kind of magic is taught?
12. What classes will Harry take?
13. Can Harry choose not to go?
14. Will someone try to remove him from my custody?
15. What exactly are the limits of my magic immunity?
16. Is it permanent?
17. Is it dangerous to magical people? Am I a threat?
18. Could it ever wear off?
19. Are there others like me?
20. Why am I immune in the first place?

She stared at the list for a long time.

She didn’t know whether she felt better or worse after writing it down. There was clarity, yes—but also the realization of just how much she didn’t know.

She capped her pen. Closed the notebook. Stared out her window.

She knew she should sleep, but her heart wouldn’t let her. Not yet. Not after everything that had happened this week.

She got up, padded softly to the hallway, and tiptoed to his door.

It was slightly ajar. Inside, Harry was still awake, staring at the ceiling.

He turned his head as she stepped in. "What are you doing?"

Lane crossed to his bed and crouched beside it. "I know we’re home. I know you’re safe now. But... I’m still nervous. I don’t want to be far from you tonight. Would it be okay if I stayed?"

Harry’s eyes widened just slightly, then softened with visible relief. "Yes. Please. I’d really like that."

She gave him a small smile, stood, and walked to his closet. From the back, she pulled out a rolled blue sleeping bag—the one they’d bought for that Forest of Dean trip they took last fall break.

She unfurled it on the floor between Harry’s bed and the door, set a spare pillow inside, and lay down.

The room was dim, lit only by the soft streetlamp glow leaking through the blinds.

A few minutes passed.

Then Harry whispered, "Lane? Did you mean it? About adopting me?"

Lane sat up immediately. "Of course I meant it. I’m going to call social services first thing in the morning. No more delays. No more red tape."

He was quiet, and then: "I don’t want to go to that school without you. Not now. Not when you’re finally my mum."

Lane’s throat tightened. She scooted the sleeping bag back so she could rest the back of her head on the edge of the mattress to look up at Harry. "I don’t want you to go either. We’ll see what Dumbledore has to say tomorrow. But just know—whatever happens—I’ve got your back."

Harry nodded against his pillow. "Okay."

A pause.

"I love you."

Lane smiled into the dark. "I love you too, Harry. So much."

And finally, finally, they both went to sleep.

Chapter Text

**Thursday, August 1, 1991 — Golders Green, London**

Lane woke slowly to the sound of soft breathing. She blinked at the pale light filtering through the curtains in Harry's room, her eyes adjusting to the unfamiliar mix of slanting forest green walls and scattered West Ham posters - she wasn't used to waking up in Harry's room on the top floor. The soft rustle of leaves outside and the distant murmur of the morning trains gave the room a gentle stillness - no wonder he loved it so. She stretched gently, feeling the stiffness of the sleeping bag beneath her and the plush carpet underneath that. Just above her, Harry was curled on his side in his bed, face half-hidden in the pillow, hair doing its usual early-morning imitation of a bird's nest.

It was peaceful.

For one blessed moment, Lane forgot about wands and letters and secrets. She let herself simply be—an woman waking up in a warm house with a child she loved, safe and close. A rare thing.

She watched Harry for a second longer before slipping out of the sleeping bag on the floor and padding softly out of the room. The floorboards creaked lightly under her bare feet. Downstairs, the house was still and dim, the early morning hush making it feel like the world hadn’t quite woken yet. Lane filled two mugs with hot water from the kettle, and carried them upstairs along with her battered paperback of Jane Eyre.

She tucked herself back into the sleeping bag, carefully placing the mugs on Harry’s side table, and opened her book. For the next forty-five minutes, she read slowly, sipping the warm tea and listening to the steady rhythm of Harry’s breathing. As the minutes passed, the light shifted slightly through the window, turning the walls golden.

Eventually, Harry stirred, blinking groggily and rolling onto his back. Lane marked her place with an old receipt and looked over.

"Morning, bug," she said softly. "Did you sleep okay?"

He nodded, still blinking. "Yeah. I think so."

She reached out and brushed a bit of hair off his forehead. "Good. Ready to get up for the day?"

"Yeah," he said with a small stretch, and began to untangle himself from the sheets.

Lane stood and reached for one of the mugs. "Come on, let’s go shake the cobwebs off and get ready for the day."

He followed her without protest, padding behind her as they headed into her bathroom downstairs, where the morning routine would officially begin. He didn't normally accompany her like this—most mornings, he'd get ready on his own then wander down a few minutes later, drawn by the smell of tea or toast. But today was different.

They didn’t talk much. Lane splashed cool water on her face while Harry brushed his teeth beside her. Their reflection in the mirror showed two sleepy faces and an unspoken understanding: neither wanted to be apart, not today. Not with Dumbledore and McGonagall coming later. Not with everything feeling so fragile and poised to shift again. Lane towel-dried her face, squinting at her hair in the mirror before deciding it wasn't worth taming. Harry stood on tiptoe to rinse his mouth and caught her eye in the glass. She smiled. He grinned, toothpaste still at the corners of his lips.

Once dressed—Lane in high-waisted jeans and a loose tee, Harry in his favorite orange hoodie and cargo shorts—they migrated to the kitchen like magnets. Lane began pulling ingredients for lemon ricotta pancakes without even needing to ask. It was their tradition—when the world felt too big, they made pancakes. Pancakes with a touch of lemon zest and extra ricotta for fluffiness felt right to celebrate Harry's second day as an 11-year old. Comfort food at its finest.

As she measured flour and cracked eggs, she asked, "What do you feel like doing today? Before Dumbledore stops by?"

Harry, setting out plates and forks with precise care, said, "Maybe a walk in the Heath? And we could kick the ball around? I wanna try that new trick Ollie showed me."

Lane nodded, whisking the batter. "Perfect. Then we can stop by the grocery store, pick up things for dinner. Dumbledore said they'd stop by after dinner - I'd assume around seven."

Harry nodded too, then added, "Can we make that veggie dish with pasta? The one in a circle."

Lane paused, then let out a soft laugh. "Ratatouille?"

He shrugged. "Yeah, but I just like helping cut the veggies. It’s fun."

"Of course you do," she said fondly, flipping a pancake. "Fine. Ratatouille it is. But you’re on veggie duty. All of it. I’m not cutting eight different colors of zucchini today."

"Deal," he said seriously.

After breakfast, and once the dishes were rinsed and stacked, Lane wiped her hands and pulled out the phone from its charger. She stood by the window for better reception and dialed Evelyn at social services. Harry and Lane had promised each other the adoption process would start today—had even pinky-sworn on it last night in the car—and Lane was determined not to let him down. She had waited months to be eligible, and then had waited even longer to ask Harry, but now there was no more room for hesitation. Harry had chosen her, again and again. And today, she would choose him, in the most official way she could.

Evelyn picked up on the third ring, and after a quick exchange of niceties, and assuring Evelyn all was well with Henry (the name she had fostered Harry under), she said,"I want to start the formal adoption process," she said, voice clear and firm. "For Henry."

Evelyn was delighted. Lane put her on speaker, and Harry leaned close, his eyes wide.

"Please!" he said with a hopeful grin, his voice stronger than Lane expected. "I really want this," he added, glancing up at the speaker phone like Evelyn could see him. "I want to stay. With Lane. I don’t want to go anywhere else ever again." There was a beat of silence, and then Evelyn spoke, her tone warm and touched. "Well, that just melted my heart. I'm so glad you're on the same page, Henry. Let's make this official. I think we can have all the paperwork done and approved before the month is out, and we can formally make Henry Black yours."

Lane's stomach twisted with guilt, as always. The lie weighed heavy, but it was necessary. She rested her hand briefly on the back of Harry’s neck, grounding herself.

Harry glanced at her, his conspiratorial smile softening her heart.

They ended the call with a plan in place, but honestly after the events of yesterday, the whole thing felt far less climactic than she thought it would. Lane scribbled a few notes in the kitchen notepad of the next steps Evelyn had listed, while Harry poured himself more juice. For a moment, she considered asking Dumbledore to remove the spell that made Harry’s identity vanish from records, so she could adopt him as Harry Potter, but after a glance at Harry, decided it was probably too soon.

They got properly dressed for the day and fed the cats—Kat and Teto weaving underfoot as though they’d never been gone. Teto immediately tried to climb onto the counter while Kat demanded affection by headbutting Lane’s leg repeatedly. Then, they walked down to Caitlin's and paid her for the week, explaining they had returned early. Caitlin was surprised but cheerful, thankful for two weeks pay after only a few days of work.

They took the long way to Hampstead Heath, winding past the bakery and down the shaded footpath. The late summer air was warm and dappled through the trees, heavy with the scent of grass and faint traces of honeysuckle.

"I made a list of questions for Dumbledore," Lane said as they turned the corner past the rose garden, once they were far enough away from the morning crowds. "Do you have any?"

Harry nodded, kicking a small stone. "Yeah. I want to know where Hogwarts is. Like, exactly. And how many students are there."

"Good ones," Lane said, jotting mental notes in her head.

"Also," he continued, "what we actually learn. And... how we know I can do it. Like, the kind of magic Dumbledore and McGonagall can do." He scuffed his shoe against the dirt path. "I know what the letter said, and what Dumbledore said, but it just doesn’t feel real yet. I don't have a ton of memories of anything weird like that happening to me before living with you, and afterwards it's all been so normal. I guess I just want to make sure I can actually do any of it. "

Lane chuckled, understanding. "Anything else?"

"Can we ask for a picture of my parents?" he said quietly.

Her heart caught. "Of course. We’ll ask."

The rest of the walk was filled with light conversation and soft laughter. They kicked the football around for nearly an hour, taking turns pretending to be goalies. Harry was fast, darting between the trees like he had wings on his feet, while Lane—after one overly ambitious slide—declared herself benched with great theatrical flair.

At one, they walked to the grocery and grabbed all the ingredients for dinner. Harry pushed the cart, Lane directed traffic. Zucchini, eggplant, peppers, tomatoes, onions, garlic, basil. Pasta. A good baguette. Some fizzy water. They picked deli sandwiches to eat for lunch and two cold lemonades, plus a brownie to share.

Back at home, they stored the groceries and brought their sandwiches to the back patio off Lane's office. The cats basked in the sun nearby, tails flicking lazily. A light breeze ruffled the edges of their napkins. They ate slowly, savoring the rare quiet.

After lunch, they played Crazy 8s in the living room. Lane won two games, Harry won three. He gloated, dramatically.

"Alright," she said eventually, stretching and cracking her neck, "go clean your room. I’ll do the living room. Then we’ll start dinner."

"Can I do the pasta and the veggies?"

Lane smiled. "Obviously. That’s your thing."

By five-, the kitchen was full of steam and laughter. Harry was poking at the pasta with a wooden spoon, trying to guess how much longer it needed to boil.

"Another minute," he said decisively.

Lane glanced over, remembering doing the same thing when she was small, standing in her parent's kitchen, leaning over a big silver pot and pretending she was on a cooking show.

The table was set with their best dishes—mismatched, but cheerful. The salad was chopped and dressed with lemon and dill. The ratatouille glistened in its oval dish, the layers of vegetables spiraled like a work of art.

At six on the dot, the doorbell rang.

Lane wiped her hands and glanced at Harry. She was surprised—the doorbell had come sooner than she expected. She thought they'd have time to eat together, to maybe sit on the back patio and watch the sun go down while sipping their fizzy water. She had hoped for that soft buffer between the peace of the day and the strangeness of what came next. But apparently, Dumbledore kept his own wizarding time.

Harry paused, hands still red from slicing tomatoes.

Lane said she'd get the door, wiped her apron on the dish towel, and set it aside on the counter. "Set two more places, please," she told Harry, her voice suddenly full of nerves again. Then she turned and walked down the hallway, her bare feet quiet on the hardwood. She paused briefly at the mirror near the foyer to check her hair, then took one final breath and opened the front door, bracing herself for whatever might come next.

Outside stood Dumbledore and McGonagall. Dumbledore wore a faded corduroy suit with a crimson shirt and matching tie—dated, but surprisingly ordinary compared to his purple outfit yesterday. His shoes were brown leather, scuffed at the toe. McGonagall's pantsuit was charcoal gray with sharp padded shoulders, her blouse buttoned to the top, and a brooch shaped like a thistle pinned to the lapel. Prim and severe, though far more modern than the robe she had last seen her in as well.

"Hope we aren't intruding too soon," Dumbledore said with a twinkle.

She hesitated. "You're earlier than we thought you'd be," she added, glancing back toward the kitchen. "We haven’t eaten yet—I hope that’s alright."

Dumbledore offered a warm smile. "We’d love to join you, if the invitation is open."

Lane had the sudden, unmistakable feeling that they had planned it this way. Typical, she thought, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. But she was also secretly glad she’d made enough. She'd known somehow—maybe instinct, maybe experience with her own meddling and hungry professors in college—that this was always going to happen.

Harry peeked over the kitchen counter from the end of the hall, eyes wide, his breath catching.

"Well, then—come in," she said, stepping aside and gesturing toward the hallway. "We’ve set two extra places. Just in case."

---

Dumbledore and McGonagall stepped in, shrugging off their jackets.  McGonagall hung hers neatly on the hook by the door, while Dumbledore folded his over his arm and followed Lane into the dining room.

Both paused just past the threshold, glancing around with polite curiosity.

"What a lovely home," McGonagall said, her voice warm but professional, her sharp eyes scanning the space.

"Indeed," Dumbledore added with a nod. "It has such... character. And light."

To Lane’s surprise, it was Harry who answered first. "Thanks," he said, moving past them to adjust the silverware at the newly set places. "It’s my favorite place in the whole world."

Lane couldn’t stop a grin. The cheeky kid was already making it clear he had no intention of leaving.

Dumbledore must have sensed it too, because he glanced at Harry and said gently, "And I don’t blame you one bit."

McGonagall’s attention was momentarily stolen by a pair of feline shadows that slinked into the room.

"Are those your cats?" she asked, her tone suddenly brighter.

"Teto and Kat," Lane said.

"Ah," McGonagall said, crouching slightly. "I’m rather partial to cats myself."

She didn’t elaborate, but her smirk suggested there was more to that story. Lane immediately decided she liked her more. Anyone who liked cats was a friend.

Dinner was served shortly after. Lane brought out the ratatouille, the ziti pasta, and a bowl of salad. The vegetables glistened under a bit of olive oil, the table bursting with color and warmth.

From the counter, Lane retrieved a bottle of French wine her friend Daniel had insisted she save for a special occasion.

"Seems appropriate," she said aloud, more to herself than anyone.

She poured herself a glass, then looked at Harry.

"Can I try some?" he asked.

She hesitated for just a moment before pouring him a mouthful into his glass. "Just a taste," she said. "Better to try now," she said looking over at Dumbledore, "like my parents did for me."

Neither Dumbledore nor McGonagall commented, which surprised Lane a little but reassured her more.

They sat, the four of them, the clink of silverware and the occasional meow the only sounds for a few moments. Dumbledore took a bite of the ratatouille, chewed thoughtfully, and then beamed.

"This is absolutely delicious," he said, setting down his fork with a gentle clink. "Truly. I haven't had a meal this comforting in ages."

Lane blinked, startled by the genuine delight in his voice. "Oh—thank you. That means a lot."

She hadn’t expected compliments, not tonight. But something about the way he said it—without pretense or politeness—made her unexpectedly happy.

Lane was just about to open her mouth to steer the conversation toward what she feared most—how she could possibly stay with Harry—when Dumbledore cleared his throat.

"Lane, Harry," he began, "Professor McGonagall and I have been discussing things... and we believe we may have found a solution."

They froze.

Lane set down her glass carefully. "What kind of solution?"

Dumbledore steepled his fingers. "Harry must come to Hogwarts. It is, quite simply, the law. He needs to be educated in magic."

He continued before she could interrupt. "There is no such thing as day boarding. And unfortunately, you cannot live nearby—the surrounding communities are entirely wizarding villages. On top of this, it was his parent's dearest wish for him to attend the same school they did."

Lane narrowed her eyes at his fragrantly manipulative inclusion of Harry's parents. "Right," she said. "So then what’s your solution?"

She felt slightly off-kilter. Dumbledore had already answered several of the questions she had written in her notebook earlier that day—questions she hadn’t yet had the chance to ask aloud. It was as if he’d read her mind, or maybe, more unnervingly, read the actual list. Maybe that wasn’t such a crazy thought after all. He was a wizard, wasn’t he?

He glanced at McGonagall, who straightened. "We are in need of a Muggle Studies professor."

Lane blinked. "A what now?"

Harry leaned forward, curious. "What’s Muggle Studies?"

McGonagall replied, "Non-magical people are called Muggles. At Hogwarts, we have a class that teaches students about Muggle culture, so they can understand and navigate the non-magical world, particularly if they work in the Ministry of Magic."

"Ministry of Magic?" Lane asked, cutting in.

"Our government," McGonagall explained. "Like your Parliament."

Lane nodded slowly. "Alright, that makes some sense. But how can I be a professor at a Wizarding school if I’m not magical myself? I mean, obviously I know a lot about Muggle culture—but is that even allowed?"

Dumbledore’s expression shifted, the twinkle gone from his eyes. "No. It isn’t. Not under usual circumstances."

Lane tilted her head. "Then how exactly..."

"The situation being what it is," Dumbledore said, "you are a Muggle who knows about magic—and there is nothing we can do about that. You do not want to be separated from Harry, and he does not want to be separated from you."

He turned to Harry. "And I have failed you once before, Harry. With the Dursleys. For that, I am deeply sorry. I will not risk failing you again."

He looked back at Lane. "Under normal conditions, that still wouldn’t be enough. But you, Ms. Black... you are immune to magic. And that changes everything."

Lane’s brows knit together. "How, exactly?"

"We have never encountered someone like you," Dumbledore said. "I even did research all day yesterday and again this morning in the Hogwarts library—one of the most extensive magical archives in the world—and still, I found nothing. Not a single documented case of immunity like yours. Not in wizardkind, not among magical creatures, not even among theoretical and unproven magical anomalies. There are legends, of course, but no verifiable records. That, Ms. Black, makes you very rare indeed. Your immunity means you cannot be hexed, cursed, or charmed, although we do not know how you would react to dark magic, which I absolutely do not want to test, potions, or living in a magical environment. Barring a few tests I’d like to run to ensure your immunity is comprehensive, and to make sure you can exist within a magical space like Hogwarts, you might be able to exist as a fake wizard, who chooses not to use magic, right under the noses of everyone in our school."

Lane nodded, although she wasn’t 100% sure she was following. Her mind spun with questions. Still, she pressed forward. "If there’s no record anywhere... do you have any guesses then? Why I am the way I am?"

Dumbledore gave a small nod. "My only hypothesis is that it might be something in your blood."

Lane immediately thought of Harry’s theory yesterdat—his innocent musing about whether she might have something unusual in her lineage—and again, she felt a surge of quiet pride. Her kid had gotten there first. She gave Harry a subtle, sideways glance to see him already grinning with pride.

"And if that’s the case," Dumbledore continued, "you may actually even be part creature."

"Excuse me?" Lane said, pride switching immediately to affront. "Part what?"

McGonagall leaned in. "It’s not as strange as it sounds. You could be part Veela, or part goblin, or even merfolk."

Harry blinked. "What’s a Veela?"

McGonagall smiled faintly. "A beautiful woman who can turn into a bird."

Lane stared. Dumbfounded.

"That might be possible," Harry said suddenly.

Lane turned to him, startled.

He blushed. "You’re really pretty."

Lane laughed in spite of herself, reaching out to ruffle his hair.

Dumbledore cleared his throat gently. "Regardless of what creature or family you may descend from, and that is only a guess in and of itself, but if it's true, just having the blood of a magical creature or magical family would qualify you to work at Hogwarts."

"Alright," Lane said slowly, "but how do we explain it? Won’t people notice I’m not using magic?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "We don’t want anyone to know about your immunity. It is... unheard of in our world. If word got out, the Ministry would likely summon you to the Department of Mysteries."

Lane’s face went pale. "That sounds like Area 51."

Dumbledore tilted his head. "I’m afraid I’m not familiar with that."

Lane blinked. "It’s... well, it’s a top-secret military base in America. People think the government hides aliens and other strange things there. There are conspiracy theories about experiments and cover-ups. It's kind of the go-to nightmare scenario for being locked away and studied."

Dumbledore gave a thoughtful nod. "Ah. That does sound... very much like the Department of Mysteries."

Harry reached for her hand.

"You would be studied," Dumbledore continued. "Observed. Perhaps even detained. Which is why we must be careful."

McGonagall added, "We’ll tell the staff you are a method professor. That you believe in teaching Muggle Studies with full immersion—without magic."

Lane gave them both a look. "That’s it? That's your whole plan?"

Dumbledore nodded solemnly. "It’s a loophole. But it’s a protected one. And for now, it’s the best way forward."

Lane stared at her wine glass.

There were a lot of thoughts waffling around her mind at Dumbledore’s proposal, but the first and most important one was how exactly he thought he’d be able to hide her identity as both a Muggle and a person immune to magic.  It seemed like far too much to ask for. She lifted her head and asked him directly.

"How do you plan to hide what I am?"

Dumbledore nodded slowly, as though he'd been expecting the question. "Ah, now we come to the next crux of the plan," he said. "You can be a Muggle Studies professor, yes—but this will only work under two conditions. First, we will need to create a new identity for you.  Second... you must hide your guardianship of Harry."

Lane’s mind was still catching up with the first condition, already about to ask how they could go about creating a new identity—perhaps like they had with Harry, making him Henry Black—but her thoughts slammed to a halt at the second point.

"No!" she and Harry both shouted at once.

Dumbledore looked down, pained. "I understand. I truly do. And I apologize again for everything Harry endured with the Dursleys. I wish things could be different. But consider this—if a woman shows up at Hogwarts claiming guardianship of Harry Potter, adopted through Muggle channels, people will start asking questions. Not just out of curiosity, but suspicion."

His voice grew graver. "Some will doubt your reasons for not using magic. Others may suspect you of lying—or worse. If someone were to target you, or even cast a hex or jinx in jest, and it had no effect... your secret would unravel. You would become even more of a target."

Lane opened her mouth to protest, but McGonagall cut in.

"I know you have every reason not to trust Albus Dumbledore’s intentions," she said firmly, "and I will be honest—I myself am still furious about how Harry was treated."

Dumbledore flinched and looked away.

"But you must understand," McGonagall continued, "never in Hogwarts history has a family member—especially a parent or guardian—been allowed to teach their child. There are too few professors, and favoritism becomes a real concern. Even godparents are often discouraged."

Her expression softened. "But I will personally guarantee that you and Harry will get time together. I swear it. Please, Ms. Black. This is the best option we have."

Lane nodded slowly, heart heavy. "Alright."

Harry looked crushed. "Can you promise I’ll still get to see her? Whenever I want?"

Dumbledore placed a hand over his heart. "I promise."

An awkward silence stretched between them. Lane stared down at her wineglass, her mind racing with everything they’d just discussed. The idea of living at Hogwarts without being able to publicly claim Harry as hers felt unbearable, but she promised herself she’d find ways to see him. She would make it work. She had to.

She was just about to ask whether professors lived on school grounds or if any resided in nearby towns—hoping there might be some flexibility that would make sneaking time with Harry easier—when Harry broke the silence, still sullen.

"So... what are we going to tell people about Lane, then?"

"Ah," Dumbledore said, brightening just slightly, clearly relieved at the change of topic. "Yes. You will need an entirely new identity."

He looked back to Lane. "You being American will help. Wizarding Britain has been very insular since the war with Grindelwald."

Lane raised a brow. "The war with what?"

"Grindelwald," McGonagall interjected. "Think of it like our version of the First World War."

"Ah," Lane said, nodding. That made more sense.

McGonagall added, "I’ll help you get some history books when we go school shopping. To prepare you, so you won’t feel quite so culturally inept."

Lane was flooded with gratitude. "Thank you. Really."

Dumbledore continued. "That insularity means they’re unfamiliar with American bloodlines—frankly, most Americans are. The magical system in the U.S. was founded similarly to the Muggle one—by immigrants and people wanting to start afresh. That will help us avoid scrutiny into your background, and allow us to establish you as a pure-blood and avoid blood prejudice."

Lane nodded again and got up to carry the plates to the sink. She rinsed them slowly, mulling it all over, then grabbed another bottle of wine from the counter. As she opened it, however, a shiver crept down her spine at his last words.

"What do you mean by ‘blood prejudice’?"

Dumbledore looked sad. "You must understand, Ms. Black. Since the war with Grindelwald—and more recently, the war with Lord Voldemort—many in our world have clung to outdated ideals. Some believe magical ability is tied to bloodline. That so-called 'pure-bloods' are superior."

He continued, voice steady. "A pure-blood has all four grandparents born into wizarding families. Half-bloods have fewer. Muggleborns have none. But while magical power has no real correlation to blood status, many—especially those in power—still hold those prejudices."

"Ah," Lane said, gripping the wine bottle tighter. "So they’re racist."

She was surprised. She’d imagined a magical society might be more progressive, not less. But then again, even America hadn’t fully recovered from the Civil Rights Movement, and she’d seen firsthand how many of her friends still bore the brunt of simply looking different.

"Why does it matter that I’m portrayed as a pure-blood?" she asked. "What about the creature blood? Doesn’t that ruin the cover?"

"Not necessarily," Dumbledore said. "If all four grandparents had magic, the creature ancestry wouldn’t negate your status. Your being pure-blood would also help us to cinch your role as Muggle Studies Professor with the School Governors. Many of them come from old pure-blood families and still adhere to traditional views about bloodlines. Portraying you as a pure-blood will not only protect you from unwanted attention, but it will also help you secure the position at Hogwarts. I do not want that particular group of powerful individuals to have any reason to look too deeply into your past so early.  Your being pure-blood will also help hide your magical immunity."

This confused Lane, who had been following his logic up to that point. "Why would my pure-bloodedness help protect my magic immunity?"

It was McGonagall who answered, "Students aren’t supposed to hex professors. But that doesn’t mean pranks don’t happen. One poorly placed jinx and your immunity is exposed.  As a pure-blood, even if you aren't visibly using magic, you are less likely to be jinxed by our more...elitist students."

Lane nodded. "The right backstory," Dumbledore finished, "with a clear, respected bloodline and a plausible reason for your methods, will keep you safe."

Lane stood, trying to take it all in. She crossed the kitchen, pulled out a pint of ice cream, and scooped some into two bowls—she’d always been a stress eater. Harry’s eyes lit up when she handed him one.

"Am I a pure-blood?" he asked Dumbledore, between scoops.

Dumbledore smiled. "No. You're a half-blood. Your father came from a pureblood family—the Noble and Most Ancient House of Potter. Your mother was Muggleborn. She was brilliant too, Harry. Brighter than I ever was at her age. That alone should show you how little blood status means."

McGonagall ultimately declined the ice cream, but seemingly accepting that bit of knowledge about himself, Harry returned the topic to what it was before,"So, what are we telling people about Lane?"

Dumbledore his eyes back to her. "That’s something I was hoping to get your help with. I believe I have the majority of a plan sketched out, but need your help on a few final details. Do you know of any insular or remote communities in America? Something we could draw on to craft your lineage?"

Lane paused. "Well... the Amish live near where I grew up. In Ohio."

Dumbledore frowned thoughtfully. "I’m unfamiliar."

Lane explained. "They’re very religious. They live in close-knit communities, reject most modern technology, and follow strict interpretations of the Bible. Their lifestyle is really separated from the rest of American culture."

Dumbledore nodded slowly, then gently shook his head. "Fascinating people, but I fear that their religious convictions would make them unlikely candidates for magical ability. Their separation from modernity might serve a magical narrative, but their faith would most likely disqualify them."

He glanced meaningfully toward Lane’s sleek kitchen, where the microwave and electric kettle still hummed softly. "And, judging by your surroundings, I doubt you’re accustomed to living without your Muggle amenities."

Lane blushed, caught off guard, but nodded. "Fair enough. You’re not wrong."

"Pity," Dumbledore murmured. "Fascinating people. I’d like to visit one day."

"What about Orthodox Jews?" Lane asked hesitantly. "Like my grandmother."

Dumbledore smiled. "I'm actually quite familiar with the Jewish people. There are quite a few at Hogwarts."

Lane smiled back, warmed. But Dumbledore followed quickly, "Unfortunately, their bloodlines are too well documented. Being matrilineal, and with many families already at Hogwarts, it could raise suspicions."

Lane nodded. That made sense.

"What about Native Americans?" Harry offered. "She’s part Cherokee."

Lane blinked. "That’s true. My father's side, his mother. But only a quarter. And I don’t even look it."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled at that, and Lane could tell that the final piece of his plan had just slid into place with Harry's suggestion. "That’s alright. We could say you’re only half."

"Cherokee isn’t particularly insular though," Lane said, thinking fast. "They’re well-known."

"What about the Tlingit?" Harry offered.

Lane stared. "Why do you know that name?"

"I was reading about them yesterday," Harry said sheepishly. "They were in the book of First Nations you keep in your study. It says they live in Alaska. Really isolated, which is what you want."

Lane blinked again. The kid's voracious appetite for books never failed to surprise her. "But I don’t know their language or customs, Harry. That’s a big gap - plus I'd hate to claim citizenship to a Nation of Peoples I'm not actually related to."

Dumbledore, to her surprise, stepped in. "I understand your hesitancy, but actually, it's the perfect plan. I’m remotely familiar with the Tlingit, and so are some of the older population in Wizarding Britain. Their elders originally came to support the American muggle contingent during the First World War, inspired in part by the success of the Choctaw peoples who served as code talkers for the U.S. military.  But when they witnessed the devastation wrought by Grindelwald’s forces firsthand, they quickly shifted to defending magical Europe as well. They are known for powerful defensive magics—both mental and magical—and their assistance in that war became the stuff of legend in certain ritual magical circles."

Lane narrowed her eyes. "Isn’t a legendary magical nation like that going to attract attention? I thought you wanted to avoid that."

"Yes," Dumbledore said. "But it also gives a plausible explanation for your immunity. We can claim it’s from their defensive training, if anything sneaks through. That would explain why you can’t be cursed—and why you never use a wand when they themselves don't often either." He paused for a scoop of strawberry ice cream, then continued, "and being from a remote Nation on the outskirts of an already remote state, would help prevent people from tracking down your lineage even further."

"In fact," said Dumbledore, his voice softening with something close to fondness, "I had a brief acquaintance with a Tlingit wizard from the Sea Lion tribe in Ketchikan, Alaska, which is one of the larger concentrations. If he is still alive, I may be able to reach out to him and see if he can help boost our story—perhaps even pretend to be your grandfather or great-grandfather, if necessary. He was a good man, a fierce protector during one of our battles against Grindelwald’s forces, and became a friend, although we have lost touch over the years."

Lane rubbed her temple. "Okay, please. Step back, lay the whole thing out." Her voice was firmer than she expected, but inside, she felt like she was grasping at threads. He clearly had this worked out already—each piece of information dropped like a breadcrumb in a trail she hadn't been invited to follow until now. It was hard to keep up, and that made her feel a little slow, which was frustrating. She was supposed to be smart-a strategist. But trying to keep pace with the full scale of Dumbledore’s plan, revealed bit by bit instead of all at once, made her head spin. She needed clarity. She needed the whole picture, and she needed it now.

Dumbledore gave her a small, sheepish smile. "I’ve been thinking it through without pause since yesterday. The term starts in a month, and we needed to act quickly - the Tlingit was the last piece of the plan I needed, which would depend on what we could claim from your ethnic roots as they stand."

He continued. "Your backstory will be as follows: your mother was a Black—from the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black here in England. That family is old, proud, and well-known for abandoning records of illegitimate daughters. Your father was Tlingit. Maybe they met while she was traveling through Alaska - it's alright if you yourself don't even know. You were born and raised among his people, but because Tlingit culture is matrilineal, like many others, you weren’t fully accepted and took your mother's name as Black."

"Your mother died when you were very young. You inherited her pale skin and curly hair—plausible for a Black as their magical genetics were very strong. Your father raised you in defensive and mental magics. When he passed, you left the community, pursued university studies, and eventually connected with me, whom your father once knew. I brought you here to teach in place of Charity Burbage, who is on maternity leave."

He sighed. "The only trouble is your eyes. Green isn’t common for the Blacks or the Tlingit. But as we are unable to change your eye color with magic—we’ll simply say it came from your maternal grandmother."

Lane leaned back in her chair, utterly stunned.

"I'll reach out to my friend from the war," Dumbledore added, his tone thoughtful. "See if I can grease the wheels there. If he's willing, he might even be able to vouch for you—perhaps pose as your father, if needed. That would give us more credence with anyone who might dig too deeply. And as for the Black lineage, we don’t need to worry about upholding that story too heavily—no one will question it. That family has too many bastards and too few records."

He paused, then gave her a long look. "Of course, you will not advertise your skills in defensive magics. But should someone attempt to cast spells on you or read your mind, we now have grounds for a plausible backstory."

He sat back, hands steepled as he gazed over his half-moon spectacles at her. "What do you think, Ms. Black?"

She reached for her wine.  Well, in for a penny, in for a pound.

"Alright," she said. "Let’s say we try it. Then what happens next?"

Chapter Text

**Saturday, August 2, 1991 - Golders Green, London**

If someone had told Harry a week ago that a giant would break into their holiday barn, that magic was real, and that a wizard would be sitting at their kitchen table by week's end proposing they fake Lane's identity so she could become a non-magical, magical professor who teaches non-magic at a magical school—he would have laughed in their face.

But that had all happened. And now it was Saturday morning. Again. A full week since the first letter had arrived.

Harry sat in his bedroom, legs curled beneath him on the window seat. The room still smelled faintly of leftover ratatouille and the fabric softener Lane used. It was familiar. Safe. But his stomach still twisted.

He thought back to Thursday night. Dumbledore and McGonagall had stayed for dinner. They had mapped out the plan: Lane would become a professor of Muggle Studies, claiming to be a pureblood witch from a remote Tlingit bloodline. They would pretend she was unrelated to Harry, that she didn't even know him. She would live at Hogwarts. He would attend as a student. They would, technically, be strangers.

And they'd agreed to it.

Harry still wasn’t sure how.

Now, they were leaving in just a few hours to buy supplies.

The night after that dinner had been strange. After the professors had left, Harry and Lane had cleaned the table in near silence, each lost in their own swirling thoughts. Lane had started washing the dishes, and Harry dried them without a word. By the time the last plate was put away, he had slumped on the sofa and turned on the TV, hoping the background noise would distract his brain.

It didn't.

They had sat like that for a long time. Just the two of them. Kat on the back of the couch. Teto curled on the rug.

Finally, Lane had broken the silence. She laughed. Just once.

"Well," she said, shaking her head, "that was absolutely not what I expected."

Harry had looked over at her, startled, then grinned weakly. "Could our lives get any weirder?"

Lane smiled, eyes tired. "You tell me. You're the one who might be a wizard."

He snorted. "I still don’t even trust that it’s real. I mean, sure, Dumbledore did magic, and McGonagall changed a chair into a cat, but... it still feels fake."

She looked at him, serious now. "But we’re sitting here anyway, talking about whether to go with Dumbledore's plan."

"Yeah," Harry had said. "Which is even weirder."

Lane nodded slowly. "What do you want to do?"

He had blinked. "I don't know. I feel bad. You didn’t sign up for this."

Lane had looked at him carefully. "I did sign up for you. That’s all that matters."

Harry hadn't known what to say to that, so he stayed quiet.

Lane had gone on. "I think we need to think it through. I don’t see a better plan. And I’ll admit I don’t know enough about the wizarding world to poke holes in Dumbledore’s offer. But my main concern is that he kept saying if I was your guardian, I’d be targeted."

Harry started at that. "You think he means I’ll be targeted?"

"I think he means someone tried to kill you once, and they might try again."

That had been sobering. Harry had nodded. "I guess... if that Lord Voldemort tried once, it's not surprising." He'd paused. "But I don’t feel afraid of it. It feels so... distant. Like, it happened to someone else."

Lane had frowned. "Harry, I know you can't talk about this with your therapist—not the magic parts anyway—but you've talked before about how your sense of danger is a little... warped. Just keep that in mind, okay?"

He had nodded sheepishly. "I know. But I’ll let you know if I start feeling actually afraid."

"Thank you."

Then she'd shifted. "My second concern is this blood supremacy thing."

Harry had tilted his head.

"Dumbledore said you’ll be fine as a half-blood, but the idea of teaching at a school that allowed blood prejudice to flourish makes my stomach turn. My high school and college weren't perfect, but Hogwarts sounds... worse."

Harry had thought about Ollie, his friend from football camp. Ollie, whose family was from Turkey. He was smart and kind and better at football than Harry.

He'd said, "I hate it too. Ollie's my best friend, and he kicks my butt at football. That's proof enough blood doesn’t matter."

That had made Lane smile for real. She'd ruffled his hair. "Exactly."

Then she’d added, "My final concern is a bit more personal. It's about claiming my Tlingit heritage."

Harry had blinked. "But you're Cherokee, right? What's the problem?"

"I am - barely. But the Cherokee and Tlingit are very different. Different languages, geography, traditions. People lump all First Nations together, but that's wrong. I never even told many people about being Cherokee growing up. I’m only a quarter. My grandmother died before I was born, I don't look it, and none of us ever lived on or near a reservation. It always felt like I was pretending."

Harry had paused. "I get that. But you're already going to be pretending at Hogwarts. What's one more layer?"

She’d laughed again. "You have a good way of putting it in perspective, and you're not wrong. But I'm still worried - it doesn't sit well with me."

They'd gone to bed not long after that.

The next day, Friday, had been spent making the decision. Talking through the plan. Weighing the risks. In the end, they had both agreed: it was their best option. If Lane could stay close to Harry, if he could be safe, and if they could keep the truth buried deep enough to protect their real lives, then maybe it was worth it. Because who knew what they could do if someone tried to just take Harry instead. She couldn’t forget him, but they could make him forget her. To Harry, he’d rather do anything else.

Now it was Saturday again.

Harry stood and stretched, pulling on his jumper. Downstairs, Lane was already moving around, humming under her breath and clinking mugs in the kitchen. The smell of toast and honey wafted up the stairs.

In just a few hours, Professor McGonagall would arrive to take them to what her letter had referred to as Diagon Alley.

And he knew that after today, their lives would truly never be the same again.

---

At 10:00 sharp, the doorbell rang.

Professor McGonagall stood crisply on their doorstep, dressed in her usual dark tartan robes, her expression severe but not unfriendly. She looked Harry over first, nodding once at his neat jeans and blue t-shirt. Then she gave Lane a similar once-over, noting the pressed blouse and dark jeans she had chosen after much deliberation.

"Very presentable," she said. "But before we leave, we need to make a few... adjustments. We want to ensure no one connects Mr. Potter here with you, Ms. Black, while we’re in the alley."

Harry blinked. "You mean a disguise?"

"Yes," McGonagall replied. "May I?"

Harry nodded. A few wand flicks later, he still wore the same clothes, but his hair was now a light blond, cut short and wispy, his skin several shades lighter, and his eyes were a pale blue behind his round glasses. When Lane brought him to the hallway mirror, he stared, awed.

"Wicked," he muttered, grinning.

McGonagall turned to Lane. "Unfortunately, we cannot use magic to conceal you. However..." She produced a dark green set of robes, the kind she always wore. "These will help you blend in. Since you are about to enter the Magical world as a new professor, fresh from America, it makes sense for you to be dressed as such, unhidden in the Alley."

Lane raised an eyebrow but took the robes. "Guess it’s my turn to cosplay."

Harry watched as McGonagall helped Lane pull the robes on over her clothes, but when she tried to resize them with a spell while they were draped on Lane’s shoulders, nothing happened.

McGonagall frowned and stepped back. "Curious," she murmured. "Hold still."

She removed the robes and laid them flat on the couch, casting the resizing charm again. This time, the fabric rippled and cinched neatly down to a slimmer fit. When Lane picked them back up and pulled them on, they fit almost perfectly.

Harry blinked. "So... anything touching her might be immune to magic too?"

McGonagall pursed her lips, clearly filing that observation away. "Possibly. We will note that for future reference."

Harry turned to look at Lane in the mirror and felt his breath catch a little. She looked... really cool. She was only twenty-seven, still too young and beautiful to have such an old kid, but the dark robes gave her a stately, composed air—a little like how she looked when she wore her work suits. Grown-up. Capable. Powerful.

He remembered watching her get ready that morning: the careful way she diffused her curls, the light touch of makeup, the earrings and necklace she selected and changed twice. She had been nervous, he could tell, even if she didn’t say it aloud.

"You look beautiful, Mum," he said, quietly but clearly.

Lane paused, blinking.

Then her face softened. She knelt beside him and pulled him into a hug.

"Thank you, bug," she whispered, her voice warm and a little watery. It worked. The tension in her shoulders eased, just a little.

"Today’s cover is simple," McGonagall explained. "You, Ms. Black, are yourself—the upcoming Muggle Studies professor. Harry is a new Muggleborn student. It is common practice for me to accompany Muggleborn children to Diagon Alley, and sometimes the Muggle Studies professor joins as well, to help bridge the cultural gap. If anyone asks, we'll just say his parents were...hesitant about joining us in the magical world. It's certainly happened before."

"Do I need a fake name?" Harry asked.

Lane gave him a look, but McGonagall just nodded. "Yes, let’s choose something easy to remember."

"Ollie," Harry said without thinking. "After my friend."

"Ollie it is," McGonagall agreed.

Fifteen minutes later, Lane was stuffing her pockets with the large stack of cash she had withdrawn the day before. Pounds for the Tube, pounds for setting up a new bank account for their expenses as McGonagall had instructed, a few galleons she’d picked up from Dumbledore just in case they got separated, and some traveler’s checks for larger exchanges. She double-checked their IDs, keys, emergency contact sheet, and then patting herself down to make sure everything was secure, the three of them stepped out the door.

Lane locked up carefully, checking the knob twice, hands trembling. Harry bounced slightly on the balls of his feet, buzzing with anticipation.  For all the craziness that they had been through, today was the day he was supposed to get his school books, and his magic wand.  He could barely keep himself in check.

They took the Tube from Golders Green, switching lines once before emerging in central London. The late morning air was warm, the pavement already steaming slightly beneath the rising sun. McGonagall led the way, cutting through foot traffic with surprising precision for someone in robes that definitely looked out of place.

They stopped in front of an old pub sandwiched between a bookstore and a record shop. It was shabby, the sign faded and creaking slightly in the breeze.

"The Leaky Cauldron," McGonagall said. "Harry, can you see it?"

Harry squinted, then nodded slowly. "Yeah. Right there."

She turned to Lane. "And you?"

Lane glanced up, eyes scanning the row. "Clear as day."

McGonagall gave a small sigh of relief. "We weren’t sure how magically concealed buildings would appear to you. But if you can see it, that confirms a hypothesis. The concealment spells are layered over real, physical locations—and your immunity likely cancels out the spell, revealing what’s already there."

"So that means..."

"It means you’ll be able to enter Diagon Alley," McGonagall said. "And more importantly... you'll be able to see Hogwarts."

Lane swallowed hard, eyes still on the crooked little sign.

Then McGonagall stepped forward, pushed the pub door open, and ushered them inside.

The Leaky Cauldron was darker than Harry had expected. Dust motes floated in the slanted light coming through small, grimy windows. The floorboards creaked underfoot, and the scent of stale ale and soot clung to the air. It felt...dingy...like some of the dodgier pubs Harry and Lane often walked past throughout London.

It was their first true exposure to the magical world, and Harry found himself surprised by how... ordinary it seemed. Not grand or sparkling or enchanted— again just a bit dingy, honestly. Like any old pub, forgotten between two busy shops.

McGonagall didn’t pause for comments or introductions. She merely gave a courteous nod to the toothless man behind the bar. "Good morning, Tom."

"Professor," he replied absently, barely sparing them a glance as he polished a glass with a frayed towel.  No one paid them any attention.

Without missing a beat, she led them through the pub and out the back door into a small, brick-walled courtyard. It smelled faintly of trash and damp stone. A few dented bins sat huddled near one wall, and Harry wrinkled his nose.

"What happens now?" he asked quietly.

"This," McGonagall said, her voice suddenly brighter, "is my favorite part."

Harry shot a confused glance at Lane. They were standing in a back alley surrounded by trash - what could possibly be so exciting?

McGonagall ignored the look. She raised her wand and tapped a brick near the center of the wall—three up, two across. There was a low rumbling, then the bricks began to shift, sliding aside with mechanical precision to form an archway.

Beyond it, sunlight spilled through onto cobblestones, and what could only be Diagon Alley stretched out before them—twisting, bustling, full of movement and color.

Diagon Alley was... incredible.

Harry took a hesitant step forward, eyes wide and mouth slightly open as the archway widened before them. The air beyond the wall was brighter, humming with a sort of energy he could feel in his bones. The street beyond was alive in a way he couldn’t quite describe—colorful, chaotic, vibrant. Buildings leaned at odd angles and sported signs that twisted and shimmered in the sunlight. Shop windows glittered with displays of spellbooks, quills that wrote themselves, cauldrons that stirred unbidden, and racks of robes in every imaginable hue.

Witches and wizards bustled past in robes of every style, chattering animatedly, their voices mixing with the distant screeches of owls and the chiming of enchanted bells. A group of children rushed past them, each holding cones of ice cream that changed color with every lick. An elderly wizard argued with his walking stick, which kept trying to lead him in the opposite direction. Somewhere in the distance, fireworks exploded in a puff of violet smoke from the chimney of a vibrant shop.

It was, for lack of a better word, magical.

Harry glanced over at Lane, seeing her look equally amazed - like someone seeing the ocean for the first time. Her eyes were round, her mouth slightly open in awe. He smiled to himself—even in the cool green robes, she looked just like any other wide-eyed newcomer.

McGonagall turned toward her, voice clipped. "Remember, Ms. Black. You have seen magic before. You are not surprised."

Lane blinked rapidly, straightened, and nodded. "Of course. Sorry."

Harry watched as she rolled her shoulders back and transformed in front of him. Her wonder dimmed to a careful smile, her posture shifted to confident and curious. Impressive. He was glad hedidn’t have to fake it.

She looked down at him and winked. "Come on, Ollie. Let’s see the magic of Wizarding Britain."

They stepped into the alley, and Harry desperately wished he could reach for her hand.

As they walked, Harry tried to look everywhere at once. On their right was a bookstore—Flourish and Blotts—with floating displays of shimmering book covers, one of which was screaming at a passerby. Next to it stood an apothecary that smelled strongly of something damp and herbal. Giant glass jars in the windows held pickled roots, fangs, feathers, and what looked suspiciously like frog eyes.

"That shop sells potion ingredients," McGonagall said, gesturing toward the apothecary. "Every first-year needs to learn the basics. Don’t worry, Professor Snape has already detailed everything you need on your list."

They passed a wandmaker’s shop with a dark wooden sign that read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. Harry slowed, peering inside. Rows upon rows of narrow boxes stacked almost to the ceiling.

"That’s where we’ll go last," McGonagall said firmly. "Best to save it for the end."

Across the street, an enormous shop window displayed gleaming pewter cauldrons stacked in neat piles. A sign read: Cauldrons for Every Need: Self-Stirring, Collapsible, Travel-Safe!

Harry was so excited to be experiencing all this magic, but deep down, he really wished he could be doing it as himself—with Lane. One of their favorite things to do, ever since he came to stay with her, was to try something new and then sit together afterward dissecting it from every angle. They'd talk about what they liked and didn’t like, rank things, analyze every weird and wonderful detail. If they'd gone to a new movie or tried a new museum or food market, they'd always do the same thing: break it down, laugh, pick favorites.

And this—this was Diagon Alley. This was the weirdest, most wonderful, most exciting new thing either of them had ever seen. It would’ve been the perfect Harry-and-Lane moment. But instead, they were here pretending not to really know each other. Pretending she wasn’t his mum, and he wasn’t her kid. She had to pretend she wasn’t amazed, and he had to keep calling her "Professor" if anyone spoke to them.

He tried not to let it get him down. He really did. And mostly, it worked. They were still together, after all. Still a team, and everything was still magical. And of course once the pretending was over for the day, they could sit together on the couch and talk about everything like they always did.

He looked up at her, wondering if she felt it too—that ache to share it fully. Lane must have caught the look in his eyes, because she winked at him again.

It made everything feel a little better.

"We’ll pick up your cauldron just before your books, but first the bank," McGonagall continued, unnoticing of their little exchange, and turned toward a wide stone staircase leading up to a massive marble building at the far end of the street. Two miniature creatures stood at the entrance, dressed in fine uniforms, each eyeing passersby with sharp expressions.

The building loomed above the rest of the alley, gleaming white even in the patchy sun.

"Gringotts," McGonagall said. "The wizarding bank. Run by goblins. Not the friendliest crowd, but extremely competent. Come, let's go inside."

McGonagall paused just inside the grand, echoing atrium. Polished marble stretched out in every direction, shot through with veins of gold. Harry could barely take it all in.

"Dumbledore recommended we ask for a private room," McGonagall said in a low voice. "He had no idea how the goblins might react to either of your situations—Harry accessing his vault under a disguise, and Ms. Black setting up her own."

"His vault?" Lane asked, glancing sharply at her.

McGonagall hesitated, then nodded. "Yes. His parents left him one. It's intended to cover all of his school expenses and basic needs."

Harry blinked in surprise. That was the first he’d heard of it. Lane looked just as startled, her brows drawing together.

Harry opened his mouth, but McGonagall held up a hand. "Let’s wait until we’re in a private room."

He nodded. Lane didn’t say anything, but the concern on her face was obvious now. The first real crack in her composed mask since they entered the Alley.

McGonagall led them forward, and they joined the line of witches and wizards waiting at the counters. When it was their turn, she stepped up confidently to the goblin teller.

"Good morning. I’d like to request a private consultation room, per the arrangements recommended by Headmaster Dumbledore."

The goblin had an angular face, with pointed ears and long, bony fingers that clutched a slim golden pen. His skin was a leathery grayish-brown, and his sharp eyes peered out from behind a tiny pair of golden spectacles perched low on his nose. His expression was unreadable, but there was a distinct air of suspicion in the way he looked at them.

Harry thought he looked intense—like the kind of person who never missed anything. It made his shoulders tighten slightly.

The goblin raised a brow. "Purpose of consultation?"

"One vault inquiry, one new vault setup. Special circumstances."

"Very well," The goblin, Gornak, according to his name plate, said after a moment. "Follow me."

He led them down a side corridor, past doors with brass handles and nameplates in multiple languages. At the end of the hall, he opened a heavy door and gestured them inside.

The room was as polished and rich-looking as the lobby, with the same white marble veined in gold covering the floor and walls. Plush, deep chocolate-colored chairs sat in front of an elegant desk, and a glowing orb hovered gently in the air above it, casting warm golden light.

They sat. McGonagall folded her hands primly in her lap, Lane completely still and composed. Harry glanced between them, nerves rising.

A moment later, another goblin entered. His robes were darker than Gornak’s and more finely tailored. He carried a thick folio in one hand.

"Good morning," he said briskly. "I am Horthuk, senior accounts liaison. I understand you’ve requested privacy. Let us begin."

---

Horthuk moved efficiently, settling the folio on the desk before looking at them all in turn.

"I have received a letter from Headmaster Dumbledore regarding this matter," he said, steepling his fingers. "I suggest we begin with the easier of the two topics: Mr. Potter. Is this young man... him?"

McGonagall nodded once and raised her wand. With a smooth flick, the glamor spell on Harry faded away. His jet-black hair and green eyes reappeared in an instant.

Lane’s head snapped toward McGonagall, her eyes wide with silent questioning.

McGonagall read the look and said gently, "The goblins are entirely separate from wizarding governance. They are aware of many things kept private from the broader wizarding world. It is not a security risk for Mr. Potter to be identified here."

Lane nodded slowly, tension easing only a fraction. Harry noted that McGonagall hadn’t mentioned their relationship—just like she promised. He was grateful for that, even if he still felt a strange buzz of nerves about being unmasked.

Horthuk turned his gaze on McGonagall. "Does Mr. Potter possess the key to his vault?"

"He does not, but I have it on me," she said, and reached into her robes. She withdrew a small golden key and laid it gently on the polished surface of the desk.

Lane’s eyes locked on the key immediately. Harry could see the questions racing through her mind.

Horthuk examined it, nodded once. "Everything is in order. He may access the vault."

McGonagall gave a small smile. "In addition, we would like to formally request the addition of Ms. Lane Black to Mr. Potter’s vault access records."

Both Lane and Harry blinked.

"Really?" Harry asked, turning to McGonagall with wide eyes.

She gave him a small, reassuring nod. "Yes, Mr. Potter."

Lane didn’t say anything, but Harry could tell it wasn’t because she didn’t have anything to say. Her eyes were wide and focused on McGonagall, and her jaw was just a little too tight. She was trying to keep her cover, Harry realized. If she reacted too strongly, it might raise questions.

He glanced back at Horthuk, who was already flipping open the folio again. He didn’t look surprised. Harry wondered if Dumbledore had already mentioned this detail.

"What is the purpose of this addition?" the goblin asked.

"Mr. Potter requires a magical guardian during his time at Hogwarts," McGonagall said smoothly. "Professor Dumbledore wishes to assign that role to our new Muggle Studies professor, Ms. Black."

Lane stared at her. "Is that... is that the same as adoption?"

McGonagall smiled. "In practical terms, yes. Given your background, your new role as a Hogwarts Professor, and your...qualifications, you are the most appropriate candidate to assume magical guardianship."

She hesitated, then added more softly, "I also understand that Magical Britain’s customs and teaching systems are new to you as an American. In not mentioning this earlier, I fear I made a lapse in judgment. Please forgive me. I should have ensured you were comfortable with the decision."

Lane blinked at her, taken aback, but then nodded slowly. She took a breath, regaining her composure. "Of course. I’m happy to help a student—especially if Mr. Potter is alright with it."

Harry gulped and nodded quickly. "Yes," he said, voice tight. He tried not to cry.

Horthuk nodded. "It is not uncommon. Magical guardianship is often assumed by faculty when dealing with Muggleborn students—typically heads of house, or the Headmaster. This would not be seen as unusual."

Lane exhaled slowly and nodded.

Harry tried to breathe through the swirl of emotions in his chest. He didn’t understand all the implications yet, but one thing was clear: whatever happened next, Lane was still with him. And not just as Lane. Today, officially, she would become his mum—under his real name, Harry Potter. It was more than they had ever hoped for, dreamed for - they had been resigned that the most they could ever do was adopt Henry Black. It felt like the end of a very long race he hadn’t expected to run, but he was so happy he did. That mattered more than anything.

"Very well," Horthuk said, opening the folio. "Let us proceed."

The procedure was very simple. Horthuk already had the paperwork prepared, and all Lane and Harry had to do was sign. Lane accepted the quill with steady hands and scribbled her signature alongside Harry’s. Once the ink dried, she was issued a duplicate key to his vault and a sealed copy of his financial records.

"You should review them carefully," Horthuk said. "The withdrawal rules and permissions are clearly outlined."

Lane nodded. "Of course. I have no intention of withdrawing anything unless absolutely necessary."

The goblin gave her a short, sharp nod, apparently satisfied.

"That brings us to our next order of business—establishing a new vault for Ms. Lane Black."

McGonagall nodded. "Professor Black has brought Muggle currency that she converted prior to her relocation. She wishes to exchange it to open a basic account."

Harry felt a flicker of worry. On the Tube, he'd asked whether Lane would even be allowed to open a vault if she was a Muggle.

McGonagall had reassured him then—"It won’t be a problem. Muggles may open vaults at Gringotts. How else would Muggleborn parents manage funds for their children? It’s just... under more specific conditions."

That had made Harry feel a lot better, but he couldn't help still worrying now.

Horthuk turned his gaze on Lane. There was something almost amused in his eyes. "Very well. Ms. Black, please present your wand for security registry."

There was a half-second pause.

"We’d like to decline that level of security," McGonagall interjected, tone firm. "A traditional key will suffice for her purposes."

The goblin’s eyes narrowed slightly, unconvinced.

"I’ll need a moment alone with Ms. Black," he said suddenly, standing. "Professor McGonagall, Mr. Potter—please wait outside."

Harry's heart skipped. "Why? What’s going to happen?"

McGonagall stood as well, clearly unsettled. "Is this necessary?"

Horthuk’s voice went cool. "I assure you, your precious Muggle Studies professor will not be harmed."  At their unconvinced faces, he sneered even further, "On my honor," he bit out.

Harry looked at Lane. She was still seated, composed, but he could see the fear in her slightly widened eyes.

McGonagall hesitated, then gently touched Harry’s shoulder and guided him toward a smaller room just off the hallway. The door closed behind them with a quiet but definite click.

Harry strained to hear something—anything—but there was only silence.

---

It was a very tense thirty minutes.

Even McGonagall, who up until this point had seemed unflappable in every other situation, began to pace the length of the small waiting room. Her robes swished with every turn. Harry sat stiffly in one of the chairs, trying not to bounce his leg or wring his hands. He couldn’t act too worried. He wasn’t supposed to know Professor Black that well. But it was hard—really hard—not to let the anxiety show.

What were they talking about in there? Was Lane okay? Would the goblins discover her secret? Would they hurt her?

At almost exactly the thirty-minute mark, the door opened with a soft click. McGonagall and Harry rushed back into the room.

Lane was still seated, hands folded carefully in her lap. She looked unharmed—but Harry could tell something had rattled her. Her expression was distant, thoughtful, like she’d just heard something she hadn’t fully processed yet.

He desperately wanted to ask her what had happened, but with Horthuk standing just feet away, he didn’t dare.

The goblin stepped back behind the desk, perfectly composed. "Everything is in order," he announced. "We are currently processing Ms. Black’s converted Muggle currency. In the meantime, I will escort you down to Mr. Potter’s vault."

Harry looked at McGonagall. She seemed surprised and just the slightest bit wary—her eyes lingered on Lane, as if trying to read what hadn’t been said. But Harry, despite everything, felt a small wave of relief. Nothing seemed off. Maybe the goblins had just needed to ask her some personal security questions, something standard and harmless. That was probably all it was.

They left the office and returned to the grand lobby, following Horthuk behind the main desk toward a gated area. A small lift waited there—sleek and silent. Once inside, they descended rapidly, the golden-veined marble walls giving way to darker stone.

When the doors opened, Harry gasped. It looked like the start of a roller coaster ride. Tracks stretched ahead into winding black tunnels. A small, narrow trolley perched on the rails, its polished metal surface gleaming dimly in the torchlight.

"Please board," Horthuk said.

Harry climbed into the front seat. McGonagall followed, sitting beside him. Lane settled into the seat behind them, clutching her robes tightly.

"You’ll want to hold on," McGonagall advised.

And then they were off.

The cart shot forward with surprising speed, twisting and turning through the underground labyrinth. The tunnels were cold and damp, and gusts of air blasted past them as the trolley dipped and climbed. Harry let out a breathless laugh—he was definitely going to rank this as a favorite experience.

Eventually, the cart slowed and came to a halt in front of a tall, ornately engraved door.

"Vault 687," Horthuk announced.

McGonagall handed Harry the key, and he stepped forward with slightly shaking fingers to fit it into the lock.

With a satisfying click, the door swung open.

Gold. Stacks of it. Piles of coins glittering in neat towers. Harry stared, stunned.

"Wait," he whispered, turning to McGonagall, "is the money all in gold?"

"The large gold ones are Galleons," she explained briskly, "The silver ones are Sickles, and the small bronze ones are Knuts. There are seventeen Sickles to a Galleon, and twenty-nine Knuts to a Sickle."

Harry blinked. "That's... complicated."

McGonagall smiled. "It is definitely that compared to muggle pounds, but you'll get the hang of it quickly."

"Your father came from a very wealthy pure-blood family," she continued. "This vault was set aside for your school expenses and essentials. The rest of the family holdings, including art and heirlooms, are held in trust until you come of age."

Lane turned to Horthuk. "How much is customary for a first-year to withdraw for school supplies?"

Horthuk informed her that two-hundred galleons (roughly 10,000 pounds he explained to Harry), would more than do the trick and was safely accounted for in his yearly allowance, and McGonagall showed Harry how to count it out—how to separate the coins, how to stack them, and how to check their authenticity.

Lane asked quietly, "May I have a money pouch for him?"

Harry marveled again at how she thought of every detail. She sounded exactly like a witch who’d done this before.

Horthuk nodded and produced a small enchanted pouch. McGonagall took it and held it open while Harry loaded in the coins. When they were finished, Horthuk secured it for them.

They returned to the cart and climbed back in.

But instead of heading back the way they came, the cart continued deeper into the tunnels.

McGonagall frowned. "Why are we going farther down?"

Horthuk didn’t answer.

McGonagall looked at Lane, who responded quickly with an explanation. "The goblins only have vaults with security-question-only access left at the very bottom—locations that are typically less desirable due to their isolation and lack of magical protections."

McGonagall didn’t look convinced.

Several minutes later, the cart slowed in front of a smaller, unmarked vault door. The area was dark and desolate, carved into rough stone.

Horthuk gestured. "Ms. Black."

Lane hesitated, then stepped forward.

"Please place your finger on the registry point," he instructed, pointing to a small, sharp needle jutting out from the stone.

She took a breath and pressed her fingertip against it.

A thin stream of blood appeared, trickling down her hand. McGonagall gasped.

But the vault door clicked, and then slowly swung open.

Inside was a modest room with three smaller doors leading off the main chamber. A neat stack of Galleons sat in the middle—nowhere near the size of Harry’s fortune, but nothing to scoff at, and clearly comprised of her converted funds.

Lane turned to McGonagall. "How much should I take for my expenses?"

"About twice what Horthuk recommended for Harry," McGonagall replied. "As a professor, you'll need robes, even more books, and staff materials."

Lane nodded. "May I have a pouch as well?"

Horthuk pulled out a different pouch—this one covered in fine runes and stitched with golden thread. It was clearly not the same as Harry’s. He handed it silently to Lane.

To Harry’s immense surprise, Lane didn’t hand it off to McGonagall or ask for help. She began to load the coins herself deep into the expanded pouch.

Harry blinked, watching closely. He had thought she couldn’t touch magical objects—that magic wouldn’t work properly. But clearly, something else was going on here.

When she was finished, Horthuk nodded approvingly. "Ms. Black’s salary will be forwarded to this vault—number 207," he added, turning to McGonagall.

She nodded. "Understood."

Once finished, they climbed back into the cart and began their ascent to the surface.

At the lobby doors, Lane turned and gave the goblins a graceful half-bow. Harry immediately mimicked her.

McGonagall merely looked between them, deep in thought, and they stepped outside, back into the bright, busy world of Diagon Alley.

---

OK so I tried desperately to get this image exactly how I wanted it, but in the end loved this one too much to not go with it. IRL Lane's eyes are supposed to be green, and she's shorter than McGonagall at 5'3, but it was just too pretty! Hope y'all can forgive me and my image generator this time hehe

Chapter Text

**Harry POV, Saturday, August 2, 1991 — Diagon Alley (continued)**

Harry desperately wanted to ask Lane what the goblins had spoken to her about. He could tell McGonagall wanted to ask too, but there was no opportunity. The moment they stepped back into Diagon Alley, the noise, color, and movement surrounded them again, and with absolutely no privacy, they had no choice but to focus on the next task.

Their first stop was to acquire school trunks. The shop, just a few doors down from Gringotts, had walls lined with luggage of all shapes and sizes: leather cases that snapped open with a whistle, steamer trunks with brass fastenings, enchanted backpacks that shimmered as they shifted in size. A large sign in the window read: Enchanted Trunks for the Discerning Witch or Wizard.

Harry wandered the aisles with excitement, peering at cases that had tiny drawers inside, or ones with hidden compartments labeled for potions, robes, or quills. Some opened with voice commands, others responded to wand taps. Lane kept her hands behind her back the entire time, careful not to touch anything herself.

He finally chose two sturdy trunks—identical in appearance, sleek dark green with silver trim and retractable handles. The color surprised him, and apparently McGonagall too, who raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Harry had always gravitated toward reds and oranges—bright, energetic colors. But the green spoke to him in a way he couldn’t quite explain. Maybe it was because it felt calm and grounded. Or maybe, deep down, it was because it was Lane's favorite color, and he was desperate to get a smile out of her. McGonagall tested the expansion charm herself to ensure functionality. Lane nodded her approval.

As they turned to leave the shop, McGonagall casually pulled out her wand, tapped the trunk, and shrunk it down to a palm-sized box. She tucked it neatly into an inner pocket of her robes while Harry gaped.

"That’s so cool," he whispered.

Lane smiled beside him. "It’s definitely handy."

Next, they made their way to Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions. This, McGonagall explained, was where Harry would be fitted for his Hogwarts robes.

The front of the shop sparkled with floating bolts of fabric and mannequins that rotated in place wearing full Hogwarts uniforms. Harry stepped up on the fitting stool, and Madam Malkin herself began taking his measurements, aided by a younger assistant named Merrin. She floated a measuring tape with her wand and asked Harry to hold still.

Lane, meanwhile, stepped aside with Merrin and lowered her voice politely. "I’m his professor—and guardian," she added, gesturing toward Harry. "He’s Muggleborn and I'm recently arrived from America, unused to Hogwarts customs. I want to make sure he doesn’t stand out when not in uniform. What else should we get him to help him fit in?"

Merrin nodded understandingly. "It’s good of you to ask. For day-to-day wear, most students stick to robes, though some prefer trousers and jumpers underneath. I’d suggest at least three casual robes—something darker for general wear. And he’ll want a formal set as well, for feasts or special events."

"What about accessories?"

"A couple sets of gloves and a scarf for winter, and perhaps a hat. Hogwarts winters can be bitter."

Lane nodded thoughtfully and started selecting from the suggested items, letting Merrin package them with the uniform. She added a couple of bolts of fabric for day-to-day robes—dark green, burnt orange, rich brown, and soft charcoal—all colors she knew Harry gravitated toward. She then moved to the trousers, selecting a few pairs of wizarding slacks and a couple of special jumpers in deep navy and warm heather gray. Harry noticed she purposefully steered clear of the section labeled "spelled clothes," giving it only the barest glance before turning away.

She picked out a warm emerald green cap and a pair of black gloves, then paused at a rack of winter cloaks. After a moment's consideration, she chose a beautiful charcoal cloak lined with fur, holding it up to Harry's shoulders and nodding in approval. Finally, she spent extra time in the footwear section, carefully inspecting materials and stitching. "Come over when you're done," she called gently to Harry, selecting several pairs in various styles and sizes. "I want you to try some of these on."

Harry, watching from the fitting stool, marveled at how convincingly she played the role. The assistant never once looked suspicious.

When the measuring tape finished its work, Madam Malkin smiled warmly at Harry. "You’ll be all set for your first year. We’ll have everything ready for pickup in an hour."

Harry grinned and stepped down, then made his way over to the shoe section where Lane was waiting. He tried on a few pairs she'd selected—a pair of well-made black boots with reinforced soles, a more formal pair of polished oxfords, and a sturdy set of everyday lace-ups. They fit well, and Lane looked satisfied as he gave a nod of approval.

Once they'd finalized the selections, Harry reached into his own pouch and pulled out a small stack of galleons. McGonagall stepped beside him and gently guided his hand, quietly helping him count out the right number of coins for everything they'd chosen. It felt expensive—more than he had ever imagined spending on clothes—but when he looked down, he saw that the pouch was still heavy with coins. Somehow, that made it easier.

He handed the gold over, and Lane gave him a soft, approving smile.

Their next stop was the apothecary. It was narrower than the other shops they'd visited so far, with low shelves and crooked displays full of oddly-shaped jars and faded labels. A small brass bell tinkled overhead as they stepped inside, and the smell hit Harry all at once—a sharp blend of herbs, smoke, something vaguely metallic, and something else that reminded him of overripe fruit. It wasn’t exactly pleasant.

The woman behind the counter, a thin witch in rust-colored robes with spectacles perched halfway down her nose, gave them a curt nod as they entered. McGonagall wasted no time, pulling out the official Hogwarts list from her sleeve and consulting it.

Harry began picking through the required supplies, Lane trailing slightly behind: standard phials, labeled neatly by volume and material; thin glass stirring rods in bundles of three; and vials of pre-dried herbs he couldn’t pronounce. He collected ginger root, ground valerian, crushed sage, and a small pouch of dried shrivelfig. A small leather pouch labeled “bezoar” went in too, which Harry eyed suspiciously until Lane explained she had seen on the box it had been labeled, "antidotes."

There were rows of strange pickled things floating in jars along the wall. Harry paused in front of one: something long and translucent with too many eyes. He shuddered and moved on.

They picked out a heavy-bottomed pewter cauldron (standard size 2) from a stack in the back. McGonagall tested the weight, nudging the balance point with her knuckles. "This one won’t tip too easily," she murmured, and added it to the growing pile.

As Harry examined a nearby display of dragon liver in glass jars—which he honestly hoped he wouldn't need anytime soon—he noticed Lane hover near McGonagall. She leaned in and whispered something too softly for him to hear. McGonagall gave a near-imperceptible shake of her head, almost polite in its brevity. Lane hesitated, her hand inches from a cloudy jar of something pale blue, before slowly pulling her hand back and tucking it into her coat pocket. She didn't say anything, but Harry saw the moment linger in her eyes as she moved away.  He felt a pang again that she was unable to enjoy searching through the magical ingredients herself, but until they tested her reaction to potions and ingredients, McGonagall must have advised her to not touch anything.

Despite the eerie ambiance, this stop was somehow the easiest so far. Everything they needed was clearly listed, and most of it could be picked right off the shelf. Harry wasn’t asked to try anything on or make decisions. He just helped carry the basket.

The rows of ingredients, while fascinating, didn’t mean much to him yet. He didn’t know what valerian was used for, or why his kit included knotgrass and unicorn hair. It felt like buying groceries for someone else’s kitchen—curious, but a little impersonal.

Still, there was something oddly satisfying about lining up the labeled jars in their basket, seeing the list slowly get checked off. The cauldron made it feel real. He was going to make potions. He was going to learn how. That was something.

Once everything was assembled, Lane tallied the items quietly and nodded to Harry. "Your turn to pay again, bug."

Harry stepped up to the counter and pulled out his pouch. This time, he counted the coins himself, McGonagall watching silently but not interfering. When he placed the last sickle on the wooden counter, the clerk gave a curt nod and started packing their supplies into two brown parcels.

As they stepped out of the shop, McGonagall paused just outside, pulled out her wand once more, and with a couple of brisk taps, shrunk both parcels down to matchbox size. She then slipped them easily into their coat pockets.

So far, he thought, he was doing alright.

"Where to next?" he asked.

McGonagall consulted her parchment. "Books, wands, and the Magical Menagerie."

Books! This was what Harry—and, he knew, Lane too—was most excited for. They walked down to Flourish and Blotts, the bookstore they'd passed on the way in. The windows were stacked with towered displays, but when they stepped inside, Harry was surprised to find the shop surprisingly empty.

McGonagall led them directly to a smartly-dressed sales wizard behind a large counter. "We’re here for this young man’s Hogwarts materials," she said crisply.

"Ah! Come to do your shopping early, bless you," the clerk said brightly. "Missing the rush."

He turned to Harry. "First year?"

Harry nodded, and the clerk gestured for them to follow. As they wound through narrow aisles filled with books stacked from floor to ceiling, Harry realized he hadn’t seen any other kids his age—not really. Only a brief glimpse of a pale-haired boy ducking into the trunk store earlier, but he couldn’t be sure he was a first year also.

The clerk pulled books off the shelves with practiced ease: The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk, A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot, Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling, A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch, One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore, Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger, Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander, and The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble. He deposited the growing stack at the front counter.

"That’s all the required texts. Will you need anything else?"

Lane stepped forward with a professional air. "Yes, actually. I’m Professor Black—the new Muggle Studies instructor at Hogwarts. I was hoping to expand my collection before term."

The clerk brightened at the prospect of selling more books. "Right this way, Professor," he said, setting Harry's stack gently on the counter. He beckoned them to a side aisle lined with bookshelves marked Muggle Studies.

As they walked, he added conversationally, "I graduated from Hogwarts two years ago myself. Muggle Studies was one of my electives." He gave McGonagall a respectful nod. "Hello again, Professor. Good to see you."

Turning his attention back to Lane, he smiled curiously. "So you're American, then? I noticed the accent."

Lane smiled with just enough polish. "Yes, I am. Born and raised. I'm here as a favor to Professor Dumbledore—I'll be teaching Muggle Studies this year."

"Ah, brilliant," the clerk said, clearly pleased with the answer. "Lovely to have a fresh perspective. Bet the students will learn loads. I actually took Muggle Studies myself - got an E on my NEWTs."

Lane nodded, although Harry could tell she had no idea what any of that meant.

Harry, watching the exchange, felt a small surge of relief. They'd practiced that backstory together, and Lane had delivered it perfectly. Very easy, very smooth. Exactly what they'd hoped for.

"Everything you need should be here. Let me know if you require assistance."

Lane dove in eagerly. She grabbed titles almost at random at first, then with increasing purpose. The Evolution of Muggle Technology, Electricity and Its Discontents, Modern Muggle Transportation, A Cultural History of Muggle Britain, What is a Telephone?, Microwaves and Other Dangerous Contraptions, Muggleborn Perspectives on Muggle Culture, Bridging the Magical-Muggle Divide, When Muggles Know, Famous Muggles You Should Know, Toasters and the People Who Love Them, Muggle Cinema: A Study of Magicless Storytelling, Non-Magical Education Systems, Social Structures and Suburban Mythologies, and a second, annotated copy of Muggle Myths and Legends: What They Get Right.

Harry trailed her with growing amusement as the stack of books grew and grew. Lane looked back at him once as she placed another book on the pile and gave him a sly smile. "I need to know what wizards think of Muggles, after all," she whispered.

Then McGonagall discreetly cleared her throat and gave Lane a small, meaningful nod toward another section. "Might I suggest some reference material from the History section, as well?"

Lane followed her lead and added seven more: A Concise History of Wizardkind, The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts, Important Magical Events of the 20th Century, Wartime Witches: The Role of Magic in Muggle Conflicts, Old Families and Sacred Names, A History of Hogwarts, and The Four Founders: A Comparative Biography.

They moved to Magical Culture and Lane grabbed several more: Customs and Courtesies of Pureblood Society, Bloodlines and Boundaries, Understanding Magical Etiquette, An Illustrated Guide to Wizarding Fashion, and *Cantankerous Nott's Sacred 28.

She paused by a shelf of magical creature guides and added Creatures of the British Isles, Dangerous Magical Beasts, Companion Creatures in the Home and School, and Wizard Creature Offspring. Then she turned to McGonagall again. "Is there anything else I should study to be better prepared for teaching?"

McGonagall considered, then added: Wand Lore and Usage: A Primer, Pedagogy for Magical Classrooms, Understanding Young Witches and Wizards , and Education Through Enchantment: A Teacher's Guide to her pile. "These may help with adjusting to a magical academic setting."

By the time they returned to the counter, the pile had swelled to well over fifty books. The clerks were thrilled, bustling around to tally prices and carefully sort the stacks.

"I insist on paying for all of these," Lane said, already pulling galleons from her pouch.

McGonagall opened her mouth to protest, but Lane cut in. "It’s my first year, and I'm young Mr. Ollie's professor. I want us both to start with a full library."

As the last book was wrapped in parchment and twine, Lane turned to McGonagall. "Before we do wands, I need to get some robes of my own."

McGonagall blinked, then smiled apologetically. "Ah, of course. I nearly forgot."

The clerk handed over the now parcel-bound tower of books. McGonagall waved her wand, shrinking the whole stack to fit in the palm of her hand.

Then they stepped back out into the sunlit street, heading toward Twilfitt & Tattings, which McGonagall explained was far better suited for an adult witch.  It was a distinctly more refined place than Madam Malkin's, set just off the main alley in a quieter cul-de-sac that Harry hadn’t even noticed before. The storefront gleamed with polished wood and curved brass accents, and when they stepped inside, the difference was immediate. Soft classical music played from nowhere in particular, and a series of enchanted mannequins turned slowly on raised pedestals, dressed in exquisite robes.

They were greeted almost instantly by a tall, elegant witch with glossy silver hair and pale mauve robes. She approached McGonagall first. "Professor McGonagall, what a lovely surprise! Is there anything you require today?"

McGonagall offered a warm but curt nod. "I wouldn’t mind a new hat, but we’re really here for my companion."

Lane stepped forward, her posture composed, her expression pleasant but reserved. The shopwoman tilted her head and studied her closely.

"I don’t believe I’ve seen you before," she said. "I feel like I would have remembered."

Lane offered her a nod and a genteel smile, "That would make sense as I am entirely new to Wizarding Britain - only just arrived last week. My name is Professor Lane Black. I’ll be teaching Muggle Studies at Hogwarts this year."

The shopwoman gasped. "A new professor! How delightful! So young, and American, no less. Girls! Come here!"

A pair of young assistants appeared from behind a rack of embroidered shawls, eyes wide.

"Professor Black is joining Hogwarts! Isn’t that exciting? Tell us, dear, what is it like over in America? And what brings you to us? Oh, wait—are you one of the Blacks?"

Lane gave a graceful nod, though she added quickly, "Technically, yes, but not from the main family line. I'm from an old offshoot in America. It just happened to work out that the name stayed with me."

The assistants looked delighted, exchanging wide-eyed glances. "Oh, how fascinating!""

Lane smiled easily, and Harry was relieved they had accepted the first part of her back story. "This is my first year at Hogwarts—my first year teaching anywhere as formal, actually, having mostly worked in informal class settings. So I’ll need the full gambit: professional robes for teaching, casual wizarding attire, cold-weather gear, and something for formal occasions."

She winked at that last part, clearly trying to charm the sales ladies. "I’m hoping the dating scene isn’t horrific."

The assistants giggled. "Oh, Professor! Hogwarts isn’t exactly brimming with options. Unless you fancy Snape or that new professor Quirrel, and... well."

The second assistant added thoughtfully, "I actually find Professor Snape handsome in a dark, mysterious sort of way."

The first assistant stared at her. "You’re mad. But at least you aren’t swooning over Quirrell, who can’t stay calm long enough to finish a sentence."

The main shopwoman clicked her tongue. "Ladies! We do not speak of Hogwarts professors that way."

The two assistants immediately looked chastened—but only for a moment. They then turned to Lane and winked, bursting into laughter again.

Lane laughed with them, and Harry stood off to the side, amused and a little stunned at how easily she fell into character.  He hadn't seen her talk about or fancy a man either since Officer James-she must just be joking around.

"You’re absolutely stunning," one of the assistants gushed.

"A vision," the other agreed. "Let’s get you measured straightaway."

They ushered Lane onto a circular fitting stool. McGonagall stepped in. "We’d like the fittings done by hand," she said smoothly. "We understand that will come at a premium."

The shopwoman nodded immediately, understanding. "Of course. Nothing less for custom work."

Harry raised an eyebrow, and McGonagall leaned down to him. "In wizarding circles, truly handmade clothing is considered the height of quality," she whispered. "It’ll cost Professor Black an arm and a leg, but no one will question her taste."

The assistants bustled around Lane, drawing bolts of fabric from high shelves and draping them around her shoulders, holding them up to her skin in the light. Emerald greens, royal blues, soft lavenders, burnt oranges, and classic blacks.

"This green brings out your eyes."

"But this one makes her look regal."

"She needs at least two formal sets."

"Three. If she’s serious about dating."

"And winter cloaks—don’t forget the fur-lined ones."

"Do we have the storm-gray wool still? The fine one from Bruges?"

"Yes! That would be divine."

"Shoes! We need to go over shoes."

"Oh, she has perfect ankles for heeled boots."

"That charcoal number with the silver trim—do you remember the cut?"

"Of course. I’ll go fetch the pattern."

"Gloves!"

"And hats!"

"Don’t forget the midnight velvet with the little moon clasps!"

Harry stood mesmerized as fabric was draped, measurements taken, notes scribbled. The assistants brought over a mannequin to mimic Lane’s measurements and began pinning ideas directly onto it. When they unveiled a formal gown in deep indigo, flowing and elegant with layered silks and delicate beadwork, Harry could only gape. It was the most beautiful dress he’d ever seen.

"That one," Lane said, voice soft. "Definitely that one."

The cost, when tallied, made Harry’s eyes widen. Nearly 5,000 pounds in Muggle money. But Lane paid without flinching, smiling warmly. "I want to look my best."

She turned to the shopwoman and her assistants, her smile genuine. "Thank you for all your detailed work—and for making this such a lovely experience. It was wonderful to meet you all."

The shopwoman beamed. "You’ll be the best-dressed professor Hogwarts has ever seen."

"When should I come pick everything up?" Lane asked.

McGonagall stepped in again. "Just owl it to the school, if you would. Professor Black will be arriving early."

"Of course!" one assistant chirped. "We’ll have everything perfectly wrapped and sent within the week."

"And do come back sometime, Professor," the shopwoman said with a bow. "We’d be delighted to dress you again."

"I’ll look forward to it," Lane said sincerely.

As they stepped outside once more, the charm of Twilfitt & Tattings still lingering in the air, Harry looked up at Lane, who gave him a wink.

"Worth every galleon," she said.

Their penultimate stop was Ollivanders.

Harry’s heart pounded in his chest. Somehow, after everything else, this felt like the most important stop. What if it didn’t work? What if he wasn’t really magical?

The wand shop stood tall and narrow, wedged between a bookstore and a dusty-looking tea shop. The display window was sparse, with only a single wand resting atop a faded velvet cushion. When they stepped inside, the air changed. It smelled of polished wood and dust, of something ancient and reverent. Stacks upon stacks of long, slim boxes climbed the walls all around them.

The door creaked shut behind them, and a voice spoke almost immediately.

"Ah. Professor McGonagall."

A man who Harry couldn't help but assume was Ollivander glided into the room from the shadows. His pale eyes sparkled in the gloom as he studied each of them, then focused sharply on Lane.

"And you... I haven’t seen you before."

Lane inclined her head politely. "Professor Lane Black. I’ll be teaching Muggle Studies this year."

"Ah, American," Ollivander murmured. His eyes narrowed slightly. "And your wand? Who made it, if I may ask?"

Lane answered carefully, "It was made by my father."

That seemed to give him pause.

"Hmm. First Nation craftsmanship?"

Lane gave a small nod, though she looked slightly surprised that he had guessed so easily. "Yes-how did you know?"

"They are the only wandmakers I know of in America who still pass on their craft like that," he said, voice distant, as if pulling threads from the back of his mind. "Which tribe? May I see it?"

"Tlingit, and I’m afraid not," Lane said softly. "It’s... nothing personal. Just not to be shared with other wandmakers."

Ollivander blinked, then slowly inclined his head. "I understand."

His gaze shifted then back to Harry. "And you must be Mr. Potter."

Harry stared for a moment, then glanced sideways at Professor McGonagall. How had Ollivander seen through her disguise so effortlessly?

Lane looked to McGonagall, one eyebrow raised, clearly unsettled.

McGonagall just shrugged lightly and said, "It’s Ollivander," as if that explained everything.

Harry nodded, nervous, and answered. "Yes, sir."

"Right, then," Ollivander said abruptly, moving to the shelves. He pulled down a narrow box. "Try this. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible."

Harry took the wand and gave it a small wave. A stack of boxes on the far wall fell over.

"No, no. Definitely not," Ollivander muttered, already reaching for another.

Several wands later, Harry began to feel his stomach twist. Each time Ollivander handed him another slim box, Harry tried, waved, flicked, or swished—and each time, something went wrong. A bouquet of flowers shot out of one, then caught fire. Another made all the lights flicker violently. One exploded a pile of feather dusters that rained over Lane, who only laughed. The pile of rejected wands grew higher and higher on the side counter, and Harry's nervousness grew with it. What if none of them worked? What if he didn’t have magic after all?

And yet, Ollivander only got more excited.

"Fascinating," he murmured, watching closely as Harry triggered another minor wand mishap that sent a stack of books into flight. "Very rare... quite rare, indeed."

Harry kept looking over at Lane, who gave him a reassuring smile and a slight nod each time. He took a deep breath and accepted the next wand Ollivander handed over. And the next. And the next. The testing went on, a rhythm of hope and disappointment, until Ollivander finally stopped, his fingers hovering over a box near the very top of a shelf.

Then Ollivander stopped. His fingers hovered over a box near the very top of a shelf. He retrieved it slowly.

"Curious," he whispered.

He opened the lid and handed the wand to Harry.

"Holly and phoenix feather. Eleven inches. Nice and supple."

The moment Harry’s fingers closed around it, warmth shot up his arm. He gave a small wave, and golden sparks erupted from the tip like fireworks. The air around him hummed.

Ollivander's eyes gleamed.

"Curious... very curious."

Harry lowered the wand slowly. "What’s curious?"

Ollivander took the box from him and tucked the wand gently back inside. "I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, Mr. Potter. Every single one. It so happens that the phoenix whose feather resides in your wand gave only one other."

Harry felt his throat tighten.

"It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand... when its brother gave you that scar."

Lane stepped closer to Harry, instinctively.

"The wand chooses the wizard," Ollivander said, more to himself than anyone else. "It is not always clear why. But you can be sure... it is not a coincidence."

Harry looked down at the wand in his hands. It still felt warm, like it belonged there. He decided he didn't care that the bird had given another feather to another wand—that was a problem for another time, something far too big and complicated to deal with now. For now, he had a wand of his own. And that meant everything.

Lane put a hand on his shoulder. "You did it."

He looked up at her, relief flooding through him.

They paid—seven galleons, Ollivander noted quietly—and stepped back into the sunlight.

Harry felt different now. Like something fundamental had clicked into place. He had a wand. He had magic.

Everything was real.

After Ollivander’s, everything else felt a little anticlimactic. They stepped out into the late afternoon light, and Harry was still turning his wand over in his hands when McGonagall said gently, "You do remember that underage wizards aren’t allowed to use magic outside of school, yes?"

Harry deflated. "Even just a little?"

"Afraid not," she said with a faint smile.

They made a brief stop to pick up quills, ink, and parchment. Lane grumbled quietly as they walked in. "I’d rather use a biro."

McGonagall paused, then said thoughtfully, "That’s probably acceptable—especially for a Muggle Studies professor. Though you should keep a quill on hand just in case."

Harry laughed aloud when Lane did a subtle, triumphant little victory dance in the aisle.

Their last stop was the Magical Menagerie. The shop was a chorus of chirps, squeaks, howls, and purrs. Cages lined the walls and floor, filled with all sorts of magical creatures: puffskeins, kneazles, sleek black rats with twitching tails, even a cage full of toads the size of soup bowls. Harry had originally thought he wanted a cat—he loved cats. He loved his cats. But Teto and Kat would be coming with them to Hogwarts anyway, and this was different, and he had no idea if he even wanted any pets.

Then he saw her.

Perched quietly in a tall, iron-wrought cage was a snowy owl. She was regal and still, with wide amber eyes that locked onto his the moment he looked up at her. Something in Harry's chest stirred. She reminded him of the plush snowy owl he used to keep on his shelf back in the cupboard under the stairs. The one he had whispered to at night when he was lonely. The one he pretended could carry messages far away to parents he never knew.

He stepped toward her. She blinked slowly, then ruffled her feathers and gave a single, quiet hoot.

Lane appeared at his side. "That’s a beautiful owl."

Harry nodded. "She belongs with me. I mean... she should."

The shopkeeper came over. "Snowy owls are smart, powerful fliers. She’ll be an excellent companion and post owl."

McGonagall smiled faintly, looking back and forth between Harry and the owl, whose eyes were still locked onto him. "Looks like Mr. Ollie has found himself a familiar."

Lane looked over, curious. "A familiar?" She whispered, "What does that mean exactly?"

"In wizarding tradition," McGonagall explained, "a familiar is a magical creature that bonds deeply with a witch or wizard. It’s not required for a pet, but it’s... meaningful. A true magical connection.  Animals do like to form familiar bonds - it expands their lifespan to match that of the witch and wizard, and they both can become in tune with each others most topical emotions.  She'll be his companion until his death, barring any unfortunate accidents."

Familiar, Harry thought. He couldn't break his gaze from her—and what McGonagall said sounded right. There was no way he was leaving her in the shop. Harry beamed. The owl was his. Even if he didn’t have anyone to write to.

They paid for the owl, as well as a handsome silver cage and a small pouch of owl treats.

By the time they returned to the Leaky Cauldron for dinner, the sky had grown dim. All their shopping bags were shrunken and tucked away, and his beautiful snowy owl rested calmly in her cage beside them at the table.

Word must have spread, because several patrons stopped by their table to speak with Lane. Some wanted to welcome her to Hogwarts, others just seemed curious about the new, young American professor. Lane smiled and answered politely, fielding their questions with practiced ease.

Thankfully, no one pried too deeply.

They took the Tube home, McGonagall still with them. She escorted them all the way to the front door, where she paused and unshrunk their bags with a flick of her wand.

"Bright and early Friday," she reminded them, stepping away. "I’ll come by first thing to bring you to Hogwarts so you can attend the staff meetings, get settled in your quarters, and familiarize yourself with the castle."

Lane nodded, and Harry gave a tired wave.

They were both exhausted by the time they got inside. The moment they closed the door behind them, the weight of the day hit. Trunks, books, robes, cauldrons, owls, wands...

Harry didn’t even remember falling asleep.

Chapter Text

**Friday, August 9, 1991 — Golders Green, London**

The kitchen was quiet, filled with the occasional clink of mugs and  the rustling of napkins as they wrapped up their Peanut Butter toast.  Harry sat at the breakfast bar, swinging his legs, his spine a rod of coiled energy. His food was barely touched. His fingers kept fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve, his face lit with a thrill he clearly couldn’t contain.

Lane stirred her tea slowly, trying to summon calm that wouldn't come. Her hands were wrapped tight around the warm ceramic mug, more for grounding than for warmth. Her own breakfast sat mostly untouched.

Today was the day.

She wasn’t sure if she was ready.

She and Harry had agreed: she would take the position at Hogwarts, under a fabricated identity crafted with a disturbing level of detail by the Hogwarts Headmaster himself. She would teach Muggle Studies. Harry would attend as a first-year student. And they would pretend not to know each other.

As crazy as everything else was, that was the part that still made her stomach twist.

Her eyes flicked to the hallway, where Harry's trunks sat ready. She hadn’t packed them, of course. Couldn't, really touch them, or some of the magical items that filled it—only the books and his clothes had been ok which she had done her best to wash and fold for him to set away.

She had packed her own things as well, of course, in her regular suitcases: neatly folded clothes, her favorite toiletries, a handful of framed photos of her and Harry, and several of the smaller art pieces she'd been meaning to hang in her new office. Her home library, impossible to bring in full, had been carefully curated down to eight boxes of essentials—favorites and first editions, dog-eared paperbacks and annotated classics. She’d labeled everything clearly, triple-checked the zippers and box lids, and now all of it sat stacked in the upstairs hallway outside her room, quietly waiting for their move to Hogwarts.

They weren’t selling the house. Dumbledore had promised her a salary that would let her keep it while teaching. She and Harry had agreed: they needed a fallback. A place to come back to if Hogwarts turned out to be more dangerous than dazzling. Besides, she'd only just bought the place. The idea of flipping it in this economy? Ridiculous. She'd lose too much. And emotionally, she couldn’t bear the idea of giving up their sanctuary.

Even her beloved car was staying. A friend from her Taekwondo class had a barn in Surrey, and had offered to store it while she was away. She hadn't even needed to explain why. Just one more blessing in a list of quiet, human kindnesses that had made this whole surreal thing feel slightly more manageable.

They were lucky, too, in how few people in Golders Green would ask questions. Aside from the waitress at the Rose & Crown, Harry's football friend Ollie, her coworkers at the consulting firm, Evelyn at social services, and the White brothers, they didn’t have many ties here.

Ollie had taken the news well enough—Harry told him he was off to a boarding school now that they had finished at Ivy House. Lane didn’t even tell the pub staff since they were keeping the house. Her coworkers, on the other hand, had been a harder sell.

She had come back early from vacation of course due to the letters and meeting Dumbledore, and technically, her first day back should have been Monday. But instead of walking back into the office full of enthusiasm and stories about the seaside, she walked in with a resignation letter. Garrett, her boss, had stared at her like she’d grown another head.

"Math?" he’d said, when she told him she was leaving to teach full-time. "At a boarding school?"

She’d nodded, sticking to the script. "It’s at Henry's new boarding school in Scotland, and I've been wanting to take a step back from the bustle for a while now."

He hadn’t bought it, not really. But he’d respected her. In the end, he’d asked her to stay on for the week and help train her replacement. She’d said yes, of course.

Ultimately, Lane was going to be really sad to lose Garrett—when she had first moved to London knowing no one, he had been a friendly face in the office, and over time, a true confidant. In the last year, she had come to lean on him more than she realized—especially for his invaluable parenting advice, often shared over takeout lunches or late meetings when she'd stayed back to catch up on work. He had two kids a few years younger than Harry, but he had more time as a parent, and always knew the right book to recommend or the right phrase to say when she felt overwhelmed. On her last day, she made sure to give him a tight hug, thanking him profusely for everything. She left him with his favorite bottle of whiskey, which made him break into a rare smile. As she turned to go, he told her that as long as he was still at Blythe & Murray, she’d always have a spot if she wanted it.

Then there was Evelyn. That conversation had been easy in comparison. To Harry and Lane’s great surprise, she informed them that the adoption process for Henry Black was done. The judge had approved the paperwork without needing a court hearing and all they had to do was sign and mail back the forms in the inbox. Once that happened, social services would stop checking in. No more home visits. No more check-ins, so they wouldn't need to provide any excuses for their move to Scotland...not that Dumbledore probably couldn't step in and wipe some more memories as needed, she thought with a grimace.

Dumbledore. Lane still had a bad feeling about him. Logically, she could understand what he'd tried to do—shield Harry from dark wizards, keep him hidden until he could be sure he was safe—but that logic did little to soothe the fact that Harry had suffered. His refusal to check in on Harry's welfare, to follow up on the consequences of that plan, to acknowledge that maybe the Dursleys were a mistake from the beginning—those things had led to Harry's pain, and that was something she couldn't forgive.

She couldn't forget the way he'd spoken at their first real conversation—charming and oblique, as if deflection were his native tongue. He'd apologized, yes, and offered her the job, and while she could tell he was truly contrite, even those sentiments felt... practiced, As as though he'd delivered those lines before to other people he had disappointed. Lane had spent enough time around clever men to know when one was spinning.

The worst part, she suspected, was that they were only being allowed to stay together because her condition intrigued him. Her magic immunity wasn’t a gift in his eyes—it was a puzzle. And she was no fool. Puzzles in academic circles were not loved—they were studied. Categorized. Dissected.  Still, better him than the Department of Mysteries.

He would have to be watched. Carefully. Closely.

Ultimately though, what choice did she have? She couldn’t keep Harry from his heritage—couldn’t steal away the wonder and possibility he deserved to explore. Nor could she run. Wizards had magic, and while she was immune, Harry was not. If she failed, if they were ever separated, she could easily lose him forever.

So yes. They were going. But she wasn’t walking in blind.

Which brought her, in a strange roundabout way, to the last goodbye on her list.

The White brothers.

James and Robert White had been there when no one else had believed her. When Dumbledore's antics had erased Harry, they’d helped her keep him tethered. James with his calm presence and sharp police instincts. Robert with his careful paperwork and fearless legal strategy. They had helped her hide him from a system that didn’t seem to want him to exist.

She hadn’t seen them since Harry’s fourth-grade graduation. Too risky, maybe. Or maybe she had simply been afraid to look back. But they deserved to know they were leaving, and at the very least, to be thanked.

She had written them a carefully worded letter, deliberately vague. She told them the adoption was nearly complete, and that she had taken a job in Scotland. She included no names. No forwarding address.

And in response, a letter had arrived from Robert: kind, supportive, and characteristically understated. Wishing them both well. Telling her they understood. And James had added a postscript in his looping handwriting:

"You did good, Lane. You protected him. That’s more than most would do. We’ll be here if you ever need us."

She folded the letter and tucked it back into the pocket of her coat.

She checked the wall clock. 9:48.

"Do you think she’ll be on time?" Harry asked, his voice quick with excitement. He was practically bouncing on his stool.

"Oh, I think Professor McGonagall will be exactly on time," Lane said, finishing her tea. She stood and ruffled his hair. "Go double-check your toothbrush is packed."

He gave her a mock-salute and dashed upstairs.

Lane moved through the house on autopilot, double-checking all the things she’d checked ten times already. Drapes drawn. Windows locked. Heating turned down. Mail on hold. She paused in front of the bookshelf, her fingers brushing one of the framed photos of Harry in Year Six, smiling crookedly on the football pitch.

She wondered if she would ever feel this kind of normal again, and without a second thought, packed the picture into one of the open boxes.

The cats were in their carrier by the door, disgruntled but resigned. Hedwig sat silently in her cage on the counter, regal and still. Her golden eyes tracked Lane as she passed.

The oven clock clicked.

10:00.

Right on cue, there was a knock at the door.

Harry thundered down the stairs, his feet echoing on the hardwood, face flushed with excitement. Lane moved to the door, exhaling once. She schooled her face into something calm and opened it.

Professor McGonagall stood crisply in dark green robes, a carpetbag in one hand, the same unflappable presence she always seemed to carry.

"Good morning," the professor said, voice even. "Shall we?"

Lane nodded, her pulse spiking.

It was time.

---

Professor McGonagall stepped inside the house, glancing around briskly and wasting no time. "Before we depart, I need to know what items will be accompanying us to Hogwarts," she said.

Lane and Harry walked her through everything. Lane started with the boxes and suitcases upstairs, and McGonagall followed her from room to room, lifting her wand delicately as she went. Each time she tapped a suitcase or box, it shrank neatly to a manageable size and was deposited into the seemingly bottomless depths of her carpetbag. Harry eagerly showed her his trunks, and Lane was even able to indicate a few pieces of art she wanted for her classroom and personal quarters (even though she still had no idea how she would be living in the school).

When they returned to the kitchen, Harry lifted his snowy Owl's cage with a proud little grin. "I found the name 'Hedwig' in one of my history books, and it just fit - are we taking her with us as well?"

McGonagall smiled. "That's a great name, Harry. You may let her out here—she'll meet us at the castle."

Harry's eyes widened. "Are you sure?"

"Quite sure," McGonagall said with a firm nod.

Lane and Harry both leaned in to say goodbye to the snowy owl. She blinked at them calmly, then spread her wings and soared out the kitchen window they had unlatched moments before. Lane watched until she disappeared into the sky.

"Now," McGonagall said, shrinking her cage, stowing it and turning to Lane. "Please pick up the cats, as they cannot meet us ahead. It's time to depart."

Lane crouched and gently lifted the carrier. "How are we getting there, exactly?"

"I had hoped to Apparate us," McGonagall replied, studying Lane. "But I am not certain whether that will work in your case."

Lane's brow furrowed. "Apparate?"

"Magical teleportation," McGonagall explained. "Very safe when done properly, and I’m licensed for Side-Along. If you’ll allow me to try?"

Lane nodded hesitantly. McGonagall reached out and took her arm with a firm grip, the air shimmered—and then nothing happened.

McGonagall let go, sighing. "I was afraid of that."

"What else can we try?" Lane asked.

From her bag, McGonagall withdrew a small, tarnished silver doorknob. "A Portkey," she said. "It can transport us to a prearranged location when activated."

Lane reached out, touched it—and again, nothing.

McGonagall frowned. "It appears your immunity interferes with both methods. It’s too light out for a broom—"

"Aw," Harry muttered. He had read about broomsticks and Quidditch endlessly this past week and had been itching to try flying.

She arched an eyebrow at Harry, her tone suddenly lighter. "Eager to try out for Quidditch, are you?"

Harry lit up. "Yes, I am! I've read all about it—especially the Seeker position."

McGonagall nodded approvingly. "Your father was an excellent Seeker in his day."

Lane watched the way Harry soaked in that information like sunlight. She made a quick mental note—add to her growing to-do list: find out everything she could about James and Lily Potter once they got to the castle. He deserved to know who they were.

McGonagall gave him an approving glance. "There is one last option: the Hogwarts Express, which is how Mr. Potter will arrive at Hogwarts again in September with the other students. Normally it only runs on term start and end days, but the Headmaster arranged a private run for today, just in case Apparition and Portkey travel didn’t work for you. No one questioned it—he said you deserved to see the castle the proper way, and that was reason enough."

Lane blinked. "That’s... surprisingly thoughtful." She paused, then added with a wry smile, "I bet he saw this coming too."

"Indeed," McGonagall said dryly.

So they gathered the last of their belongings, Lane hoisting the cat carrier once again. She did one final sweep through the house, keys in her hand and her eyes drifting over every familiar surface—walls they'd painted, corners they'd decorated, the entry rug Harry always managed to kick out of place. Harry was excited, practically bouncing ahead of her, but for Lane, this felt heavier. She was locking up their house for the last time, at least for a while, and with that final click of the deadbolt, she felt something inside her ache.

She was happy for him. Truly. But as they stepped off the front path, she also felt a welling grief begin to rise. She was starting, finally, to mourn the life they were supposed to have—the normal, steady one that she felt they had only just earned in the last few months. She already missed her beautiful room, her warm bed with its quilted duvet, and quiet breakfasts with Harry in the sunlit kitchen. She missed the pub down the road and the easy rhythm they had built in Golders Green. It had been, for a fleeting moment, perfect.

But the wizarding world waited for no one. They made their way out the front gate and walked to Golders Green Station together, the sun climbing higher behind them. There, they boarded the tube for King's Cross, the next chapter of their lives just a train ride away.

---

Once they were comfortably ensconced on the tube to King's Cross, McGonagall folded her hands primly in her lap and turned to them. "There's one more matter we must cover," she said, glancing between Lane and Harry. "While you're at Hogwarts, no one is to know that Harry is your son, he is to maintain that he has spent the entirety of his childhood with the Dursleys. That was the agreement."

Lane and Harry both nodded as Golders Green melted further into the distance.

"The trickiness," McGonagall continued, "will be these few weeks before term officially begins. We'll need a believable cover for the staff and any nosey governors for why a child is at the castle before the rest of the students arrive."

She raised two fingers. "There are two options. First: Harry could stay with you as himself, but he would have to remain entirely inside your quarters for the full three weeks. No leaving. No being seen."

Harry made a face. "That sounds terrible."

Lane laughed softly. "It does. He needs to be outside. We'd go absolutely stir-crazy."

"Yes, it would be... less than ideal," McGonagall agreed. "Which brings us to option two: a disguise. We claim he is a distant American relative visiting you before term begins. Since you're arriving rather last-minute to fill the Muggle Studies vacancy, and it wouldn’t be unusual for a staff member to host family in the off-season, none of the staff will raise an eye."

She added with a measured tone, "It’s not that we don’t trust the staff not to blab, but the Headmaster feels the fewer people who know the truth, the better—for now. Especially considering that we have a new and unvetted Defense Against the Dark Arts professor."

Harry perked up. "I like that one better."

Lane was already thinking, her mind rifling through the details of her fabricated background. "If I’m Lane Black, and my mother—a Black—died at birth, then he’d have to be from my father's side. My Tlingit side. Maybe a younger cousin visiting from the U.S.?" She hesitated for a beat, then added, "Part of the story we aligned on though was that my father had been somewhat ostracized for having a child with a white woman, which is why I didn't get his last name. Do we think adding another family member from that branch would raise alarms?"

"This is exactly the scenario the Headmaster had in mind." McGonagall replied, and continued, addressing her question, "It's a fair concern. But the Headmaster ultimately doesn’t expect people will dig too deeply, not under the circumstances. And should anyone press, you can always say you’ve been reconnecting in your older years. It would hardly be questioned."

Lane nodded, and pulled out her note pad to write this information down.

As she scribbled, McGonagall continued. "We will apply a light glamour to alter his features. Nothing too extreme, just enough to shift the resemblance. And—"

"What about his accent?" Lane interrupted. "He doesn’t sound American."

"I was just getting to that," McGonagall said with a small smile which immediately had Lane feeling sheepish. "That’s where a language potion comes in. While it does not teach the drinker to be fluent in a language, it adjusts the shape of the palate temporarily to mimic native fluency in another dialect. We give him one keyed to American English, and he will speak like an American until we reverse it."

Lane blinked. "That’s... an absurdly specific solution. But I’ll admit, it’s clever."

McGonagall gave a prim nod. "It is very effective."

"Fine by me," Harry said brightly. "I don’t care what I look like or what name I use, if it means I get to be with Lane."

McGonagall turned to Harry, her expression serious but kind. "Are you sure you can maintain this ruse, Mr. Potter? It will be important that you don’t slip up over the next few weeks. You’ll need to stay in character."

Harry nodded earnestly. "I can do it. I promise."

"Lane can help coach you on the Hogwarts Express," McGonagall added. "You’ll have the train ride to practice."

"I’m sure he’ll do great," Lane said, giving his shoulder a squeeze.

McGonagall gave a satisfied nod. "Very good. The Headmaster suggested a name for your cover: Jacob Hunt. He thought it fitting. Hunt was the surname of the Tlingit wizard he mentioned last week who he fought alongside against Grindelwald. Apparently, he managed to make contact with the man, George Hunt, and has his blessing. If needed, he will claim the role of your paternal grandfather. Making Harry his great-grandson fits seamlessly into your story."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "He thought of all that already?"

"Oh yes," McGonagall said dryly. "He plans ahead."

Lane smiled and ruffled his hair. "Thank you for being so flexible, buddy," and he merely smiled back up at her.

McGonagall nodded. "Now that that’s settled, once we get off the Tube—just before we reach King's Cross—we'll pull aside to get you changed. After that," she said with the faintest smile, "we can spend the rest of the day actually just looking forward to Hogwarts."

---

They got off the tube, the cats protesting loudly in their carrier as Lane adjusted her grip. The three of them hurried through the corridor and ducked into a large handicapped stall in one of the last public loos before King's Cross station.

"Let’s begin," McGonagall said briskly, already pulling her wand from her sleeve.

Lane stood back, holding the carrier and watching as the professor set to work on Harry. She moved with efficiency and precision, murmuring charms under her breath. Slowly, Harry’s hair lightened to a chesnut brown, matching Lane's own. His green eyes turned a dark chocolate and became slightly longer in shape. His nose straightened slightly and his cheekbones shifted just enough to alter his face. Finally, McGonagall flicked her wand in a circular motion, and Harry’s skin tone deepened just a shade, enough to reflect his Tlingit heritage.

As she worked, McGonagall kept tutting.

"What’s wrong?" Lane asked, a little nervously.

McGonagall offered a fond smile. "Nothing’s wrong. It’s just—without his mother’s eyes, he looks so much like his father. Too much. And most of the staff taught James Potter, so we have to make sure he’s truly unrecognizable."

Harry beamed. "Really? I look like him that much? What was he like? Was he funny? Did he like flying? Was he good at spells? Did you teach him too?"

McGonagall’s smile turned wistful. "Yes, yes, and yes. He was quite the talent—impulsive at times, but good-hearted. Loyal. And always with a knack for getting into things he shouldn’t."

Harry grinned at that.

When she finally stepped back, Lane blinked. "Wow. He’s... completely different." For a fleeting moment, she thought he looked somewhat like the old photos she had seen of her Cherokee grandmother, though she had never met him. That resemblance stirred something unexpected in her. It made her feel slightly warm inside. She was seeing a version of Harry that truly looked like her own family-A quiet, anchoring thread through generations she had never known she needed.

McGonagall gave a little shrug. "Well, I am the Transfiguration professor, you know."

She reached into her carpetbag and pulled out a small vial filled with a bright pink liquid. "Language potion. American English dialect."

Harry took the vial and sniffed. "It smells like raspberries."

"Drink it in one go," McGonagall instructed.

He did. A moment later, he grimaced, his mouth stretching and working oddly.

Lane crouched beside him. "You alright, bug?"

"Yeah, I’m fine," he said—but now in her accent. American. Smooth and twangy in just the right places.

Lane laughed aloud, clapping a hand over her mouth. "That is uncanny."

McGonagall gave a satisfied nod. "There. All done."

She turned to Lane. "Now, you may want to change into your robes for the trip."

Lane blinked. "I don’t have them—they were sent ahead to Hogwarts."

"Ah, yes," McGonagall said, pulling out a set of neatly folded lavender robes from her bag. "These were delivered from Twilfitt and Tattings. I hope the color is alright. I figured you’d want to look your best when meeting the rest of the staff for the first time."

Lane gasped in delight, brushing her fingers over the fabric. It was the exact one the witches in the shop had picked out for her.

"They’re perfect," she said warmly. "Thank you."

McGonagall nodded graciously. Lane slipped into the next stall to change.

Lane pulled on the beautiful lavender robes and was instantly enthusiastic when they slid over her in a perfect fit. She had opted that morning for a professional work dress—something neutral and polished, just in case. She hadn’t known how they’d be arriving to Hogwarts and, in a worst-case scenario, she had planned to ask McGonagall to transfigure something presentable like she'd done for Diagon Alley. But now, feeling the familiar weight of expertly cut fabric around her shoulders, she felt ready. More than ready. She even found herself grinning when she noticed her chosen jewelry—simple diamond studs and her mother's watch—matched the ensemble perfectly.

When she stepped out, Harry looked up and smiled. "You look really nice."

Lane’s chest tightened at the kindness in his voice. That kid. Always so sweet. "You too, Jake," she said teasingly.

He tilted his head for a second in confusion before realizing. "Oh—right!"

She laughed. "We’ll have to work on that response time."

The three of them exited the restroom and headed toward King’s Cross. As they moved into the bustling station, McGonagall walked a step ahead and motioned for them to follow her toward Platforms 9 and 10.

"Here we are," she said as they approached a seemingly ordinary stretch of wall between the two platforms, gesturing towards the entrance right in the middle of the bannister.

McGonagall turned to Lane. "Can you see it?"

Lane nodded slowly, "the arch?"

Harry blinked in surprise. "Wait—what arch? I just see a wall."

McGonagall wasn’t surprised. "We guessed the concealment wouldn’t work on Lane because of her immunity, but the charms are still active, so you Harry would be able to enter it, but not see it."

That gave Lane pause. How many magical doorways had she walked right past in her life? What had she missed, simply because she was one of the rare few who could actually see them for what they were? The only instance that came to mind was once, in Japan—she had wandered into a beautiful old alley in Kyoto, full of people in traditional dress. They had stared at her with bemused politeness, and she’d chalked it up to being a conspicuously American tourist. But now? Maybe it was a magical alley.

The thought lingered.

As they stepped through the arch, Harry needing a bit of cajoling to run head first into what he thought was a wall, the Hogwarts Express was waiting for them, puffing softly and gleaming in the sunlight. Its crimson engine glowed like a polished apple, and gold script reading "Hogwarts Express" curved elegantly across the side. The train felt grand, timeless, like it had been pulled straight from the pages of a storybook.

They boarded together, and McGonagall led them toward the very front of the train.

"This car is reserved for special guests," she said. "Mr. Potter—and most students—would never have seen it. Let’s add it to the growing list of secrets, shall we?"

Inside, the car was breathtaking. It looked like something out of a 1920s film reel—silver trim, polished dark wood, and art deco flourishes. The windows were large and bright, and a gleaming wet bar stood at the far end. Plush bench seats lined the walls, empty and waiting.

Lane and Harry settled into a window seat, and McGonagall took the one across from them, offering space and privacy. The cats were stowed at the back of the car, hunkered down and grumbling in their carrier.

As the train began to move, Lane and Harry resumed their old tradition—listing what they were most excited for.

"I think I want to try every dessert in the Great Hall," Harry said.

"Every dessert?" Lane teased. "That’s ambitious."

"They sound so good in the books! Treacle tart and spotted dick and things with weird names I’ve never had."

"I’m excited to meet the other professors," Lane said. "And to see my classroom. And maybe not get hopelessly lost in the first two days."

Harry giggled. "Do you think there’ll actually be ghosts?"

"I sincerely hope not," Lane replied, shuddering.

They turned to McGonagall. "What will Lane’s quarters look like?" Harry asked.

McGonagall gave a mysterious smile. "That’s a surprise. Professors don’t get to see their quarters until they arrive. But I promise she’ll like it."

She glanced at the clock above the bar. "If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to speak with the conductor for a bit. He attended Hogwarts with me many years ago, and it’s been ages since we last crossed paths. I’ll be back in thirty minutes."

With that, she slipped quietly out of the car, leaving Lane and Harry alone together for the first time since breakfast.

For a few minutes, Lane and Harry simply stared out the window in silence, watching the English countryside blur into muted greens and golds. After a while, Lane noticed Harry shifting in his seat. His fingers fidgeted with the hem of his new shirt, and he kept glancing her way, as if debating something.

She studied his unfamiliar features with quiet amusement—it was Harry all right, despite the new face. That expression was too...him...to mistake. She finally took pity on him. "Alright, bug. Out with it. What's on your mind?"

Harry hesitated. "I’ve been wanting to ask you something, but there hasn't really been a good time."

"What is it?"

He looked at her directly. "Back at Gringotts—when you were left alone with the goblins. What happened? You seemed okay afterward, maybe a little shocked. And then there was the weirdness with that deep vault... I was waiting for you to tell me, but you didn’t. And I’ve been worried."

Lane stiffened. Of all the moments to bring it up.

She looked away, letting the silence stretch as she searched for the right words. She had pushed it out of her mind since then, trying not to dwell. But maybe she owed him the truth.

"The second you and McGonagall left the room, the lead goblin—Horthuk—looked at me and said he knew I wasn’t magical."

Harry’s eyes widened.

"I panicked at first of course," Lane continued. "But he raised his hand and told me they meant no harm. He reiterated what McGonagall had said—that goblins don’t meddle in wizard politics. My secrets would stay with them, blah blah blah."

Harry leaned forward. "Does that mean... they know what you are? Why you’re immune to magic?"

Lane hushed him gently. "Not too loud bug, but yes, I think they have ideas. They weren't exactly forthcoming. I asked that same question, and they said they were fairly sure—but that they’d need to run confirming tests first. They didn’t seem to want to tell me anything until they knew."

She rubbed her thumb along her wrist, thinking back. "I was scared, especially after what Dumbledore said about the importance of secrecy and the Department of Mysteries. But Horthuk saw that and brought out a contract. That really freaked me out until he told me to read it."

"What did it say?"

"It was the simplest contract I'd ever seen. It said that they wouldn’t hurt me. That they wouldn’t let anyone else hurt me. And that if I let them run a few harmless tests, I would be considered an ally of the Goblin Nation, regardless of the results."

"Why would they offer that?"

"I asked. They said that if I was what they suspected, it would be very fortuitous for them. But again they wouldn’t elaborate. So no, I still don’t know what I am."

Harry frowned. "So what kind of tests did they do?"

"Some potions. A few enchantments. One of them clipped some of my hair, a fingernail clipping, some photographs. Nothing hurt. Most of it didn’t seem to do anything to me, honestly. They even tried some kind of glowing stone that just fizzled when it touched my palm. They also asked questions—about my parents, my health, weird things that happened growing up. I answered everything truthfully."

Harry was silent for a beat. "Then what?"

"Horthuk said the final test would come when we reached my vault. I was actually kind of excited at that—I had still been worried about being able to get my own vault. But after a minute, I got suspicious again. I asked if the others—McGonagall and you—would see the test, and he said yes, but it would just be a drop of my blood, and while unusual, would not tell McGonagall exactly what was happening."

"Did they say when they would tell you what they said?" Harry prompted, scooting to the edge of his chair and leaning in close.

Lane shrugged. "He said it would take time for them to reach a conclusion, but once they did, they’d send word to Hogwarts."

"And that’s it?"

"That’s it. You and McGonagall came back in, and everything moved on."

Harry sat back, chewing on the information. "Do you think they let anything slip? Any other important information we could use to figure it out?"

Lane hesitated. She remembered Horthuk’s last warning—about Dumbledore. That the headmaster might already suspect what she was. That he might test her, might try to manipulate her. Be careful, the goblins had said. Don’t trust too easily.

They had also offered her something else that stuck with her. After explaining that wizarding money was much bulkier and harder to manage than the Muggle bills she was used to, they'd offered to provide her with a special coin pouch—one that she could actually use. "We have an old relic," Horthuk had said, "something that may be compatible with your...condition. If you are able to access your vault, it will be yours."

Lane had immediately tried to ask more questions—what kind of relic? Why would it work for her? Had others used it before?—but they remained exceptionally tight-lipped. Still, the offer seemed sincere, and the explanation made sense. If she couldn’t use most magical objects, this was at least a start. One more piece of her new life beginning to take shape, strange and foreign as it was.

But she didn't want to tell Harry about any of that. Not yet.

She shook her head, and settled with ending the conversation for the time being. "No. They were tight-lipped. I really don’t know anything more."

Harry reached for her hand. "I’m just glad they didn’t try to hurt you. And maybe they’ll help figure it out."

Lane squeezed his fingers. "I’m glad too. I’m glad everything worked out with the magical adoption. And now that things are finally moving forward in the regular world too... maybe we can actually enjoy this year. If we’re careful."

Harry nodded, and a grin began to stretch across his altered face. "Yeah. I think so too."

And just like that, the tension ebbed away, and the conversation turned back to their favorite recent conversation—what house Harry might be sorted into—until McGonagall returned.

Chapter Text

Friday, August 9, 1991 - The Hogwarts Express

The sun had started its slow descent beyond the horizon, casting a golden light over the vast hills and trees that whizzed past the train. The rhythmic clatter of wheels on the tracks had grown louder, the bushes and fireflies outside the window were coming into clearer focus, and Harry could tell they were beginning to slow down.

For the last few hours, Harry had been deep in thought, eyes glued to the window outside as he considered his last conversation with Lane—Lane, who was sat on the other side of the train, deep in conversation with a very stoic Professor McGonagall. The two of them had been deep in conversation for the last hour or so on staff etiquette, general backgrounds, and last minute information Professor McGonagall had deemed it necessary for Lane to know before their imminent arrival.

While interesting, Harry was only really half paying attention. He couldn’t help but worry over Lane’s very worrisome recounting of what happened with the goblins. The nature of the encounter was unique enough, but Harry had really been struggling with the last hour, was that Lane hadn’t told him until today.

Harry knew that he was still relatively new in her life - she had only met him just two odd years ago, and only in the last week had he officially become her family. That was a lot to take in, sure, but even then she had always endeavored to tell him everything. Arguments she had with rowdy coworkers, what she thought about the temperature of her dinner, and of course every book and TV show they watched together. He thought he always knew what she was thinking.

But she hasn’t always shared everything, has she? A voice in the back of his mind whispered. When she didn’t know how to help you with the Dursleys she didn’t tell you what she was planning until it was done. And you still haven’t really heard her talk about her own father. That last thought gave him pause, and thoughts and emotions flickered through his mind at dizzying speed.

She must be protecting me. Understanding.

Doesn’t she think I can handle it? Indignation.

I’m 11 years old - I’ve been through enough now to relate. Pride.

She’s always wanted to keep me safe though. Shame.

She will tell me some day. Trust.

We all have our own secrets. Empathy.

He looked back over at his mum - she had a smile on her face and her hands in her lap, but Harry could see her leg shaking underneath the lavender robes McGonagall had brought for her. He could tell she was nervous, and exhaling, he turned back to the windows.

I can wait. Determination.

Still though, he wondered what could possibly be the source of her “immunity.” A blood curse? Unlikely - Harry felt like she would have remembered. A dark wizard - like the one who killed his parents? Again, unlikely - Dumbledore never mentioned the possibility (which he guessed wasn’t saying much). The creature thing sounded the weirdest out loud, but was probably the best option - he didn’t know much about her father, but after finding out Black was a famous wizarding surname, it was his best guess right now.

Either way, even if it turned out to be dangerous for her - he was weirdly grateful to it. She would never have found him, never have noticed him or remembered him enough to save him, had it not been for her immunity.

What were the odds though, of someone like him - a wizard - meeting someone like her - someone Dumbledore himself had never even heard of. Again, he felt like Dumbledore must know something they didn’t. Even without Lane’s intuition for danger, Harry could tell he was up to no good.

He sighed again, here’s to another year of watching my back.

He thought he had left that behind with the Dursleys, but really they hadn’t had a choice than to come to Hogwarts. He and Lane had sat up for days after finding out he was magical - debating whether they could make a run for America now that Henry Black was going to be adopted. They had debated trying to find a magical school on the continent (for there must be others if there were some in England) - or for just ignoring his magical heritage all together.

Shockingly, Lane had been most vehemently against that last one - “It’s a part of you, Harry, a part of your parents and your past” she had said, “I could never take that from you.”

He had tried to convince her that in giving it up she wouldn’t be “taking it” from it, but she refused to budge. The longer they discussed, however, the more inevitably they circled back to what Harry had realized was Lane’s true biggest fear. Bigger than her immunity, bigger than a giant bursting in on them, bigger than quitting their jobs and running away either - that if they denied Dumbledore, he would track them down and separate them.

He had proven that he could find them already - across all of Scotland - what’s to stop him from finding them in the US?

But Harry was still so confused - who cares if he finds us in the US? “He can’t erase me from your head, Mum!” He had all but shouted, “there’s no way for them to get through your immunity - they tried.” He had been so frustrated, so confused why his usually brilliant, astute, brave mum was so resignedly giving in to the whims of a man who had all but left Harry for sorrow with his relatives.

Lane had paused, one hand on the tea kettle, one hand on top of Kat, and leveled him with the saddest eyes he had ever seen. “Harry,” she said softly, setting down the kettle and coming to kneel in front of him, “Don’t you understand love?”

He had shook his head, confused.

“They can’t erase you from my head, bug, but…they could erase me from yours.”

Harry shook his head again and blinked rapidly, refocusing on the trees beginning to slow down outside the train windows, desperately trying to forget the panic brought on by what she had said. He couldn’t believe how stupid he had been - not realizing what was truly at stake. The next day, they had begun packing to move to Hogwarts.

One week later they were here - on the Hogwarts Express.

It’s not that he wasn’t excited to go to Hogwarts - to learn magic, to learn more about his parents - he was ecstatic. It was something out of a dream.

But who knows what that would mean for him and Lane in the end - their little family. At least she was coming with him. Thank goodness she was coming with him.

He felt the seat cushion next to him dip and he turned to see Lane sitting beside him on the train bench smiling, “all ok Bug?” She asked, brushing his bangs off his face to display the thin lightning shaped scar that McGonagall’s glamours had been only partially able to hide.

“Yes, Professor Black,” he teased, to see her grin even wider.

She pointed back out the window where the dense woods outside were slowly parting to reveal a picture-book village tucked into a valley, rooftops slanting at odd angles with smoke curling lazily from chimneys. It looked like something from one of the old storybooks Lane used to read him.

“Is that Hogsmeade?” He asked, voice full of wonder.

Professor McGonagall, who had come to join them from the other side of the car, gave a rare smile. “Indeed, Mr. Potter. We’ll be arriving at the Hogsmeade Station shortly.” She paused, looking at the two of them adding, “You need not worry about your baggage or your pets, Professor Black, your belongings will be brought up to the school.”

Harry turned to look at the cats, who had been remarkably calm and docile in their carriers for the duration of the trip. Lane exhaled softly, her shoulders dropping with what Harry assumed was relief that she wouldn’t have to carry them both into the castle.

The train slowed, and with one last whistle blast, stopped.

Harry, all fears and uncertainty forgotten in the face of seeing his new school - and all this magic up close, suddenly stood, pulling Lane up with him and practically bounding in place.

“We made it,” he said, grabbing hold of Lane’s hand. She beamed back at him, squeezing his hand before letting it drop and turning to follow McGonagall.

“Come on then,” she said.

Outside, the platform buzzed with loud summer bugs and the low hiss of steam. The air smelled of pine and the damp water of the steam engine. It was long and made of thick stone bricks each the length of Harry or more. On the other side of the engine - the side they had not disembarked from - Harry could see the tops of some of the village houses. On their side, however, was a dense forest waiting at the bottom of the steps.

McGonagall led them across the empty platform and down those very steps with brisk efficiency, and Harry tried desperately to take in everything - the lanterns swinging overhead, the mountains in the distance, and sun low in the distance. It was already magical.

As they walked, Mcgonagall leaned down slightly to speak to Harry. “When you return in September, Mr. Potter, you and the other first years will arrive to this same platform by the Hogwarts Express, but you will be taking the boats - as that is the ritual of all new students. But since you are not to have seen Hogwarts before, and the camaraderie of arriving together is too important to miss, we’ll be taking the carriages up to the school today.”

Harry nodded, hoping he would be able to hide his familiarity with both the platform and Hogwarts when September came.

“Plus,” she added, with the closest thing to a smile Harry had ever seen, “we wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise, would we?”

Harry grinned. “No, ma’am.”

She nodded, and led them right up to a carriage waiting in the rough woodchipped clearing just beyond the platform. It was rather large, open-aired, wooden, but what caught Harry’s attention most was the fact that they didn’t appear to be pulled by anything at all.

“Professor,” he asked as they approached. “How do they move.”

McGonagall turned to answer, but before she could speak, Lane’s voice cut in.

“What do you mean, Harry?” She asked, frowning, “You don’t see the horse…thing?”

Harry blinked. “Horse thing? What horse thing?”

Lane’s eyes narrowed on a point at the front of the carriage. “It’s right there attached to the front of the carriage - horse-like. Big bat wings - reptilian looking. Are you really telling me you aren’t seeing this, bug?”

Harry looked at her like she’d grown a second head. Turning to McGonagall to ask, he paused when he saw her quietly considering Lane.

“Thestrals,” McGonagall finally said softly, “Magical creatures. Invisible to most, but seen by some. It’s… usually the younger students who have difficulty seeing them.” She paused, seemingly considering something, then continued, “it might be due to your immunity, Professor Black, that you can see them.”

Lane nodded slowly, mollified, but Harry felt a cold shiver run down his spine from a source he couldn’t name.

They climbed into the carriage together, and Harry leaned slightly over the side to watch as carriage gave a sudden jolt, and began to pull away from the scarlet steam engine.

While the trees passed by them, and Harry watched the birds fly by, he asked, “will we make it in time for dinner?”

“Yes,” McGonagall answered. “Dinner should be just beginning as we arrive. It’s served around 7:30 during the summer season for the professors who have already made their way to Hogwarts, which is most by this point, if not all.”

She paused, tilting her head to think, “I believe the entirety of the staff has already arrived as our first staff meeting is tomorrow. They may not be all at dinner, however - some professors prefer to eat in their own quarters.”

Harry saw Lane glance nervously at McGonagall, and Harry could tell the mention of all the other teachers waiting made her stomach twist.

“Who are they?” He asked, wanting to ease the tension. “The other professors?”

McGonagall lifted a brow. “There are 12 full time professors and Staff this year at Hogwarts. Of course, you already know Professor Dumbledore, our esteemed Headmaster.”

Lane and Harry exchanged a glance at the mention of dumbledore, with Harry only slightly rolling his eyes which made Lane send him a wink his way.

McGonagall continued on, unnoticing, “Then you have the four heads of houses. Myself, the head of Gryffindor House, teaching Transfiguration. This will be my 36th year at Hogwarts.”

“36 years!” Lane exclaimed, and Harry was impressed.

“Yes,” McGonagall said wryly, “it is quite common for witches and wizards to remain in the same profession for the entirety of their lives. There are not many of us, and so there are not many employment opportunities. It is especially common, however, for professors to remain at Hogwarts as it is, not to boast, an extremely prestigious and desirable position in the wizarding world.”

Harry watched Lane nodding at that - it makes sense, he thought.

“Then, after myself,” McGonagall explained, “there are the other three head of houses. Professor Sprout, Head of Hufflepuff and Herbology professor. A kinder witch you’ll never meet,” she added, “Professor Flitwick, Head of Ravenclaw - brilliant of course. And Professor Snape, Head of Slytherin and our Potions Master. He’s our youngest member of staff, or was before you.”

“Potions master,” Lane asked, “not Potions Professor?”

McGonagall shook her head - “My mistake - he is both master and professor. Professor is his title, Master is his qualification - much like a, what do you call it, muggle doctorate.”

Lane nodded, and McGonagall continued, “then we have other members of our teaching staff that teach both core and elective classes. Professor Quirrell is returning to Hogwarts this year to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts. Professor Sinistra teaches Astronomy, Professor Vector teaches Arithmancy, Professor Trelawney teaches Divination, Professor Babbling teaches Ancient Runes, Professor Vector, Arithmancy, Professor Binns teaches History of Magic, and Professor Grubbly-Plank teaches Care of Magical Creatures. You’ll see Professors Quirrell, Sinistra and Vector quite often, but Professors Binns, Babbling, Grubbly-Plank and Trelawney rarely come down for meals, so I wouldn’t expect to see them often.”

“Why is that?” Harry asked curiously.

“Well for starters, Professor Binns is a ghost, so he does’t need to eat.”

“A real ghost!” Harry exclaimed, “I read about them in the book, but didn’t think they were real!”

McGonagall chuckled, “I assure you, Mr. Potter, he is very real, and will be teaching you History of Magic until your OWLs when you may decide whether or not to proceed with his course.

“Professor Trelawney almost never comes out of her tower,” McGonagall exclaimed, and Harry could see the signs of…something. Annoyance, maybe, in the corner of her eyes, “Grubbly-Plank rarely leaves her magical creatures, and Professor Babbling is…incredibly particular - keeps to herself. A brilliant woman, but very unique. You muggles have a term for people like her - servant maybe?”

“Do you mean savant?” Lane asked, tilting her head curiously.

“Yes,” McGonagall said with relief at the understanding.

“What’s a savant?” Harry prodded, and this time Lane turned to answer him.

“A savant is someone who is incredibly brilliant and talented at a few specific things - maybe even one skill. Like Mozart at composing. Or your Teddy Sheringham at football.” Harry nodded along as she spoke, “but sometimes,” she added looking at McGonagall’s face to confirm, “that talent comes with significant challenges in other area of life. Like all of your abilities - even something as mundane as tying a shoe - are rerouted towards that one skill.

“Sometimes, maybe,” she said emboldened by McGonagall’s confirming nods, “it means that you have extreme difficulty talking to others - making friends, leaving your house. I think what Professor McGonagall is implying is that Professor Babbling is brilliant at Ancient Runes, and can teach others how to memorize a language, but outside of teaching Runes or talking about Runes or translating Runes, she struggles to adapt.”

Harry sat still, absorbing this information - he had never come across anyone skilled like this in his whole life, but he thought nonetheless of the son of the head waitress at the Rose & Crown Pub, little Rory who could never make eye contact with him or say hi back.

“Like Rory?” He asked Lane, and she tilted her head, throwing her eyes up in thought, “kind of Bug - Rory is probably more challenged than someone like Professor Babbling, if she’s teaching, it’s all on a spectrum - he’s probably further down the road than she is, if that makes sense?”

He didn’t really understand the road analogy, but determined to wait until he met her in person - sure that would explain everything.

“Is that everyone?” Lane turned to ask McGonagall.

“All the Professors, yes, but we have a few more members of staff,” she replied, “Madame Pomfrey is our Healer, Argus Filch our caretaker, Rubeus Hagrid, who you met, is our Gamekeeper. Irma Pince is the librarian, and Rolanda Hooch is our Flying Instructor.”

“Jeez,” Lane breathed, “so many names.”

Harry’s mind buzzed with names and Professor McGonagall’s explanations - he hoped Lane would be able to make some friends of her own among the staff - maybe with this Professor Snape who was close to her age. He looked again at Lane, who had turned to now stare quietly at the trees, her hand resting over her heart as if grounding herself.

Harry reached out instinctively to grab her spare hand and said quietly, “Thank you again. For coming to Hogwarts with me.”

Lane looked at him, eyes warming, and smiled softly. “You’re welcome — bug.” She winked, and Harry grinned at his fake identity despite himself.

McGonagall, who had been quietly watching them, turned to Lane. Her voice warm and steady, she said, “Professor Black, you are a capable and perceptive woman. You’re not alone in this. Myself, young Mr. Potter, and even Headmaster Dumbledore,” Lane’s mouth tightened as McGonagall carried on, “are all here to support you. The other professors and staff are kind and committed, and I believe you will find your footing among us. You’ll do brilliantly. We’re with you.”

Lane took a steadying breath, and Harry saw her discreetly blink back tears at what was surprisingly thoughtful from the older woman. “Thank you, Professor McGonagall.”

McGonagall gave a small nod.

Harry, who had been watching the entire exchange with quiet focus, still holding Lane’s hand, suddenly blinked and leaned forward, “Look!” He said, pointing over Lane’s shoulder, “That must be it!”

They al turned in unison.

A castle had come into view in the distance, like something out of a wild dream. Perched on a high cliff above the sprawling forest, the castle was a mass of towers and turrets, windows arched and squared glowed faintly in the evening light. The lowering sun gilded the tallest spires, casting long shadows down its ivy-draped walls and glinting off the brass sculptures that adorned some of the higher peaks. Harry could make out the outline of enormous doors in front of a grand staircase past crawling walls, and a great stone bridge that led across a chasm to the outer grounds beyond.

Banners fluttered from high windows, owls and birds swooped between towers, and the wind rattled the panes of the tower on the far left. The whole structure seemed impossibly ancient, and Harry couldn’t help the awe that swept through him. The same awe that had struck him when he first saw the ocean for the first time before the letters that changed everything. The awe he felt from making his first friend, from Lane telling him she was taking him away from the Dursleys.

The carriage turned a bend, giving him a better view, and Harry could see a lake below reflecting the castle like a mirror, its glassy surface disrupted only by the occasional ripple from what must have been the giant squid mentioned in Hogwarts a History. The forbidden forest must be on the other side of the castle, he thought, as well as the Quidditch Pitch to the East.

He realized suddenly, when a fly buzzed by his face, that his mouth was hung slightly open. He couldn’t help it - it was more beautiful than anything he had ever imagined.

He heard a faint chuckle behind him and saw Lane turn her head with his back to look at Professor McGonagall. She sat, smiling slyly at the wonder lighting up their faces, and said, “Welcome, Mr. Potter, Professor Black, to Hogwarts.”

And she winked.

 

They clambered out of the carriage the moment it pulled to a stop in front of the great wooden gates, Harry immediately tripping over a loose lace in his trainers and catching himself on the side. Lane gave his shoulder a steadying pat as they made their way up the stone steps that led to the castle.

The path wound through a wide stone courtyard framed by arched cloisters and lit lanterns. Flowerbeds, fountains, and shadowy plants spilled over the path and the air had developed a slight chill from the winds coming off the lake.

McGonagall led the way, narrating as she went. “This is the front quad. Through here is the Entrance Hall, and to the left is the Great Hall, where dinner will be held. This is the heart of the castle - and the primary way in and out of the grounds.”

She paused at the threshold, turning slightly, “Do either of you need to use the lavatory before we proceed?”

Lane shook her head, looking at Harry. “We both went on the train.”

“Very well,” McGonagall said, tone crisp. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll introduce you to the staff.”

With that, she pushed open the doors.

The Entrance Hall was, if possible, even more magnificent inside. Cavernous, towering, massive — Harry quickly ran out of the words to describe the magnitude of what he was seeing. The flagstone floor echoed beneath their feet and the vaulted ceiling disappeared into the shadows above them. Torches and…moving paintings lined the walls decorating the stone with flashes of color. The whole place smelled faintly of wax and polished wood. It was…overwhelming.

Just as Harry was beginning to get his bearings straight, McGonagall turned sharply to the left, pushing open the slightly smaller wooden doors, and Harry’s breath caught again.

The Great Hall was, again, unlike anything he had ever seen. Four enormous tables stretched the length of the chamber, lit by thousands of floating candles drifting through the air beneath the sky that Harry knew from Hogwarts a History was just a ceiling. The walls were lined with high windows and tall banners, one for each House—scarlet and gold with a lion for Gryffindor, a green and silver snake for Slytherin, blue and bronze with an eagle for Ravenclaw (he still wondered why it wasn’t a raven), and a yellow and black badger for Hufflepuff.

The tables were empty though, and pushed slightly to the side, as no students were at Hogwarts yet. But the tables at the end of the rooms, however, were filled with who Harry assumed were professors, witches and wizards of every shape and style, all clad in robes, some plain and others elaborately embroidered. Their eyes turned towards the newcomers.

Lane’s back straightened beside him, and Harry felt a hand lightly at the small of his back. She whispered, “Ready, Jake?”

Harry swallowed and nodded. “Yeah.”

Together they strode forward.

At the high table, they saw a tall man in richly colored robes stand, his long white beard gleaming in the candlelight.

“Welcome, Professor Black!” Albus Dumbledore called, his voice carrying across the room as he brought his hands together with a clap.

One by one, the rest of the staff also rose from their seats.

Harry suddenly felt very small. He was the only child in the room—and the only one not wearing the rich heavy robes of the wizarding world. His trainers squeaked slightly on the stone, and he hugged the hem of his sweater, wishing he could disappear.

He felt himself stumble ever so slightly as they approached the table, but of course, Lane was there to steady him, placing a hand on his shoulder and sending him a smile despite the nerves he could see were practically eating her.

As they reached the dais, Dumbledore descended from his seat and met Lane with open arms.

He embraced her briefly and warmly, clearly ignorant (or choosing to ignore) the stiffening of her spine as he did so, then placed a guiding hand on her back, leaving Harry a few steps behind. “May I present,” he said to the assembled staff, “Professor Lane Black—our new Muggle Studies Professor.”

As he spoke, Harry’s eyes scanned the professors one by one, as he had often seen Lane do during her work meetings, watching their reactions with mounting suspicion and curiosity.

A large, squat woman near the center of the table gave Lane a beaming smile and began clapping softly before anyone else. Her robes were earthy and flecked with a bit of moss, and Harry thought he saw a leaf poking out from beside her ears. Harry thought she looked immensely kind, and liked her instantly.

This isn’t so bad so far, Harry thought, she seems nice.

He turned his gaze to the man next to her - a thin, tall, sallow-faced man in black robes with greasy hair and a hooked nose. His expression twisted audibly as Dumbledore introduced Lane, and Harry felt his stomach twist. This one didn’t look pleased, and he wracked his brain trying to guess which Professor he might be as he turned to look at the rest of the wizards surrounding them.

The rest of the staff seemed somewhere between lightly polite and heartily welcoming—some nodding with interest, others smiling quietly. One very pretty witch with skin and a mass of spiraling black curls even gave lane an encouraging little wave, while a shorter man with spectacles lifted his goblet slightly in a sort of toast.

Then Harry’s gaze swept further along the table and landed on a giant of a man whose bulk took up nearly two seats. The man had wild black hair, beetle black eyes, and a grizzled beard.

 

Harry stiffened. It was Hagrid.

His whole body tensed, unbidden memories flooding back of that wild night at the barn — the broken door, the machete, his and Lane’s desperate fear. But the man—Hagrid—caught Harry’s eye and gave a warm, hesitant, almost sheepish wave.

Harry exhaled slowly. He reminded himself firmly that Hagrid wasn’t here to take him away. Not this time — still he shifted closer to Lane.

“And this,” Dumbledore continued, noticing Harry’s movement towards his mum, “is her cousin, Mr. Jacob Hunt, who was visiting her in England on Holiday when I convinced her to come and teach with us this term. Due to her last minute appointment, he’ll be staying with us for the next two weeks, until Professor Black can portray him back to his family. You all can introduce yourselves individually to him later, but I’m sure he’ll fit right in.”

Unbidden, Harry’s eyes flickered back to the sour-looking man from earlier, whose sneer had impossibly deepened at his introduction. How odd, Harry thought, does he hate children?

With a gracious wave, Dumbledore gestured towards two empty seats set just a few places down from his own. “For now, please—come sit.”

Lane was directed to a seat next to Professor McGonagall. It was situated across from the squat, kindly witch who Harry was beginning to think was Professor Sprout, and the sneering man in black who Harry had no guesses for. Harry took the chair to her right, finding himself tucked between Lane and Dumbledore, directly across from a tiny, excitable-looking man with tufty black hair and spectacles as large as his face — the wizard who had toasted to Lane when she was introduced.

Harry was just about to properly introduce himself when Dumbledore rose again, cutting him off.

“Now that we are all assembled,” he said, blue eyes twinkling slightly over his half-moon spectacles as he surveyed the seated staff, “thank you all for being here. I know the pre-term season can be rather hectic, but I trust this will be the beginning of a strong and spirited year. We’ll hold our first staff meeting tomorrow morning at ten, but until then—relax, settle in, and be kind and welcoming to our newcomers.”

With that, he paused, spreading his arms, and clapped once.

In an instant, the tables filled with food.

Harry’s eyes widened in wonder. Dishes appeared in every shape and color: golden roasted chickens with crackling skin, tureens of thick potato leek soup (Lane’s favorite, he noted with a small smile), mountains of buttery mashed potatoes, trays of Yorkshire pudding, and glistening vegetables roasted with herbs. There were warm rolls, steaming pies filled with beef and gravy, and bowls of green beans with toasted almonds. Even desserts had begun to arrive—trifles, sticky toffee pudding, and slabs of chocolate fudge with fluffy white frosting.

He had never seen such a feast and had no idea where to start.

He looked up at Lane, who was clearly controlling her own awe far better than him at the sudden appearance of the feast. Her eyes flickered quickly over the food—afraid to let herself react too openly.

“Am I… allowed to eat?” Harry asked quietly, suddenly shy again.

She softened at once, looking down at him with a smile, “of course.” She said gently, reaching forward to begin serving herself some of the roasted vegetables and soup.

Harry hesitated only a moment longer before following her lead. He piled a bit of everything onto his plate (except the boiled greens), and had just taken a few bites of what was easily the juiciest chicken he had ever tasted, when the squat woman across from him leaned in with a bright smile.

“Mr. Hunt, was it?”

Harry nearly choked. His heart jumped and his mind raced - could he do this? Keep the cover story straight? There was no backing out now - only one way to find out, he thought. He swallowed hastily and nodded. “Yes. Jacob—but I go by Jake.”

“Lovely to meet you, Jake,” the witch enthused, sending a comforting smile his way, “My name is Professor Sprout—I teach Herbology, the study of magical plants, and I’m the Head of Hufflepuff, one of our four houses. You’re Professor Black’s cousin, yes?”

“Er—yes. That’s right,” Harry answered, trying to keep his voice steady, desperately wishing he could take another bite of buttery peas.

She gestured to her left and right. “And these are Professors Snape and Flitwick.”

To the right, Professor Flitwick, the small man who had toasted Lane, gave an excited little wave. To her left, Professor Snape merely sniffed and looked away, already disinterested.

Harry’s heart sank. He had been hoping the one professor closest to Lane’s age could have been a friend, but it seemed this Professor Snape was an extremely unpleasant lot.

He looked back as Professor Flitwick began to speak, “Hello, Mr. Hunt! As Pomona mentioned, I’m Professor Filius Flitwick. I teach Charms, and am Head of Ravenclaw House. Welcome to Hogwarts!”

Harry smiled gratefully. “Thank you, sir. It’s…pretty incredible here.”

“Yes, it is,” Flitwick said, eyes twinkling, “I bet you weren’t expecting to be here on your visit to see your cousin this year were you?”

Harry smirked, if only you knew just how true that was, “You’re right, sir, it was an absolute surprise, but in the end I think a welcome one.”

Flitwick beamed at that, and Sprout nodded in agreement. “So, how long have you been in Britain, Jake?”

“Just a couple weeks,” Harry said, managing not to glance at Lane who he could hear was deep in conversation with one of the professors across from Dumbledore. “Came for the summer holidays.”

“I will say you have excellent timing,” Sprout said, piling more steak pies onto her plate, which Harry belatedly realized contained not a single vegetable, “Hogwarts is beautiful in late August.”

“Especially in the greenhouses,” Flitwick added. “Sprout’s work is unmatched.”

“Oh, you flatter me,” Sprout chuckled, and Harry wondered briefly at their familiarity before gratefully turning back to his peas, assuming the conversation was now over.

“Do you know what you’ll do while your cousin is setting up for the term?” Flitwick asked Harry—again before he could bring another spoonful of peas to his mouth.

He blinked. “Um…probably read. Spend time with Lane. Explore a little, if I’m allowed.”

“Of course you’re allowed,” Sprout said with a wink, adding, “do you like plants Jake?”

“Er—yes,” Harry said honestly, “I used to do a lot of gardening which I quite enjoyed.”

“Excellent,” Sprout said firmly. “I’ll send you a pot of puffapods after you’ve settled in. They’re delightful companions, and if you ever find yourself bored while you’re here, you’re more than welcome to spend some time with me in the greenhouses. Heavens knows there are about a thousand tasks I could use the help with before the students arrive.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, warmed by her offer, peas temporarily forgotten. “That sounds…really nice.”

Sprout beamed as Flitwick interrupted, “How old did you say you were Jake?”

“Just turned eleven.”

“Ah! Then will you be attending Ilvermorny this fall?”

Harry hesitated, not knowing what Ilvermony was but desperately hoping it was the Hogwarts of America. Throwing caution to the wind, he replied, “No, I’ll probably be homeschooled by my… parents.”

Flitwick raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Really? That’s unusual. Most young witches and wizards look forward to school, although I know attendance is not mandatory in the States the way it is here.”

“My parents are a bit…private,” Harry said choosing his words carefully, “they’re Tlingit, you see, and my grandfather in particular believes in teaching what he calls the old ways still.”

There, he thought, that should be enough of an explanation.

Unfortunately, however, Harry noticed that at this, Professor Snape finally seemed intrigued by their conversation, which made him terribly nervous.

“I see,” Sprout said thoughtfully. “I think I’ve heard of the Tlingit—a Native American tribe?” Harty nodded, not bothering to correct her terminology, and Sprout looked inordinately pleased for having guessed it. “Well,” she continued, “I hope you find your time here enlightening all the same.”

He nodded, returning to his peas, only to once. Again. Be. Thwarted. By. Conversation. As Flitwick followed up with, “Do you have any magical training yet?”

Screw it, Harry thought, shoving the spoon full of peas into his mouth and chewing before replying, “A little growing up,” he said hoping that would be different enough from his own experience for them to not guess who he was - he really didn’t like the way that Snape was looking at him, “But mostly I’ve just read a lot. Lane’s been helping me.”

“A good mentor indeed,” Flitwick replied, glancing down the table towards where Lane and the pretty dark skinned witch were still talking.

Harry grinned at the praise, and, despite the interruption of eating his peas, turned to Professors Sprout and Flitwick to say, “Thank you for making me feel welcome.”

He meant it, too. He had been so nervous about meeting the other Professors - about Lane making friends. The only exposure he had was the wildness of Hagrid, the craftiness of Dumbledore, and while McGonagall was polite, she was still severe. These two professors, however, seemed like truly good people, and he found himself looking forward to both of their classes.

“Of course, dear,” Sprout said, refilling her goblet.

 

The rest of the meal passed quietly. Professors Sprout and Flitwick, kind as they were, seemed to sense Harry’s need for space and allowed him to focus on eating. He spent most of his time listening in on Lane’s new conversation with Professor McGonagall about the castle and what she needed to bring to the staff meeting tomorrow.

As everyone turned to their desserts, Sprout turned to Lane with curiosity in her eyes.

“So, Profesor Black,” she began, “if you don’t mind me asking—how old are you?”

Lane smiled, “not at all. I’m twenty-seven, but I’ll be turning twenty-eight next month.”

“Quite young for a professor,” Flitwick remarked with a smile, “although Dumbledore has never been shy about giving younger talent a chance. Before you, Severus here was our youngest professor.”

Sprout leaned forward at that, calling, “Severus, dear, how old are you again?”
Snape, who Harry privately thought was less like a “dear” than anyone he had ever met, replied in a bored drawl, “Thirty-one.”

Lane brightened a little at that. Even as unfriendly as he seemed, Harry could tell she was happy to know someone else was relatively close in age.

Sprout turned to the elegant black witch seated on Dumbledore’s other side, “Aurora, you’re thirty-five, right?”

The witch, who Harry now realized was the one who had waved at Lane earlier (the same one he saw conversing with her before dessert as well), nodded. “That’s right, Pomona. And don’t worry—we’ve already made plans to get to know each other,” she added, smiling warmly at Lane who Harry was relieved to see smiled back. “Professor Black and I will be just fine.”

“Excellent!” Sprout said cheerfully. “Just excellent. It’s lovely having fresh energy at the table”

She gave Lane a kind, appraising look, and tone still cheerful asked, “You seem wonderfully grounded, dear, where in the States are you from if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Originally?” Lane asked, and seeing Sprout’s nod continued, “Ketchikan Alaska, Born and raised.”

“And what brought you here to Britain of all places?” Flitwick inquired.

Lane looked amused at the inquiry-far more composed than Harry had felt during his mini-inquisition. “I was living in London actually, working at a Muggle consulting firm after college in America—mostly for the experience. Where I grew up, the magical and non-magical communities are pretty intermingled. One day, a few wee ago, Professor Dumbledore just showed up at my house.”

Harry saw alarmed, that Snape had turned to give Lane his full attention. But Lane, undeterred, continued on, saying, “He told me he’d known my grandfather. They fought together in the war against Grindlewald. Apparently Papa ratted me out, said I was in London and worth the visit.”

Harry felt a surge of admiration. She was telling the story with such a calm confidence—it was impressive.

“And how could I turn down an offer to teach at Hogwarts?” Lane continued. “My only hesitation was that Jake was supposed to stay with me for a few more weeks while we explored the UK - but Dumbledore said he could come, too, and that sealed the deal.”

“Well, we’re glad you said yes,” Sprout said warmly. “We haven’t had a new staff member since Severus joined many years ago—and dear Charity was so looking forward to spending more time with her children.”

She leaned in a bit, “What are you looking forward to most, Professor Black?”

Harry could see Lane taking a moment to think, and found himself curious to what she would say.

“Probably just experiencing something completely new,” she settled on. Harry barely stopped a chuckle from slipping out - that was the understatement of the year.

“Anything you’re worried about?” Flitwick asked gently.
That was clearly easier for Lane to answer, “Everything,” she admitted with a half-smile. “Being young, not being taken seriously, not doing a good job, not being able to keep up with the students—probably the same as all of you thought at one point.”

They all laughed, “You’ll be brilliant,” Sprout added, “you’ve already the right attitude, and you’re quite pretty.” Lane choked on her wine, “You’ve already made quite the entrance in those robes, didn’t she Severus?”

Snape, to Harry’s immense relief, completely ignored Sprout and stabbed a carrot with alarming intensity, chewing slowly.

Sprout leaned forward towards Lane and stage-whispered, “Never you mind him.” Lane giggled, wiping the wine from the corner of her mouth, although Harry could tell she was relieved.

“Was your specialty before Muggle Studies?” Flitwick asked.

“I actually attended a Muggle University back in the States,” Lane answered. “I had teaching experience there as a TA while studying mathematics and anthropology, the study of Muggle culture. That academic focus and teaching experience—plus the time I spent living among Muggles—was part of what convinced my Papa and Professor Dumbledore I was a good fit the Muggle Studies position. He thought my more contemporary, immersive perspective would bring something valuable to the students.”

“Fascinating,” Flitwick said, eyes lighting up, “I would love to chat with you sometime over tea.”

Lane smiled nodded sheepishly as Sprout added, “You’ll fit in just fine here.”

Harry, who had of course been watching this interaction, started to feel pleasantly sleepy after his third helping of treacle tart. As he set down his fork, Dumbledore leaned over him, eyes twinkling behind half-moon spectacles. Harry couldn’t help but lean slightly back, “and how are you enjoying the Hogwarts fare, Mr. Hunt?”

Harry blinked, then smiled politely. “It’s amazing, sir. Almost as good as Lane’s cooking.”

“Good, good,” Dumbledore said, nodding, “the house-elves do take great pride in their work.”

Hoping the conversation was over, Harry turned his head to look at the other professors, only to hear Dumbledore following up very quickly, saying, “it’s a pleasure having you here, Mr. Hunt. In fact, I would be delighted to take you and your cousin for a small jaunt into Hogsmeade sometime before you leave.”
Harry did not love the idea of being with Dumbledore, but did love the idea of going into Hogsmeade, and decided there was no way he could refuse the offer in front of everyone else. “That sounds very nice, Professor. Thank you.”

“You’re most welcome,” Dumbledore said with a wink, then stood with the rest of the staff as the dessert plates disappeared.

He offered a brief bow. “Goodnight all. Sleep well, see you tomorrow morning for the staff meeting.”

As the staff began to shuffle out, Harry caught sight of Lane laughing next to Professor Sinistra, her hands animated as she chatted away. After the myriad of questions earlier, and his discomfort after a conversation with Dumbledore, her cheer warmed him considerably.

When she spotted Harry heading towards her, she grinned. “Hey, kiddo. Like the dinner?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, but he wasn’t really listening at all to what she said, his eyes locked on Sinistra.

“So tomorrow, after the staff meeting,” Lane continued, following his gaze and turning back to Sinistra, “You’ll show me your tower?”

“Absolutely,” Sinistra replied. “I’ll give you two the full tour of the castle.”

“Perfect,” Lane beamed, then turned as McGonagall approached.

McGonagall gave Sinistra a polite nod. “If you two are ready, I’ll take you to your quarters.”

“Thank you,” Lane said, then turned back to Sinistra. “Goodnight, Aurora.”

“Goodnight, Lane. Bye, Jake.” Sinistra said kindly as she turned and walked away.

Harry’s cheeks flush pink. He couldn’t stop watching her as she walked away. She looked like a princess from his books in her dark burgundy robes.

Lane, of course, noticed his stares and smirked as they followed McGonagall out of the hall, “careful Jake,” she teased under her breath. “She’s very pretty, huh?”

Harry turned, if possible, even redder. “I wasn’t— I mean, yeah…”

Lane grinned, clearly enjoying herself, but stopped at McGonagall’s disapproving glare. Pausing to send Harry one last wink before following her out of the hall.

McGonagall began leading them away from the Great Hall, back through the Entrance Hall and up one of the grand (stationary) staircases. Harry spared one last glance back at the floating candles before they vanished from view.

How they got to their quarters that first night, he didn’t know - he was so exhausted from travel and dinner and food, that the corridors completely blurred around him. The next thing he knew, he was swaying back and forth in front of a long corridor at the end of a quiet hall. On each side were two ornate paintings and two wooden doors with wrought-iron handles. Wherever they were, it felt private and removed.

“This wing,” McGonagall explained, is where a few of the professors live. Most Heads of House prefer to live near their respective Common Rooms — I myself live near Gryffindor Tower, but in this wing you’ll also find Professors Vector, Hooch, and Quirrell—though I heard from Headmaster Dumbledore he has requested to move to a more secluded chamber near the Defense classroom.”

She stopped in front of a painting depicting a glittering lake at twilight, beautiful enough to snap Harry out of his half-sleepy delerium. The top half showed a shadowy forest much like the one outside the castle, with centaurs galloping through moonlit trees, while the lower half gave a shimmering view beneath the water’s surface. Merpeople drifted lazily through the kelp, and in the center, a beautiful golden-haired mermaid reclined on a rock, combing her hair through with a bone-handled brush.

McGonagall leaned towards Lane and spoke in a hushed tone. “She’s a bit particular. I wasn’t sure how she’d respond to you, or even if you can interact with portraits at all—but give it a try. Say hello.”
Lane tilted her head and stepped towards the portrait, raising her hand. “Hello?”

The mermaid looked up lazily, then slid gracefully from her rock and swam closer to what felt like the surface of the canvas. Within moments, she filled the entire bottom half of the lake, her luminous face peer out at Lane with sharp, curious eyes.

Lane simply looked back, lifting a calm hand in greeting, and smiled.

With that, the mermaid’s face softened into a beautific smile. She waved back, slow and graceful, before drifting back to her rock.

McGonagall let out a small breath of relief. “Good. To open the door, you need only speak the password. You may choose one now—and I recommend changing it one a week.”

Lane thought for a moment. “Hedwig.”

Harry grinned.

The portrait swung open, revealing an old, heavy medieval door with a polished knob shaped like a seashell. Lane was just reaching for it when McGonagall gently raised a hand to stop her.

“This,” she said with a note of delight, “is my favorite part of introducing new professors to the castle.”

Lane arched a brow. “Stopping us from going in?”

Ignoring her, McGonagall continued, “I’m not entirely sure it will work for you, Professor Black, but worst case, it should work for Mr. Hunt.”

Harry, no less confused, turned to Lane with a puzzled expression, only to see her shrug from behind McGonagall.

“Now,” she continued, “grab the handle and, at the same time, think of your ideal home away from home.”

“Why?” Lane asked.

“Because Hogwarts is magical, and…partly sentient,” McGonagall replied. “The castle adapts to what you need.”

“That’s…incredibly cool.” Lane murmured, stunned.

She looked at Harry, and he could see her take a collecting breath before closing her eyes, and gripping the seashell-shaped handle.

A moment passed, and Lane’s eyes opened to look at McGonagall’s who merely prompted, “Try turning the knob.”

Lane did, but the knob refused to turn under her hand.

“Not to worry,” McGonagall said quickly. “Mr. Hunt can step in.”

“Me?” Harry asked, bewildered.

Lane smiled at him, rolling her eyes and gently nudging his shoulder. “Come on, kiddo. My home is your home too after all.”

That made Harry feel a bit better, and at McGonagall’s encouraging nod, he stepped towards the door.

Hand outstretched, he paused, looking back at Lane. “Is there anything you want me to…I dunno, make sure is in there?” He asked, a little uncertain.

Lane laughed and said, “You know how we live. Surprise me. Just make sure there’s an office for me, a room for you, and lots of windows and light for the cats.”

Harry smiled at that — lots of windows. Lots of windows. I can do this.

He took a breath and closed his eyes. He pictured their townhouse with its tall windows, he pictured a fireplace crackling in the center, a cozy room for himself, and a peaceful book-filled study for Lane. He imagined a big closet and beautiful bathroom for her—with a deep tub, because he always made fun of how many baths she liked to take. He imagined a kitchen where she could bake (if they could even have a kitchen in these quarters). He added his own bathroom too, just for fun.

When he reached out and gripped the handle, something brushed against his mind, making him jump, but the sensation was warm, like a soft breath. He felt it sift through his…memories? Like a curious breeze, and he caught random snippets here and there as it played certain moments of his life back for him. The curve of Lane’s handwriting on a shopping list, the sound of rain on the townhouse roof, the soft click of Kat’s claws on the floor…after a while he could find a pattern to them—they were centered around moments of safety, home, and warmth.

It wasn’t scary. It was…a welcome. The castle was welcoming them home—reassuring him that whatever was beyond that door, would be just as wonderful as Golders Green. Nothing like his cupboard under the stairs. He wouldn’t have to leave the feeling of home behind after all.

He smiled, and opened his eyes. Golden light shimmered along the seam of the door, and he felt the warmth of the knob radiating throughout his whole body.

He turned, to see McGonagall smiling softly once more. “Go on, Mr. Hunt,” she said, eyes gleaming. “Open the door.”

He looked at Lane—she was glowing with excitement agave him an eager nod.

He turned the knob and pushed.

 

He was standing in a small entry nook with soft sconces casting golden light onto warm wood-paneled walls. To his right, a full kitchen was tucked under a high stone ceiling, with a small island and two barstools lined up under dark stone counters gleaming under the soft lighting. Open shelves lined one wall, leading to a small pantry. To his left, a small half-bathroom with a round mirror and cozy stone tile work was tucked neatly into the wall next to some coat hooks.

Walking forward past the kitchen, Harry found himself square in the middle of the wide open space that made up Lane’s new living and dining room. The fall wall was made entirely of tall, floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked what must be the dark forest beyond. The moon hung just above the trees, casting silver outlines across the floor. It was too dark to see the details, but Harry thought the view must be breathtaking by daylight.

To his left ran a short hallway. To his right, past the kitchen, two French doors opened into a study with empty bookshelves built right into the walls. A massive stone fireplace rose from the left-hand side of the living room, its hearth already laid with unlit logs.
They stepped in.

Lane gasped audibly and grabbed Harry by the shoulders, shaking him gently. “It’s absolutely perfect,” she said, eyes shining with delight.

Even McGonagall looked impressed. “I’ve never seen windows so large,” she admitted. “Per’s a child’s imagination gives the castle far more freedom as adults.”

“Well,” Harry said sheepishly, looking at his feet, “she did ask for big windows.”

Lane laughed, wide-eyed, “Yes, Harry, but even I wouldn’t have thought to ask for something like this. It’s perfect.” She ran her hand along the smooth kitchen island and peeked into the half-bathroom. Just behind it, she spotted a tiny door.

“Harry,” she said excitedly, stepping into the bathroom and pulling open the door. “Look! It’s perfect for the cats—a whole little room just for them!”

Stepping out, she wandered towards the French doors and into the office, spinning in place. “I can’t wait to fill it with books.”

She pressed her nose to the windowpanes and whispered, “I can’t even see what’s out there—we’ll have to wait until morning.”

Harry couldn’t help but be infected by her enthusiasm, and began to explore on his own. Darting down the hallway to the left of the entryway, he ran into the first door to the right. Beyond the frame was a modest bedroom—simple, comfortable, but with more towering windows. This is mine, he thought with a thrill of delight.

He opened the ensuite bath and froze. The walls and floor were covered in orange-gold glass tiles that shimmered like firelight. He called out.

“Lane! Come see this!”

She appeared, moments later, and the second she saw the bathroom, she gasped.

“Harry—how did you do this?”

He blinked, confused, “do what?”

“This bathroom—it looks exactly like the one I had going up. The stone floor, the yellow-orange glass tiles, even the wooden mirrors.”

He scratched his head. “Er—I didn’t do that.”

She nodded and they continued to the end of the hallway, where a final door opened to reveal Lane’s bedroom.

For what felt like the 40th time today, Harry’s jaw dropped again.

The space was massive. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined the far wall, wrapping around the corner. To the left stood a colossal walk-in-closet and an attached powder room with sleek cabinetry. But the bathroom to the left was the centerpiece — a gleaming, spa-like sanctuary covered entirely in cool green glass tiles.

A small sunken seated shower and a gigantic sunken tub dominated one end, surrounded by more windows (which Harry bought must be magical since he thought they weren’t facing the outside), and another wooden barrel-like structure sat nearby.

“Oh! A cold plunge,” Lane said, delighted.

There was even a custom vanity and empty cupboards, just waiting to be filled.

All in all, Harry felt pretty chuffed with himself.

“Well?” He asked, grinning. “Not bad right?”

Lane didn’t answer. With a start, he realized she was crying.

“Lane? What’s wrong?”

She shook her head quickly, wiping her eyes. “Sorry, Bug. Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. I just…I can’t believe how perfect this is. You know me so well. I wouldn’t even have known myself what I needed. Having this space…it makes everything feel better.”

She pulled him into a tight hug. “Thank you.”

Harry hugged her back, “You’re welcome, Mum,” he said softly.

After a few more minutes of admiring the space, they remembered McGonagall was still in the entryway, and made their way back to wave her off.

“The space is perfect,” Lane said, a little breathless. “Thank you for saving such a good surprise.”

“You’re very welcome,” McGonagall replied, smiling knowingly. Then she added, “I imagine you’re wanting to see your things—and your cats, and maybe get some furniture to sleep on before I leave you for the night.”

Lane’s face lit up at the mention of her cats. “Yes!” She said.

McGonagall clapped her hands once. “Mippy!”

With a sharp crack, a creature appeared out of thin air. Lane started, nearly falling backwards, and Harry just stared.

The creature had enormous eyes and floppy ears, and was wearing what looked like an orange tea towel. Harry recognized it immediately from the book of magical creatures he had picked up in Diagon Alley (when he was trying to figure out what creature Lane could be). It was a House-elf.

The creature looked between them and turned to Professor McGonagall. “You called, Deputy Headmistress McGonagall, ma’am?”

“Mippy,” McGonagall said, “this is Professor Lane Black and her nephew Jacob Hunt, or as Dumbledore has told you in confidence, Harry Potter. Professor Black is our new Muggle Studies Professor.”

She turned to Lane, who was clearly still surprised at both the elf’s appearance, and that Professor McGonagall had introduced him by his real name, managed a small wave, smiled and replied, “Nice to meet you Mippy.”

Mippy smiled back, “Would Miss Professor like her things?”

Lane managed to reply in the affirmative, and with another crack, Mippy vanished, only to return a moment later surrounded by luggage, what looked like all of their boxes, and two very rattled cats in their carriers.

Lane blinked rapidly, collecting herself after the shock of Mippy’s sudden appearance, and even more sudden return. She took a deep breath, then gave the small creature a grateful smile. Slowly, she knelt down on the floor, keeping her movements calm and deliberate, and reached out to shake Mippy’s hand. “Thank you, Mippy.”

Mippy froze, then burst into tearful squeals. “Oh, the Missy Professor of Muggles is too kind! Mippy never thought she’d meet a professor who would shake her hand!”

Professor McGonagall cut in, “Professor Black, Mippy is to be your personal House-Elf while you are teaching at Hogwarts. She will explain in the morning more of what that duty entails, but for now, should you need her, you need only call her name.”

Lane merely smiled warmly, turning back to Mippy. “I’m looking forward to working with you.”

Mippy wiped her eyes on her tea towel and turned to McGonagall again.

“Well,” McGonagall said, “I don’t want to keep you too long—you still need furniture and to begin unpacking.”

"We have many furnitures in storage, Missy Professor of Muggles," Mippy chimed. "If you will just tell Mippy what you is wanting and needing, we can gets to the decorating!"

"Perhaps just the essentials tonight," McGonagall interjected gently. "It’s getting late. Mippy can come back tomorrow evening to finish."

"Oh! Mippy is sorry! Mippy didn’t think of that."

"It’s no trouble," Lane said, rushing to reassure the frantic elf. "Tonight—just two beds, some towels, sheets, and stools for the kitchen counter please. Oh, and the cats will need litter boxes, food, and water. Everything else can wait."

"What style is Missy liking?" Mippy asked.

Lane looked around at the paneling and stone considering. "Honestly just something wooden. I'd like my bed to be large too, please."

With a crack, Mippy vanished.

Lane let the cats out of their carriers, and they darted in opposite directions to explore.

Mippy popped back. "All finished, Missy Muggles Professor! Anything else you is liking me to unpack?"

"Perhaps help with their toiletries and clothing?" McGonagall suggested.

"Oh, we can do that—" Lane began.

"Absolutely not," Mippy interrupted proudly. "Mippy is happy to help!"

With a snap, several boxes disappeared along with Mippy.

McGonagall turned to Lane. "It’s late—and you’re in good hands. Call for Mippy if you need anything. Breakfast is at eight in the Great Hall. I’ll collect you at 7:45. Welcome again to Hogwarts."

With a nod, she stepped outside and gently closed the door behind her.

With both Mippy and McGonagall finally gone, Harry looked at Lane, and Lane looked right back at him. A quiet beat passed, and then Harry asked, "Is this... anything at all like how you saw it going?"

Lane laughed, shaking her head. "No. This is way cooler."

She pulled him into another brief hug. "Thank you again—for the apartment. It’s seriously amazing."

Harry blushed. "You're welcome."

"Come on," she said, brushing her hands together. "Let’s see where our boxes got off to."

They started in Harry’s room. His new bed was made of beautiful dark wood, with deep orange bedding that glowed warmly in the dim light. His closet already had some of his robes and casual clothes hanging neatly. On the bed sat his stuffed owl and penguin, just where he liked them.

In the bathroom, his toiletries were arranged on the counter with surprising care, and fluffy red towels were folded neatly on the rack.

"Alright," Lane said, stretching. "Shower and get ready for bed. I’ll be back in to read to you."

Harry nodded. He watched her disappear into the hall, then grabbed his pajamas from the closet, brushed his teeth, and stepped into the shower. It was perfect—warm, steamy, and modern. He was slightly unnerved by the wall of glass facing outside, but figured that in a magic flat, there was probably some sort of privacy charm on the glass. Otherwise, it’s just him and the centaurs.

By the time he climbed into bed, the room was dim and quiet.

A few minutes later, Lane returned, freshly showered with her hair in two braids. She sat on the edge of his bed with a tired sigh. "Phew. What a day."

"Did Mippy go home?" Harry asked.

"Yeah. She said goodbye after helping me with my closet. I didn’t want to bother her with hot water before bed, so I figure we could go without it for tonight."

Harry laughed. "That’s okay."

He looked up at her. "How are you feeling?"

Lane tilted her head thoughtfully. "A lot better than earlier. Everyone seemed nice. I’m especially excited to get to know Aurora."

Harry smiled, thinking of her pretty face.

Lane gave him a teasing look and gently brushed his hair back before leaning in to kiss his forehead. "Sleep well. I’ll wake you at 7:15 so we’re ready to go."

He nodded, already drowsy. Lane got up and quietly left the room.

He was asleep before the door had even closed.

Chapter Text

Lane POV: Saturday, August 10, 1991 - Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry (ahh!)

There was a snap, and a sudden light poured across her face, bright and unrelenting, pulling Lane from a deep, dreamless sleep. The heavy drapes covering her floor-to-ceiling windows had been drawn back, causing sunlight to slice across the plush green bed and land squarely on her face. Her eyes scrunched and shut against the glare, and a groggy groan slipped from her throat.

She peeked one eye open, and immediately refocused on the figure silhouetted against the bright windows.

The creature was small and spindly, with big bat-like ears and giant glowing eyes. At less than 3 feet tall, it stood…petting Teto?

“Mippy?” She croaked.

Her brand new and very enthusiastic housefly beamed, going her a wide, eager smile, hand still stroking Teto, who purred like a tiny, satisfied thundercloud.

“Good morning, Missy Professor Black Lady!” Mippy announced with a delighted clap of her hands.

Lane blinked again, feeling caught somewhere between dream and reality. “Good….morning?”

“Professor McGonagall told Mippy that Missy Professor Black Lady must not be late for the Very Important Breakfast for Professors! The bells won’t ring until the small students be arriving, so Mippy has come to wake her up!”

Lane let her head fall back on the pillow with a muffled sigh. “Right…thanks, Mippy.”

First staff meeting today, she thought resignedly. Looking back, as nice as everyone was last night, she felt like she had only really barely survived last night’s meal, and now she was expected to go down and converse again. Not only that, but actually be a professor today. It wasn’t something she ever thought she would do.

“Would Missy like Mippy to wake up Mister Harry Potter?” Mippy asked, cutting through her self-induced pity party.

She offered the elf a tired but sincere smile. “No thank you, Mippy. I’ll wake him myself.”

While I still can. She thought gloomily—today was setting up to be just as depressing as she thought it would bed be — the start of the last days of her and Harry sleeping in the same home. Yes, technically they would be under the same roof at Hogwarts, but it wasn’t the same. She wondered honestly how other parents could bear to send their kids away for months — maybe it was because she only just got him, but as they stepped into this magical world together, she was already afraid she’d just lose him again.

With a determined nod, Mippy gave a flourishing bow, then disappeared with a soft *pop*. Tito lifted his head briefly, gave Lane a half-interested blink, and returned to his nap.

She grabbed her glasses and shuffled into Harry’s room, bare feet whispering across the cold stone floor. His rooms had the same high, squared windows as hers, but as Mippy had not yet popped in to rouse him, they were still covered by the chocolate brown curtains. She reached forward with a smirk, and tugged them back.

Harry, who had up until moments ago been wrapped tightly in his blanket like a well-sealed burrito, flailed upright with a startled gasp, dislodging Kat from her position at the foot of the bed and causing his blankets to unravel. The cat leapt off, offended, and Lane chuckled.
“Good morning Harry,” she said, still smiling, “time to wake up.”

Harry’s glamour had held through the night —his hair was still slightly lighter than its natural black, and the shape of his face still held that subtle shift that McGonagall had given him.

“Mippy woke me up,” she said casually as Harry rubbed the sleep from his eyes and stretched. “She says McGonagall’s picking us up in forty-five minutes.”

Harry yawned, looking at her with a slightly exasperated smile, “Thats nice, but did you really have to wake me up like that?”

Her smile grew, causing Harry to immediately smile back despite himself, “of course I did! We have only so many more mornings for me to wake you up with love.” He laughed and shook his head, “fair point, Mum.”

Mum. The sound still caused the warmest glow inside her. “We need to be ready to go by then, bug. Up and face the day!”

He nodded. “Okay!”

Satisfied that he’d soon be up and about, Lane padded back into her own room and entered the en-suite bathroom. It still didn’t feel real—the entrance held a vanity and massive wooden mirror surrounded by small square, dark green tiles. The brass taps and water basin were surrounded by the toiletries she had brought and she wondered briefly how she would get her acne medicine refilled from Scotland.

She turned to open the glass dividing door that separated the counter from the small toilet, then opened the next door dividing the toilet from the bathing room, stepping into the bathroom that still didn’t feel real.

With windows on two sides and green subway tiles coating all four walls, the whole room felt like stepping into a mossy cave. Mippy had clearly already been in as the windows were thrown open and both the baths were filled - the sunken tub with steaming hot water and the cold plunge with water hovering around 40 degrees F. Hogwarts clearly didn’t skimp on the professor’s quarters or the careful service of the house elves. She felt pampered, and it was doing wonders to calm her down for the day that lay ahead.

 

McGonagall had warned her that there were no electrical outlets in the castle, so Lane had no choice but to braid her hair the night before and hope for the best. It mostly worked - mostly. She drew the braids up in a clip and sat on the wooden stool to wash before stepping into the hot bath.

After 10 minutes, she stepped out, washed her face once more, and went to the vanity in the closet to see the state of her hair. As her fingers worked through the plaits, her hair expanded with each section loosed. It fluffed and frizzed with curl patterns going every direction, and with a sigh, she realized a bun would have to do.

She would have loved to have had time for a proper bath followed by 30 minutes in her diffuser—today was, after all, her first Hogwarts staff meeting, and she’d been hoping to put her best foot forward. She twisted her curls back as neatly as she could (thank goodness they were still oil free) and pinned them into a soft coil at the nape of her head. Maybe no one would notice. Maybe she could just pass for casually elegant instead of u underprepared.

She vowed to take a proper bath and tackle the frizz properly tomorrow.

She stepped into her closet, which was a moderately-sized, robe-lined room. Mippy had clearly taken great care to unpack all of her clothes yesterday (and must have found her Twilfitt robes in the mail as well), and considered her options. Someone had hung labels on all of the hangars with robes - denoting the use for each one — Formal, teaching, casual, dinner and she smiled, that was very thoughtful of Mippy.

After looking through the set of robes labeled “teaching,” she selected the set of light blue robes with three-quarter sleeves, a collared V-neck, ad a small shoulder cape. She remembered falling in love with the fabric at Twilfitt and Tattings , and seeing the bolt turned into these medieval robes was definitely magical in and of itself.

She slid the robes on over a pair of mens compression shorts (what else was she supposed to wear under these), and stepped into the ankle boots she’d been coaxed into buying as well. Moving back to the mirror, she applied a quick swipe of mascara, some highlighter, and light eyeshadow to make her slightly slanted, turned down eyes pop. A dab of tinted balm later, she stared at herself and tried to coax a smile.

Her first Hogwarts staff meeting. Her first real day.

Her stomach twisted.

Getting up, she turned and began to look for her notebook and pens (a Muggle studies professor ought to use muggle writing utensils after all), but with so many boxes scattered about, she frantically realized she might not have enough time to find them.

She checked the boxes in the kitchen, rushing past the sound of Harry coming out of the shower. Nothing. Her satchel. Empty.

Her heart skipped - she crouched and checked under the bed. Panic flared.

“Ten minutes, Harry!” She called, trying to keep her voice steady.

“Okay-I’m almost done!” Came a cheerful, slightly muffled reply.

She bit her lip and straightened. Could she try and muddle through a quill all day? Probably not - she had never used one in her life, and that would create far more questions from the staff. Could she give up completely on taking notes? It might be her only recourse.

She turned to look at Teto, still curled by the window where Mippy had pet him early.

Wait—Mippy! “Mippy!” She called.

With a *pop*, Mippy appeared instantly, all ears and bright eyes. “Yes, Missy Professor Black Lady?”

“Mippy, I’m so sorry to bother you,” Lane rushed out hurriedly, worried she was pulling Mippy from other, more important duties, “but I can’t find my notebook or my pens. Any chance you know which box they are in?”

Mippy scurried to the boxes at the foot of her bed and popped open the flaps. Inside, nestled neatly underneath her battered Encyclopedia Britannica, were her supplies. A few yellow legal pads, a leather-bound agenda, and her collection of colorful uniball roller pens.

“You’re a genius, Mippy!” Lane cried, “thank you so very much! I couldn’t find them anywhere.”

“Missy Professor Black Lady is very welcome,” Mippy replied, but as Lane studied her, she noticed a flicker of hesitation cross her face. Her bat-like ears gave a tiny twitch, and Lane watched the elf shake her head before turning to leave.

“Mippy—“ Lane called, “is there something you needed before you go?” She didn’t know the house elf very well yet, but she could tell something had bothered her.

“I am not being needing anything, Missy Professor Black Lady,” Mippy replied, wringing the corner of her pillowcase nervously, “but I was wondering if the Missy Professor Black Lady would be wanting some help with her hairs? You was having such long pretty hair yesterday, and Mippy could do a pretty style for it.”

Lane blinked. “You…you can do that?”
Mippy puffed out her chest, nodding hard her ears flapped. “Yes, yes! Hair is being one of Mippy’s favorite things to do! Mippy has not had any pretty hair to be doing for a long time — Mippy only just became a professorship elf, and Missy Professor Lane Black Lady’s hair is too pretty to be all tied up in a bun on her first day. It should be shining and free!”

That got a genuine laugh out of Lane, and she grinned - a little self-conscious, but genuinely touched by the compliment. “That’s very sweet of you, Mippy. I would love some help if you can.”

Mippy nodded and ushered Lane to sit back down at her vanity. Stepping back, she concentrated and snapped her fingers. Nothing happened.

Lane’s stomach dropped. She hadn’t, of course, forgotten her uselessness in the face of magic, but hadn’t considered Mippy would try to fix her hair with magic. Was her secret going to unravel this fast? Only her second day and she was going to completely blow her cover and end up in that terrifying Department of Mysteries Dumbledore had mentioned.

She frantically searched her head for some sort of explanation to Mippy’s spell family, but before she could muster an excuse, Mippy hurriedly waved a hand, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “This is being so very cool, Missy Professor Black Lady! Headmaster Dumbledore sir had of course told Mippy everything before you is arriving - your magic issue and how you are Mister Harry Potter’s mums and how you is being a muggle and isn’t really being a special “Tingy” witch, and…”

Mippy continued to blabber on, showcasing all she knew already about Lane, but Lane really wasn’t listening. How many of her secrets was Professor Dumbledore so casually sharing? She had thought that both her immunity and Harry’s identity as her son were to be kept under the strictest confidence for both of their safety. Frankly, she was already barely coping with a deep and immovable resentment of Dumbledore for the way he let Harry grow up, for the way he dragged them from their normal, peaceful lives, and for the gnawing suspicion that he knew something they didn’t. He had caved so quickly into letting her stay with Harry, into inviting her to Hogwarts, that something was clearly going on. The last thing she needed was for him to betray what tentative trust they had. She would have to speak with him later. This was unacceptable.

Perhaps sensing her inner turmoil, Mippy trailed off, and gave her a reassuring smile.

“Don’t you worry, Missy Professor Black Lady,” Mippy said, “Mippy is forbidden to be sharing any of this facts with anyone. Mippy only can talk to you and Mister Harry Potter.” She stepped forward, beginning to unravel Lane’s bun and drag her long tapered fingers through Lane’s hair.

“Not even Professor Dumbledore?” Lane asked in what she hoped was a casual manner.

Mippy’s ears drooped as she rearranged Lane’s curls, twisting and pinning sections with a grace that belied her gnarled fingers. “Mippy has to tell Professor Dumbledore if Missy Professor Black Lady is being in danger or is doing something to hurt a student, but anything else is being between you and me’s.”

Lane nodded, noting that there was quite a bit of grey area within that statement, but, as it had felt quite often lately, there really wasn’t anything she could do about it.

“I is being done!” Mippy called, snapping her out of her reverie.

When Lane turned her eyes back to the mirror, her breath caught.

Her hair had been styled half-up, half-down, with braids, delicate and soft sweeping her curls off her face and leaving the rest cascading down her back. It looked effortless, and reminded her of the hair of the elves in the Lord of the Rings books.

“Mippy,” she breathed, concern temporarily forgotten, “You are an artist.”

Mippy glowed, “Thank you Missy Professor Lane Black Lady.” She stepped back and snapped her fingers, sending all of the makeup brushes that had been laying on the vanity out of reach back into their proper drawers. “Mippy has to go down to finish helping with breakfast now, but Mippy will come back later to help unpacking boxes and finish furniture for the rooms.”

“Deal,” Lane said, still beaming as Mippy popped away.

She stepped out into the suite’s entryway just as Harry stumbled out of his room, sneakers in hand. He looked up at her, grinning.

He was in his favorite black REM band t-shirt, jeans that were just slightly too long (he hadn’t grown as much as she thought he would yet this year), and his slightly scuffed sneakers.

“You ready?” She asked.

He nodded. “You look like a real professor.”

“You look like a very convincing American,” she retorted, eyes softening as she reached out to ruffle his hair.

He snorted.

A sharp, polite knock echoed from the door. Harry rushed to the entryway, slipping on his sneakers to pull it open, stepping back to reveal Professor McGonagall once again in her deep green tartan robes (this time with some padded winged shoulder covers), expression calm but expectant. She nodded as Lane ushered Harry out, giving them an approving once-over.

“Professor Black, Mister Hunt,” she said, “Good morning. Let’s head down to breakfast.”

Lane paid attention to the path this time as they made their way down to the Great Hall, although she was bound to forget. As they wound through the wide, echoing corridors of Hogwarts, McGonagall pointed out a few notable paintings lining the walls. “That one there,” she said, gesturing towards a crumpled-looking witch with a crooked smile, “is Wendell the Weird. She set herself on fire over forty-seven times in protest of the Burning Times. And that,—“ she motioned to a painting of fat, bored wizards playing cards on top of a sleeping dragon, “is Archibald the Unflappable and his Unbelievable Knights. Never lost his hands for his odd games, but once lost both his eyebrows due to a stray snore.”

Harry giggled as Mcgonagall continued, “the suits of armor will talk back if you greet them. Some are a bit cheeky, but Dumbledore refuses to keep them in check.”

Lane raised her eyebrows. “Good to know.”

“I was going to ask last night, but would you like a full tour after the staff meeting, Professor Black?”

Lane smiled, “Professor Sinistra already offered to take Ha—Jake and I,” she corrected hastily to a knowing glance from Professor McGonagall.

“Excellent. I was hoping you two would get alone. It can be quite lonely at Hogwarts without some proper companionship.”
Lane nodded, then hesitated, and asked, “What should Jake do during the staff meeting?”

McGonagall’s lips thinned at something she clearly disapproved of. “The Headmaster suggested he spend some time with Hagrid this morning…”

She felt Harry stiffen beside her, and she herself had to stop a slight shiver that ran down her back at the thought of the massive man. He was friendly enough at dinner, but only time and reassurance could convince her he wasn’t still the terrifying giant that broke into their barn late that night. “I—I’m not sure that’s a great idea. After everything that happened with Hagrid…well, I’d prefer if I was with Harry the first few times we see him again—that is assuming Harry even wants to.”

Harry shook his head, adding, “I don’t want to be alone with him yet either.”

“I understand,” McGonagall said gently. “Perhaps he could spend time in the library instead? I’m sure Madam Pince would give you space or even use some help finalizing preparations before all the students arrive.”

That, of course, made Harry lit up. “That sounds brilliant, Professor! Lane smiled as he bounced a little on the balls of his feet, “I’d like to read as much as I can before school starts!”

McGongall smiled. “Maybe you’re a Ravenclaw at heart.”

“Or a Gryffindor,” Harry added cheekily.

She hummed, then, a few moments later, added thoughtfully, voice lowering, “you know, Mr. Hunt, I had the privilege of having both James Potter and Lily Evans in my house while I presided as its Head.”

Harry slowed, looking up at the stern professor, and Lane looked around furtively for anyone that could overhear. Seeing no-one, she laid her hand on Harry’s shoulder. When he didn’t say anything, Lane motioned McGonagall to continue, asking, “what were they like Professor?”

Professor McGonagall gave a sad smile, “Lily Evans was one of the most brilliant witches I ever taught. Particularly talented in Charms and Potions, she had her heart set on becoming a Healer when the war broke out. Unfortunately, she had to go into hiding with James before she could start her courses.”

Lane looked down to see Harry’s eyes fall, but he looked up and added softly, “and my dad?”

The mention of James Potter had a fascinating effect on Professor McGonagall. Her usual stern half-smiles and contained face broke into a truly warm grin as she exhaled a small chuckle. Lane and Harry exchanged bewildered glances as she began to speak, “James Potter,” she said, choosing her words with careful clear fondness, “was probably my favorite student I’ve ever taught. A wild troublemaker to say the least, but with a heart of gold in his later years. Brilliant at Transfiguration and deeply loyal to his friends, that boy turned into a fine man.”

She paused in her remembering, and Lane saw her face fall ever so slightly. “He was in love with your mother you know, Mr. Potter, from the first day he met her on the Hogwarts Express.”

“Really?” Harry asked, bewildered as they stopped walking completely in the middle of the empty hall.

“Yes,” she replied, “but she wouldn’t give that boy the time of day until seventh year. There was such a betting pool between the professors as to when she would finally agree to date him — Professor Flitwick in particular thought she would never agree. I was closest - I said when they were both Head Boy and Head Girl, and she could see some responsibility from him, that would work. It’s just…” she paused, “it’s heartbreaking they had truly so little time together.”

She shook her head, clearing whatever sad thoughts clouded her mind, “if you’d like, Mr. Hunt, you and Professor Black can come by after classes some time and I can tell you more stories. Of course, you should feel free once you’ve returned as Mr. Potter, to ask whichever of the staff you’d like for memories of your parents. Most would be quite happy to comply.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Harry said, with the smallest sniff, and they continued towards breakfast.

---

The staff table was still arranged in a long rectangle, everyone seated around its perimeter as Lane, Harry and McGonagall made their way to the front.

“I didn’t ask yesterday, but was wondering, is this how our staff table is usually set up?”

“No,” the older woman replied. “During the term, we all face the students to ensure nothing untoward is happening. With no students here, there’s no point, and it’s easier to convert.”

Lane nodded, and as they walked up, several professors greeted them warmly. Lane smiled back, nerves and excitement twining in her chest.

“Professor Black,” Dumbledore called from the head of the table, “we thought you might enjoy sitting with Professors Sinistra and Quirrell this morning.”

Lane watched as Harry slid into a seat besides Professors Snape and Sprout. Lane eyed him for a moment, debating joining him. Snape ignored him entirely, but Sprout had already leaned in to ask him something with a smile, so she relaxed.

The table was full of food—platters of eggs, sausages, fruit, toast, jam and so much more. Compared to the formal affair of the night before, breakfast was breezy and light.

Aurora, already sipping what looked like milk with a bit of tea in it, wore a comfortable pair of light blue jeans and a loose embroidered blouse in shades of silver and navy. Her hair, styled into mid length loss today, were pulled back with a white satin ribbon.

“I love your outfit,” Lane said as she sat down, instantly wishing she was in her own barrel jeans.

Aurora grinned. “Thanks. I was testing whether my Muggle clothes passed muster.”

Lane chuckled. “They absolutely do - wherever did you get them?”

“My grandmother is muggle actually,” Aurora replied, reaching over Quirrell to butter her piece of toast, “she insists on buying me clothes every holiday season. Doesn’t understand why I only ever wear the same thing to Christmas. Mind you, I’m only back in the Muggle world for a week out of the year, so I don’t exactly need a wide range of clothes.”

Lane laughed—her mom was the same way.

They chatted as they ate, Quirrell sometimes contributing stammering agreeances and slight answers to the odd question they threw his way.

“So, did you enjoy your quarters?” Aurora asked.

She wanted to know how Lane liked the surprise of the doorknob, and Lane absolutely lit up. “It was such a cool bit of magic,” she said, her smile widening. “The apartments really surprised me—everything feels so warm and welcoming and I cant’ believe how perfectly Hogwarts made it work.”

Aurora leaned forward with interest. “Tell me—what’s the layout like? What colors and windows did they give you?”

Well, Lane said thinking, “there are two bedrooms and a study, a little kitchenette, and this massive bedroom with the coolest bathroom I’ve ever seen. The palette is mostly wooden early tones—greens and browns and amber.” She paused for a moment, and then asked, “do you know the American architect Frank Lloyd Wright by any chance?”

Aurora shook her head, and Lane powered on, undeterred, “well, he’s very famous in the States — mostly for his unique craftsman style buildings. I have one of his architecture books in a box somewhere actually and can bring it for you. But the point is, the whole apartment mirrored his palette perfectly. Our windows even have the craftsman borders it’s incredible.”

“Ooh,” Aurora practically squealed, “are they big? It’s my favorite part of my rooms, how big my windows are.”

“Massive!” Lane said, hands waving animatedly, “practically run the whole length of the apartment.”

Aurora beamed, “now I’m extra jealous. My rooms are at the top of the Astronomy Tower. They sound a bit smaller and more modern looking than yours, but I have massive arched windows of my own. Granted the space is circular, so my windows couldn’t curve and span all the walls, but I love them all the same. Very convenient for late-night classes though.”

Lane whistled, “I don’t envy that climb though.”

They gossiped a bit more as Lane enjoyed her eggs, glancing every so often to see Harry still in conversation with Professor Sprout, animatedly describing something running around with his hands. She looked to his left, and spotted…a plate of hash browns?

“Hash browns?” She said aloud, blinking.

Dumbledore, sitting on the other side of Quirrell, chuckled. “Mippy informed the kitchens that we had an American Professor. They decided to pull out all the stops.”

Lane smiled, touched. “I’d like to thank them.” Turning to Aurora, she asked, “can we see the kitchens on our tour later?”

“Absolutely.” She affirmed.

Across the table, Lane caught a part of Sprout’s particularly loud conversation with Professor Sprout.

Harry was now sitting with his hands tucked under his legs, rocking slightly side to side with his back to Snape, clearly trying to give Spout his undivided attention. Snape, for his part, remained utterly disinterested, staring down into his teacup with in his sweeping pitch black robes.

Professor Sprout, by contrast, was as lively and warm as she was last night. She wore a patchy earth-brown set of layered robes that had smudges of soil across the hem and on one side of her face. Her curly, short, salt-and-pepper hair stuck out in every direction, and she wore a tall, somewhat squashed tan hat perched on top. The only thing on her plate was a smh pile of boiled potatoes, which she poked at happily.

“So you like gardening then, Jake?” She asked Harry with a grin.

“Yeah,” he said, desperately trying not to squirm on his seat. “We live in a neighborhood, so… bushes, flowers, that sort of thing.”

Sprout nodded approvingly. “Still counts, and there is something magical about a flower anyway.”

Harry smiled, relaxing a giggle. “I really like daisies. They smell nice and are easy to grow.”

She laughed. “A perfect and very Hufflepuff answer,” she eyed him keenly, “if you came to Hogwarts, I have half a mind you’d end up in my house, you know.”

Harry grinned.

Satisfied that Harry was still enjoying himself, Lane turned back to her food and finished her plate.

When everyone appeared to be wrapping up, Dumbledore stood and cleared his throat. “Well, my friends, if we are all finished, I suggest we make our way to the staff meeting.”

McGonagall stood and wound her way towards Harry, gesturing him to follow her. “Mr. Hunt, please come with me for a moment.”

Lane watched her walk him over to a stern-looking witch with steel grey hair standing near the edge of the table. “This is Madam Pince,” she said. “She’ll be taking you to the library until our meeting is over at lunchtime.”

Madam Pince gave him a tight nod. “Young man, would you mind helping me stamp a few books this morning?”

Harry looked mildly disappointed at having to do some actual work, but masked it quickly, nodding politely. “Sure, I can help.”

With that, he looked over to Lane, and she gave him an encouraging smile. He smiled back, and turned to follow the librarian out of the hall.

Lane turned to Aurora, who was already on her feet, and together they followed the other professors out of the Great Hall, ascending a wide staircase, and turning off into a corridor on the second floor.

Halfway through the corridor was an ancient looking wooden door with gold leaf plating an intricate vine design. Flanked by two very intimidating looking statues of armor, Aurora opened the door to an even more heavily wood-paneled room, and Lane stepped inside.

It was honestly what she expected the staff lounge to be, albeit a bit more grand. A large round table sat at the center, ringed with deep mismatched wing-backed chairs. There was a grand, empty fireplace along the far wall (thankfully cold, given the August heat), and stained glass windows cast dappled light and shadows across the wooden floors.

Scattered around the rest of the room, couches and armchairs were arranged into small groupings around low bookshelves that ran the length of the room. In the far right corner was a small serving station with pitchers of piping hot water, looseleaf tea, and tea cookies. It honestly looked more like a faculty club at a small university than a mystical magical castle, which eased Lane’s nerves just a bit.

In front of each mismatched chair was a delicate teacup, a short stack of books, spare parchment, a few file folders, and what appeared to be a large, empty leather folio.

Lane stepped up to a plush and very high up blue chair, and saw the folio was emblazoned with the name “Flitwick.”

Ah.

She circled the table until she spotted a cream-colored chair with a cleanly stamped folio reading “Black,” sandwiched between a black and silver art-deco chair marked “Snape,” and a stiff-looking steel-grey one labeled “Vector.”

Lane took a deep breath and eased herself into her seat. She didn’t really know what to expect from this meeting. Back in college, her TA meetings had been quite light, and they weren’t even invited to the full tenured professor’s meetings. And that was an entirely different universe. As the rest of the professors settled into their chairs, she glanced to her right and offered a polite smile to the rail-thin woman who had just seated herself.

“Good morning, I don’t believe we’ve met yet. I’m Professor Lane Black—Muggle Studies.”

The woman gave a firm nod—clearly she had remembered during Dumbledore’s introduction yesterday, and Lane suddenly felt a little foolish. “Professor Septima Vector. Arithmancy.”

Lane’s eyes lit up. “I’ve always loved Mathematics.”

Professor Vector quirked an eyebrow below her severe black bob. “Really? I don’t often heartbeat from any of the other professors. Are you versed in Arithmancy, then?”

“Not exactly. I studied Muggle mathematics—got my Bachelors degree in it, actually.”

That earned a small but distinct raise of both eyebrows rom Vector. “That’s impressive. Truthfully, Muggle mathematics is my weaker teaching skillset compared to the magic-based Arithmancy. I prefer theory and magical application. Perhaps you’d be interested in guest teaching a few lessons for my students on the muggle side of things?”

Lane beamed. “I’d be delighted.”

Septima gave a nod and turned back to the stack of books in front of her, already flipping open a thick manual and scanning its contents. Lane took the shift as a polite dismissal—not rude, merely efficient.

After a small pause, Lane’s nerves won out, and she turned left towards the wizard who had just seated himself on her other side.

She hadn’t interacted with Professor Snape much at all. She knew he was the youngest professor after herself, really the only one close to her age other than Aurora, but he hadn’t said much at dinner last night, and his general presence gave off an a of cold disinterest.

Still, it felt rude not to say anything.

“Good morning, Professor Snape,” she offered.

He glanced at her briefly, face unreadable. “Professor Black.” The way he said her name—as though spitting it out—and the unexpected chill in his tone made her instinctively pull back, unsure if she’s somehow already offended him.

Her hopeful smile faded slightly, and she turned her attention back to her materials. Across the table, seated in a burnt orange wing-back of her own, Aurora caught her eye and gave her a half-smile and a shrug that seemed to say, “what can you do?”

That made her feel a bit better.

She refocused instead on the items laid out in front of her. The leather folio embossed with her name was str closed, and top of it was a timetable for her Muggle Studies classes, a few lightly bound folders and a neat stack of books sat to the left. The first book was a beautifully aged copy of Hogwarts: A History , followed by what looked like the Hogwarts rule book (she wondered why this wasn’t on Harry’s list of school books), a handbook titled Teaching Young Witches and Wizards , and a few others.

She had just reached for the timetable when the room quieted. Looking up, Lane saw that Dumbledore had entered, swiftly followed by Professor McGonagall, and made his way to a towering purple-and-gold high-backed chair a few seats to her left. It was less a chair and more of a throne really, incredibly absurd, and clashing heavily against his vivid orange robes. The sight of it drew a small smile from Lane and, to her surprise, a deep grimace from Professor Snape sitting next to her, before she instinctively straightened in her seat.

Seating himself and clapping his hands together once, he began to address the room.

“Welcome, esteemed professors, to another year at Hogwarts,” he said, eyes doing that stupid twinkle attempt behind his half-moon spectacles. “I am distinctly honored by your presence, and I look forward to a fulfilling, enriching year together.”

At that, Lane sat a little straighter despite herself, and couldn’t help feeling both deeply unqualified and distinctly proud to be there.

“Now,” he continued, rearranging the much larger stack of papers in front of himself, “we have a few start-of-term announcement to cover before we go into expectations for the coming weeks. Some of you may have already heard bits and pieces of this from me, and if so, please forgive an old man for repeating himself.”

He smiled serenely around the table. Lane resisted the childish urge to roll her eyes.

“First, of course, I’d like to introduce our two new professors. Most of you have already had a chance to greet them, but please extend another warm welcome to Professor Quirinus Quirrell, returning to us now in role of Defense Against the Dark Arts, though some of you will remember he once taught our students Muggle Studies.”

Polite nods and a smattering of claps followed, with Quirrell—seated a few chairs down from Lane—offered a jerky, nervous wave. Even the sallow-faced Professor Snape managed a single nod.

“And of course,” Dumbledore continued, blue gaze moving to hers, “please welcome Professor Lane Black, our new Muggle Studies professor. She joins us not only from outside Hogwarts, but from outside of Wizarding Britain altogether,”

Another wave of clapping circled the table, with a particularly loud applause from Aurora and, to Lane’s surprise, Professor Sprout. Lane smiled gave a modest wave.

“It’s truly a marvel to have such young, fresh faces among us. I, for one, thought it would mostly be us old farts for the longest time. Minerva, of course, did try to convince me otherwise, and…oh dear,” Dumbledore was cut off in his ramblings by a stern look from the Deputy Headmistress.

“My apologies, Minerva,” Dumbledore recovered with a smile, “do forgive this old man the ramblings of his innermost thoughts.”

There were a more than a few chuckles scattered among the staff at this, and Lane was forced to confront what had been a slow-building realization: that Dumbledore, distrusted as he was by her, was beloved by the staff. The only professors not affording him an indulgent smile other than herself were, of course, the stern Deputy Headmistress, and of course, Professor Snape, who Lane was pretty sure didn’t know how to smile.

“Now then,” Dumbledore continued, “on to our next items. As some of you may already be aware, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side will be strictly off limits to all students this year. Our caretaker, Mr. Filch, has been informed, and you should assign detentions to any students found wandering there.”

He paused, his light-hearted tone growing slightly more serious.

“There are…anomalies in that corridor that Professor McGonagall and I are working quickly to address. But until that time, it is essential no one ventures down it.”

There were nods around the room, and Lane wondered absent-mindedly if she would be alright traversing a corridor filled with magical-anomalies. She shook her head - better not to risk it.

“The Forbidden Forest, as always, is still forbidden,” Dumbledore added with a chuckle. “And yes, detentions should be handed out accordingly. We’ll be covering the giving of detentions and taking house points later, of course,”

A few more dry chuckles around the room.

“Next,” Dumbledore went on, “we have ten new house-elves joining the Hogwarts kitchens this year, coming from yet another family line that has since died out. Don’t be alarmed if you see some unfamiliar faces. And our gamekeeper, Hagrid, is pleased to announce the arrival of fifteen new thestrals to our herd, having arrived without warning only yesterday” at this, there were some very uneasy looks around the room.

As if sensing the mood, Dumbledore added serenely, “I’ll remind you all this is a very unexpected boon as we have been struggling with the recent overcrowding of the student carriages.” Some calm nods, and Lane noticed that Professor Sprout looked particularly mollified.

“That concludes our most pressing announcements. Any other questions?”

Quirrell, to Lane’s surprise, raised a shaky hand from his end of the table. “Headmaster, t-t-these…a-a-anomalies, in the third-floor c-c-corridor—do we kn-kn-know w-w-what they are?”

Lane glanced at him, mildly surprised by the intensity under his stuttering tone.

Dumbledore gave a small smile, eyes twinkling again. “I’m afraid I don’t know, Quirinus. Hogwarts, of course, is full of mysteries, as you may very well know. But several ghosts have emerged from that corridor recently—er—turned inside out, which is, naturally, concerning.”

A beat of silence followed, and Lane wasn’t sure whether to laugh or shudder. Judging by Quirrell’s unsettled expression, he looked completely unimpressed, but nodded anyway and didn’t press further.

When no further hands rose, Dumbledore moved on, smiling, and clapped his hands once more. Lane blinked as her teacup (and the teacup of all the teachers at the table) suddenly filled itself with piping hot black tea, steam curling into the air.

“Now,” he said, “we can go over the rest of the agenda for today.”

He gestured towards the files in front of them. “Please open your folio, and you’ll find our agenda inside. For the newer members of staff, we will use these folios for all agendas and papers in each staff meeting throughout the year—the pages are charmed to automatically update with a preview of each meeting, to allow you time to prepare accordingly.” He paused, giving a slight significant look at Lane, and added, “best to leave them on the shelves when they’re not in use. Handling them too often can mess with the magic.”

Lane immediately understood—if she was touching the folio, it wouldn’t update. Gingerly, she set it back down on the table in front of her and made a mental note to set it on a high shelf when not in use.

Seeing her do this, Dumbledore now raised his wand—a pale, knobby-looking thing—and their folios flashed white. Stowing it, he gestured they turn to the first page. Lane looked down, and read:

1991 Term - Staff Orientation - Agenda
New Staff Welcome
Misc Announcements
Staff Integration
Safety Protocols
Curriculum Approvals
Upcoming Events
House Point and Detention Policies
Student Intake
Staff Room and Shared Spaces Etiquette
House-Elf Support Rotation
Magical Creature Management
Castle Magic Irregularities

“Please enjoy your tea and settle in,” he said cheerfully. “We do have quite a lot to discuss.”

He cleared his throat gently, setting down his tea. "Let’s begin with the first item—staff integration. Now, as there haven’t been a great number of staff changes this year, this should be a relatively quick item."

Lane leaned in a little.

"As many of you know," Dumbledore continued, "all new faculty are to be assigned both a Head of House as a formal liaison and a secondary mentor—another more junior professor—who may offer informal guidance throughout their first year. While, of course, all staff should feel empowered to reach out to anyone at this table with questions, we believe a few steady connections can ease the transition."

He looked toward Quirrell first. "Professor Quirrell, as you’re returning to us in a new position, we’re assigning you Professor McGonagall as your Head of House liaison. She will assist with administrative matters and coordination, particularly as you acclimate to the expectations in Defense Against the Dark Arts."

Quirrell nodded nervously, his teacup rattling against its saucer.

"And you’ll be partnered with Professor Vector as your junior mentor. I understand the two of you have overlapping interests in magical theory."

Vector offered a single nod, already jotting something down on a piece of parchment.

"Now," Dumbledore said with a mischievous twinkle in his eye as he turned toward Lane, "Professor Black, you will be paired with Professor Snape as your Head of House liaison."

She blinked, and caught the slight tightening of Snape’s jaw, though he remained otherwise still. Great, she thought, Fucking great.

"And Professor Sinistra will serve as your junior mentor."

Lane turned slightly and met Aurora’s warm, encouraging smile. That, at least, felt like a win.

"These pairings," Dumbledore continued smoothly, as if he hadn’t just absolutely screwed her over again— how much more can he upend my life?, "will meet weekly until term begins and biweekly thereafter. These are meant to be informal but productive. Please be sure to schedule your first meeting before the end of the day.”

With as much displeasure as she felt she could show without isolating herself from the rest of the staff, who were clearly fans of the Headmaster, she nodded, heart thudding a little. Snape still did not look pleased—but she would figure it out. One way or another.

Dumbledore reached for a scroll and unrolled it slowly. "Next on our agenda," he said, "are safety protocols. Not the most glamorous topic, perhaps, but undoubtedly one of the most important."

Lane straightened slightly in her chair. Surely safety at a school like Hogwarts must mean something very different than the fire and tornado drills she was subject to growing up in America.

"As many of you well know," Dumbledore began, "Hogwarts has its share of enchantments and defenses, but it is still a school—one that carries with it inherent magical risk. And so, we must all be aware of what to do in a variety of situations."

He raised a hand and began to list them off with a slight cadence, as if reciting an old rhyme. "In the event of a dragon—yes, we’ve had one in the past century—please attempt to guide students inside, away from open courtyards. Send an immediate alert to the Headmaster’s office and to Professor Hagrid, who maintains emergency beast protocols. If necessary, Professors Flitwick or McGonagall will cast the castle-wide barrier charms."

A few professors exchanged glances. Lane tried to keep her face neutral. Dragons?!?

"In the case of fire—mundane or magical—standard extinguishing spells such as Aguamenti or Extincto should be employed at once, with the additional caveat that no fire suppression be attempted in rooms storing magical ingredients, as this may result in explosion. If it is determined to be a cursed or spreading magical fire, evacuation procedures should be enacted immediately. Hogwarts’ walls and enchantments can usually contain even cursed fires to a single origin room, but our priority in any such case should be the protection and evacuation of students. Safety over salvage, always.”

Again, the staff nodded, though Lane noticed Professor Vector in particular, paying rapt attention.

"Should a student or professor be poisoned, injured, or otherwise incapacitated, immediate magical medical aid is to be administered if safe to do so. The hospital wing is prepared for all standard emergencies, and Madam Pomfrey has been briefed on this term’s potential hazards. Professor Snape will continue to brew all healing potions for the hospital wing, as he has in previous years." Lane glanced over at him, grudgingly thinking it was a rather impressive responsibility for the dour man—but once again, she couldn’t read a single thing from his expression.

"For any serious magical mishaps—transfiguration gone wrong, potions misfires, accidental hexing—please try to isolate the area, keep students calm, and send for the appropriate specialist. Professor Flitwick will lead containment efforts in charms-related incidents. Professor Snape for anything involving potions, and Professor McGonagall for transfiguration."

Again, various degrees of agreement surrounded the table.

"Now, for the unfortunate possibility of a hostile break-in," Dumbledore continued, his tone tightening, "the castle should seal itself automaticall. You will feel a low humming through the stone and receive a visual cue—blue lights along the corridor arches. Escort students to the nearest common room and remain inside until instructed otherwise by a Head of House or the Headmaster’s office.”

Lane shivered. That sounded terrifying.

"If there is a direct attack—on the school, a classroom, or an individual—the first step is protection of the students. Create distance. Cast defensive spells. Summon help. The Great Hall should be our gathering point and emergency portkeys are located behind the main tapestries behind the staff table; they will deliver injured persons to the St. Mungos or to Hogsmeade Station in case of large-scale evacuation."

A quiet stillness settled over the table.

Dumbledore softened slightly. "I realize this is all rather sobering. But you must know it. Hogwarts has endured many threats and will likely endure more, but has always persevered. You are not alone, and none of us are expected to act without support."

He gave a small smile. "But we cannot prepare our students for the world if we are not prepared ourselves."

There was a murmur of agreement, and Professor McGonagall cleared her throat.

"Headmaster, perhaps we might distribute updated emergency response maps this afternoon?"

"Yes, thank you, Minerva. Packets will be in your mail slots before dinner. Please review them before the week’s end."

Lane nodded and made another note. Emergency portkeys. Defense spells. Blue light arches. She was going to need flashcards.

"One final point," Dumbledore added, raising his cup, "please ensure that all classroom wards are active by the end of the week. If you are unfamiliar with the necessary enchantments, Professor Flitwick has volunteered to assist with setting them." He turned to Lane and Quirrell before continuing, "Professors Black and Quirrell, Professor Flitwick will be sure to walk you each through the extent of your classroom wards personally."

Lane and Quirrell nodded.

"I’ll be available during office hours tomorrow and Thursday," Flitwick piped up cheerfully.

Dumbledore set down his tea again and looked around the room.

"Any questions regarding safety protocols?"

No hands rose.

"Then let us move on to curriculum approvals."

He adjusted his spectacles and smiled gently as he pulled another sheet of parchment from the scroll in front of him. "Now then, curriculum approvals."

"As with each year, proposed curriculum outlines are due to Professor McGonagall no later than August the twenty-fifth," he announced. "That gives you all just under two weeks to finalize and submit your syllabi."

He gave a glance to McGonagall, who nodded in quiet confirmation.

"Your curriculum," Dumbledore continued, "should be organized by academic year, with clear learning goals, proposed lesson plans, and your intended cadence for quizzes, practicals, and exams. Please include any coursework tied to OWL or NEWT preparation, and ensure you specify if there will be any special projects or guest lessons."

Lane scribbled notes furiously, already outlining her units in her head.

"For those new to teaching at Hogwarts," Dumbledore said, glancing toward Lane and Quirrell, "you each have scheduled one-on-one meetings with Professor McGonagall tomorrow to go over the expectations, standards, and examples from past terms. These will be an hour each, so come prepared with questions."

Lane gave a small nod. She was both nervous and relieved to have guidance.

"Returning staff," Dumbledore continued, "you are welcome to reuse last year’s curriculum if no major changes are required—but you must still submit them for review."

There were a few small murmurs and nods of acknowledgment around the table.

"Professor Sprout," Dumbledore said, turning to the earth-toned witch across the table, "I’d like to request that Devil’s Snare be introduced into the First Year Herbology curriculum this term, rather than in the Second Year as in previous years."

Professor Sprout blinked. "Really, Albus? They’re so small—"

"Yes, but with proper oversight and clear handling rules, I believe the exposure will be useful," he said gently. "Of course, the final lesson structure is up to you."

Sprout looked thoughtful, then nodded slowly. "Alright. I’ll revise the unit."

Dumbledore clapped his hands once. "Excellent. Now, you’ll each find a second folder in front of you—this one contains copies of the syllabi for your course from the past ten years. These are for inspiration or reference. Feel free to draw on the strengths of your predecessors."

Lane opened the second folder and immediately saw several names she didn’t know—former professors of Muggle Studies, likely—and scanned the elegant handwritten notes and diagrams. Thank God, she thought desperately. McGonagall had promised to provide her with sample syllabi to provide inspiration, but until that point, Lane hadn’t seen a single sheet.

"If you have any questions," Dumbledore said, "feel free to consult with your liaison or mentor before your submission deadline. Professor McGonagall, as always, is available to help coordinate between departments where necessary."

Lane made a mental note to ask Sinistra about interdisciplinary ideas, as she sure as hell wasn’t going to be reaching out to Professor Snape unless absolutely necessary.

"And one last note," Dumbledore added, eyes twinkling, "if any of you have an inspired or particularly experimental unit idea, we encourage innovation. Just please clear any highly magical or controversial projects with myself or Professor McGonagall first."

That prompted a few quiet chuckles around the table—likely memories of past disasters.

"Any questions on curriculum before we proceed?"

None arose.

"Then please feel free to take a ten-minute break now, and we’ll reconvene to cover our last items."

---

There was a scrape of chairs and soft chatter as professors rose and stretched their legs. Lane took the opportunity to find the small loo attached to the staff room, which turned out to be surprisingly charming—dark stone and wood-trimmed, with delicate sconces and a basin that poured warm water when she opened the faucet.

When everyone returned and settled again, Dumbledore resumed, tea once more in hand.

"This will be one of our shorter segments, as we do not have any major surprises planned for this year. That said, the calendar is still full. You’ll find a printed version of these dates in the third folder in front of you."

He nodded toward their seats.

"As always, we begin with the Welcoming Feast and Sorting Ceremony, which will take place on the evening of Sunday, September 1st. Professor McGonagall will oversee the Sorting as usual."

Minerva gave a curt nod.

"The Halloween Feast is scheduled for Thursday, October 31st, and the End of Term Feast will take place on Friday, December 20th. We’ll return from the holidays on Sunday, January 12th, and host our Winter Feast that evening to kick off the new term. The Year-End Feast, of course, will be held on Friday, June 13th."

Dumbledore took a pause. "Please note: we will not be holding a Valentine’s Day event this year, by unanimous staff request."

Several professors chuckled in relief.

"Now, on to Quidditch. The first match will take place on Saturday, September 21st, followed by the next on Saturday, October 19th. The third match will be Saturday, November 23rd. The spring matches will resume on Saturday, February 22nd, then March 22nd, and the final match of the year on Saturday, May 10th."

Lane underlined those in her notebook.

"Please plan your weekend lessons accordingly."

Dumbledore let the silence settle before folding his hands and saying with a twinkle in his eye, "Now we come to what I know some of you" he glanced pointedly at Professor Snape who smirked slightly "consider the highlight of every start-of-term meeting—our updated Detention and House Point Policies."

"Please turn to the next page in your folders," Dumbledore continued. "Take a moment to read through the revised guidelines."

Lane flipped the parchment. The heading read:

House Points — General Guidance:

Points to be awarded for:

Excellent academic work: +1 to +15 points, depending on difficulty.
Exceptional acts of kindness or teamwork: +5 to +50 points.
Creativity or cleverness in solving classroom challenges: +5 to +10 points.
Assisting a professor +1 to +5 points.

Points to be deducted for:

Disruption of class or disrespectful behavior: –5 to –10 points - can increase with repeated instances.
Minor rule-breaking (e.g., out of uniform): –5 points.
Major rule-breaking (e.g., outside after curfew): -50 points
Dangerous behavior or endangering others: -25 to -50 points.
Academic dishonesty: ―20 to -50 points.

Note:

Professors are encouraged to explain the reason for point deductions or awards clearly to students.
Points should not be awarded or deducted in anger or as retaliation.
House Heads will review point logs weekly for balance.

When NOT to award/deduct points:

For personal grudges or favoritism.
For classroom participation that is expected, not exemplary.
As bribes for completing homework or chores.
Detention Policy:

Detentions may be assigned for:

Repeated classroom disruptions.
Bullying, hexing, or magical misconduct.
Unauthorized access to restricted areas.
Dangerous use of spells or potions.
Minor/Major rule breaking

Detention Levels:

Level 1 (Minor): Supervised chores (e.g., polishing trophies, assisting Filch).
Level 2 (Moderate): After-hours writing assignments or copying magical manuscripts.
Level 3 (Severe): Magical creature care with Hagrid, cleaning forbidden corridors, or extended repeated sessions of the above.

Note: All detentions will automatically be recorded in the detention logbook inside the staff lounge, but please be sure to double check as necessary.

Suspension and Expulsion:

Suspension may occur for repeated or dangerous offenses that don’t meet the threshold for expulsion. Expulsion is reserved for:
Use of unforgivable curses.
Intentional life-threatening harm of another student or professor.
Collaboration with dark forces or bringing dangerous artifacts into the school.

Lane frowned slightly. She noted the phrasing—intentional harm. It sounded like Hogwarts had a high tolerance for accidents, and she wondered again if allowing Harry to come here was still the right idea.

p>Dumbledore folded his hands again. "It’s worth noting that expulsion at Hogwarts is quite rare. We believe in growth and second chances."

Professor Snape raised a hand.

"With respect, Headmaster," he said with a cool tone, "we are once again being far too lenient with point deductions. How do we expect discipline if chaos is rewarded with a mere five-point loss?"

Dumbledore smiled wryly. "We do this every year, Severus. And as always, I trust our staff to make wise, case-by-case decisions."

Sprout raised her hand with a swift look at Professor Snape. "What are we doing to ensure consistency across houses? Sometimes, students complain one house is penalized more harshly than another."

Snape gave an audible sniff of disdain.

"That’s a fair concern, Pomona," Dumbledore said evenly. "I will be watching house point logs very closely this year. All professors should aim for fairness, not equivalency."

Lane raised her hand. "I—sorry. I was wondering, is it only Heads of House who are permitted to take or give points?"

"Good question," Dumbledore replied. "No, any professor may award or deduct points, though it is advised you be judicious in doing so, especially with students you do not teach."

Lane nodded, jotting that down.

"Right," Dumbledore said with a satisfied air. "Let us proceed to student intake."

Professor McGonagall stood, parchment in hand, and took over with her usual crisp authority.

"Please locate the thicker green folder in your stack," she instructed. "Inside, you’ll find the full roster of currently enrolled students, organized by year, as well as a detailed list of incoming first years."

Lane flipped through the pile in front of her and pulled free the green file. Inside was a thick packet, the top page titled: New Student Roster - September 1991.

"There are fifty new students this year," McGonagall said.

Professor Sinistra let out a tiny, shocked huff. "Fifty? That’s all?"

"Yes," McGonagall replied solemnly. "Due to the war restarting around eleven years ago, far fewer children were born during that time, and many families fled the country altogether. We can expect smaller class sizes for at least the next several years."

Professor Sprout sniffed softly and dabbed at her eye with a handkerchief, and Lane swallowed a lump in her throat—in addition to the tragic loss of Harry’s parents, it seemed as if the rest of the Wizarding world had been heavily impacted as well.

p>"The first page," McGonagall continued, tapping the parchment in her hand, "lists the names and essential background of each first year. In addition to their houses and birthdays, you’ll find relevant medical or personal notes that may require your awareness—dietary restrictions, allergies, sensitive family matters. Take a moment to look it over."

Lane scanned the list. Of course, one name leapt out at her immediately.

"Harry Potter!" Flitwick exclaimed, barely suppressing a squeal. "Well, goodness!"

Snape, seated silently beside Lane, stiffened. She felt the tension roll off him in waves.

Across the table, Quirrell stammered, "W-w-will he really be attending this year?"

"Yes," McGonagall said calmly. "And he is to be treated as any other student."

Snape muttered something under his breath that made Lane’s head whip around so fast her curls bounced. She stared at him, mouth half-open, a rush of protective anger rising in her chest. But then she caught herself, snapped her mouth shut, and stared down at her notes. She couldn’t risk drawing attention, but would have to keep a sharp eye on Professor Snape. Bastard.

McGonagall’s gaze swept the room. "More importantly, there are a few students with special notes we must all be aware of. Millicent Bulstrode, for example—her father is currently under investigation for child abuse. Please keep a discreet but watchful eye on her and be ready to report any concerns."

"I read about that in the Prophet," said Aurora softly. "Poor girl."

"Anthony Goldstein and Hamza Qureshi will both be observing religious dietary restrictions—Goldstein keeps kosher, Qureshi keeps halal. Justin Finch-Fletchley has a severe peanut allergy. The elves have been made aware and accommodations are in place, but additional emergency allergy potions are now kept behind the tapestry in the Great Hall and in each of their dormitories. These restrictions are, of course, in addition to the pre-existing restrictions for older students, which can also be found at the back of the folder."

Lane noted all of it carefully, appreciating the practical preparedness.

"Also," McGonagall added, "do keep an eye on the Patil twins. They are identical, and should they be sorted into the same house like the Weasley twins, we will have to put in identification measures."

Lane made yet another private note to ask Aurora more about those measures.

McGonagall flipped a page in her folder and gave a nod to the group. "Before we move on to our final topic, I’d like to confirm we have finalized the list of Head Boy and Head Girl, House Prefects, and Quidditch Captains for this year. You’ll find a copy of the full list tucked behind the student roster in your green folder."

There was a soft rustling as everyone flipped back through their files.

"For clarity, I’ll read them aloud."

She held the parchment in both hands and began with a steady tone.

"This year’s Head Girl will be Alicia Montrose of Ravenclaw House. Our Head Boy is Bryan Kipps of Hufflepuff."

"Now, for House Prefects, please take a minute to read the list in front of you.”

Lane turned her eyes down and began to read.

Gryffindor Prefects:

Fifth Year: Percy Weasley, Asha Singh
Sixth Year: Fiona Wing, Charles Penmoor
Seventh Year: Dean Proudfoot, Marian Dale

Hufflepuff Prefects:

Fifth Year: Peter Kaiser, Lilian May
Sixth Year: Oliver Harper, Madeline Birch
Seventh Year: Thom Renshaw, Pippa Moon

Ravenclaw Prefects:

Fifth Year: Quilla Cross, Kevin Entwhistle
Sixth Year: Grace Yan, Rory Tunbridge
Seventh Year: Sophie Cross, Omar Rahman

Slytherin Prefects:

Fifth Year: Ignatius Crowley, Hannah Pearlstein
Sixth Year: Marcus Bletchley, Ophelia Bludd
Seventh Year: Augustine Kings, Calista Burke

"And finally, if you turn to the next page, you’ll see our Quidditch Captains for the year:"

Gryffindor: Oliver Wood
Hufflepuff: Kingston Kipp
Ravenclaw: Omar Rahman
Slytherin: Marcus Flint

"If you have any concerns or questions about the student leadership list, you may speak with me privately after the meeting. Otherwise, these students have already been notified, and their responsibilities begin immediately.”

She glanced around the room.

"Any questions?"

Snape raised his hand. "Back to the new student list...Will Mr. Potter be receiving... special treatment this year?"

Dumbledore’s pleasant demeanor faded just a hair and he quickly cut in. "Absolutely not, Severus. He will be treated with fairness and impartiality, as all students should. And I would remind you to keep things cordial between yourself and Mr. Potter."

Snape said nothing, his expression unreadable.

Sprout leaned forward. "Will the Malfoy boy be attending this year?"

Lane gave her a curious look.

Sprout explained, "His father is on the Board of Governors."

Lane nodded slowly, storing that away.

"Yes, Draco Malfoy will be joining the first years," McGonagall confirmed. "And on a related note, Augustine Kings, son of another board member, will be entering his seventh year. He is enrolled in Muggle Studies this term."

Lane’s eyebrows rose. "Thank you. That’s helpful to know."

McGonagall closed her folder with a neat snap. "That concludes the student overview. Let's move on to shared space etiquette."

Lane zoned out for most of the shared space etiquette portion of the meeting, which she regretted almost immediately. She caught snippets—things about common room maintenance rotation, shared cauldrons in the lower dungeons, and something about keeping student artwork off the staffroom walls unless explicitly approved.

She vaguely registered McGonagall saying, "House passwords will be posted on the bulletin board inside the staff room each week for reference. Please destroy any copies after use."

But her mind wasn’t really there. It had drifted sideways, stuck on the look on Snape’s face when Harry’s name had come up, and that heinous comment. He had muttered something hateful. She’d nearly snapped in that moment, leaping to Harry’s defense before remembering she couldn’t. Not publicly anyway.

She clenched her quill tightly, heart thrumming faster the more she thought about it. There was no history she knew about between Snape and Harry—maybe something between Snape and the idea of Harry?

Her stomach twisted. Had Dumbledore assigned Snape as her liaison as a test? A deterrent? Or worse, because he trusted Snape to keep an eye on her?

It was too risky to guess. But she couldn’t ignore it.

Lane made up her mind to speak to Professor McGonagall before the day was over. She needed to know if Snape’s assignment was intentional—and if there was something she should be prepared for. Across the table, she saw McGonagall calmly reviewing a checklist and felt a small swell of relief. If anyone would give her a straight answer, it was her.

She tuned back in just as McGonagall was summarizing: "And please remember that any staff member hosting after-hours events must reserve the shared lounges and submit a schedule by the 10th of each month."

Lane nodded blankly, even though she hadn’t really heard the first part. Her eyes drifted once again to Snape, who was already back to sipping tea and jotting notes as if he hadn’t sent her anxiety into a tailspin.

It was going to be a long year.

McGonagall glanced around the room. "Any questions before we move on to our final two topics?"

When no hands were raised, she straightened a stack of parchments before her. "Magical Animal Care this year will once again be overseen by Professor Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank."

There were a few polite nods around the table.

"As a reminder for our new staff," McGonagall added, "Professor Grubbly-Plank is a licensed Magizoologist and one of the foremost experts on British magical fauna. She will not be at Hogwarts full-time, but will make weekly visits and provide lessons for upper years as scheduled. Please reach out to her directly if you have any questions about student handling of creatures or specific species safety policies."

Lane made a quick note; the name sounded familiar from her textbooks. Grubbly-Plank was older, with a shock of silvery hair often pulled under a flat cap and the no-nonsense demeanor of a lifelong field researcher. Lane did a double-take when she realized she was, in fact, missing an arm and what looked to be a leg as well - must be a dangerous occupation.

"Next," McGonagall said, flipping to another page, "House-elf support rotations. As always, each professor will have an assigned elf for routine support."

"Professor Black, you will continue with Mippy as your assigned elf."

Lane smiled. She liked Mippy—eager, loyal, and surprisingly organized.

"Professor Quirrell, Kibble will be assigned to you."

Quirrell gave a shaky nod.

"For general staff support—should your personal elf be unavailable—please contact Tommy, who will be acting as the rotating elf for classroom deliveries and staffroom supplies. He can be reached by name or via the bellpull near the eastern corridor alcove."

There were some murmurs of acknowledgment.

At that moment, Dumbledore raised his hand and gently interjected, "And regarding the final agenda item—castle irregularities—I'm pleased to report there are no significant concerns this year beyond the third-floor corridor." He paused, then added with a twinkle in his eye, "Though the flooding in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom has been resolved, I doubt it will remain that way for long.”

A few chuckles rippled around the table.

Then Dumbledore glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. "And, would you look at the time—it’s already noon."

Lane exhaled, suddenly realizing how drained she felt.

"Let’s break for lunch, shall we?" Dumbledore concluded. "Thank you all for your thoughtful attention this morning. We’ll reconvene tomorrow for the sorting and welcome feast planning."

Chairs shifted and conversations restarted as the meeting officially ended. Lane stretched her arms, stomach growling. She was ready for a break.

---

OK these might be my favorite images yet! Let me know what you guys think! They're based on my favorite deck of tarot cards - Ethereal Visions.

Chapter Text

Never in a million years did Harry think he’d be in this scenario.

He’d just spent the morning in the largest and most beautiful library he’d ever seen (and magical, did he mention that bit as well?), and now was being escorted to lunch by an actual ghost—specifically, a round, jolly-looking friar who wouldn’t stop talking.

After breakfast, Madam Pince had escorted him down the winding halls and up several flights until he reached the Hogwarts library where she had, immediately, put him to work manually unpacking new books from their crates. He unpacked wooden crate after wooden crate full of books he could never have imagined existing: Cooking with Cauldrons: Recipes you Shouldn’t Try at Home, A Dictionary of Forgotten Spells (and Why They Were Forgotten), Wandwork for the Wandless, and, his personal favorite,

When he was finished unpacking, Madam Pince wordlessly handed him a stamp, set of stickers, and a thick pad of purple ink, and set him to “libarifying” each of the books. It was tedious work, and more than once Harry found himself questioning Pince’s claim that she shouldn’t use magic on the books, but in the end, he quite enjoyed being able to read each of the cover pages.

They worked in a companionable silence, and after a few hours, Pince wandered off to what she called the “Restricted Section,” and Harry was left to his own devices.

It was magical. He spent the rest of the morning flitting between each aisle, paper in hand, mapping out what books were in each section as he had in the local libraries at home. He wanted to be ready when school started, and it didn’t seem like the Hogwarts Library followed any similar sorting system at home.

Eventually, he found the two sections he was looking for: Hogwarts Students, and Magical Creatures.

Ever since Dumbledore had come knocking at their small hotel room in the northern moors, and mentioned that Harry would be attending school where his parents had gone, he was desperate to learn more. He and Lane had heard some small things here and there from Professor McGonagall of course, but as he was still at Hogwarts under the guise of Jacob Hunt, he couldn’t really go around asking the rest of the staff any questions.

It had been Lane’s suggestion, really, to see if they could get a picture of young Lily and James from a school yearbook. She didn’t know if Hogwarts even had them, but they had made a promise to look together when they had a free moment. It was just Harry now, but he figured she wouldn’t mind. She had never made him feel like he had to choose between his mum and dad, and her.

Standing in one of the aisles between what he was calling the Modern Magical History section and the Picturebook section, he stared at what had to have been many centuries of record books. Luckily for him, each book seemed to comprise a decades worth of students, so after doing some very rough math in his head, ended up pulling down the book containing the 1970s.

He didn’t know how old his parents were when they had him, but he did know his mum was his aunt’s younger sister, and so they most likely attended at that time.

Retreating to an empty window seat, Harry tucked his legs to his chest, and began to flip through the yearbook. It didn’t take long—he found his mother first.

Right there, tucked between Everhardt, Lindsay and Doyle, Christopher, was Lily Evans.

She was his age in 1971, starting her first year at Hogwarts. As Dumbledore had said, she was a Gryffindor, but what surprised Harry most, was what she looked like.

He had always imagined he had gotten his green eyes from her, but he had never expected how identical they would be. It was like someone had transplanted his eyes onto this girl. Or really, he thought, transplanted them from her to me.

He would never have guessed, though, that she would have had red hair. Aunt Petunia herself had a head of wavy mouse-brown hair, Dudley was blonde, and Harry himself was, of course, black-haired naturally.

“Hello, mum,” he whispered, running his fingertips down her face. He didn’t know how long he sat, looking at her, before he turned the page, and began to look for his dad.

Again, he was surprised to see James Potter looked nothing like what he had imagined. If Harry’s eyes were a carbon copy of his mothers, his…everything else was the spitting image of James. From the messy black hair to the round glasses and the shape of his face, he could have been James Potter with green eyes. He had always thought his father had sandy blonde hair, like Dudley, but this…this was better. He could never forget his parents now — they were written on every inch of his skin.

“Hello, dad,” he murmured.

He spent the next few minutes flipping through 1972, 1973, and 1974, watching his parents pictures grow year over year—there was something deeply cathartic for him about the experience—if he couldn’t watch them age in real life, he could watch them here.

When he reached 1978, he was elated. Apparently back then (or maybe even still now), the 7th years were given a few additional pages for larger group and class photographs. On the first page, was a full picture of his parents as Head Boy and Head Girl. They stood a few inches apart, smiling at the camera, and every once in a while, Harry could see James turn to Lily with a wink, only to see her roll her eyes in return.

He chuckled, thinking of McGonagall sharing that his dad had been crazy about his mum or far longer than she had—they must have gotten together later in the year then.

Turning the page, he saw a few pictures of some happy Hufflepuffs and annoyed looking Ravenclaws before finding his dad again. He was sandwiched between three other wizards, all smiling, arms around each other out on the grounds. There were four of them: on the far left, a short, slightly chubby brown-haired wizard, stood with his arm awkwardly stretched up high to wrap around the neck of a very tall, thin, and tired looking man with sandy brown hair. He had a weary grin that grew every time he looked to his left at Harry’s dad. James, arm around his back, was laughing and looking back and forth between the tall man and the very handsome broad-shouldered black-haired man to his left. He was 17 here, looking almost like a man, Harry thought, and he was surprised to find there were tears in his eyes.

He looks so happy, he couldn’t help but think. He was grateful for these wizards—for making James laugh—if he couldn’t be around now—at least there was a time where he was happy.

He looked below the image and saw the title: The Marauders: Peter Pettingrew, Remus Lupin, James Potter, and Sirius Black.

Harry paused, Black? Turning his eyes back to the handsome man standing next to his father, he paused. The man had shoulder-length curly black hair, extremely pale skin, grey eyes, and a wide, charming smile. Harry knew that there was a House of Black in the Wizarding World—Dumbledore had told them after all that they would pretend Lane’s mother was from an offshoot line—but he never mentioned any sort of personal connection to his father.

Not for the first time, Harry wondered if Dumbledore was purposefully keeping secrets between them, but as he had done seemingly everything in his power to keep Harry and Lane together, he couldn’t be angry for too long. After all, it was entirely possible the professor didn’t know his father and Sirius Black were close.

This Sirius Black, though, could he be actually be related to his mum? At the very least, Harry wondered where he was now, wondered if he would’ve been around if his parents were still alive, wondered if Lane was actually part of this Black Family after all. He felt his breathing hitch.

He shook his head. No. It was more likely she had creature blood than this relation — after all, Lane had been adamant. None of her family hailed from Great Britain.

Sliding the book back on the shelf, and making a mental note to bring Lane back here to see them sometime, he tried to steady his breathing, and headed to the Magical Creatures section.

The last hour before lunch was spent combing through a book he found entitled Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by a ludicrously-named Newt Scamander, and with mounting anxiety, he realized he was at a dead end.

Giants, he had read, were resistant to many forms of magic, but Lane was small—even for a woman her age. Fairies, it said, had their own weak brand of magic that could deter predators; however the same issue as the giant theory arose—it was the wrong size entirely. Merpeople were as susceptible to magic the same as any other magical creature, Sphinx were completely immune but mostly cat, trolls were too (but that rose the same argument as giants), and Hags were magic resistant, but Harry was loathe to mention that possibility to Lane. Harry was particularly interested to learn that both werewolves and vampires existed in this world as well, but neither were possible. Lane had never turned into a werewolf on a full moon, and could step outside in the sun.

He had been halfway through returning the book to the shelf when Pince had cornered him - telling him he was already late for lunch, and to hurry on down.

Despite his protests that he really didn’t know how to get down to the Great Hall from here, and what felt like the beginning of a headache building, she slammed the library door behind him. It was only after wandering for several minutes that he ran into the friendly ghost who was now escorting him downstairs.

He looked up at the Fat Friar, who was still chattering on about the latest ghost drama. He very clearly had died long ago—looking vey much like the medieval friars he had seen in some of the movies Lane liked to watch with him—specifically, now that he thought of it, Friar Tuck.

“…and I told the Bloody Baron that if he wanted to keep Peeves in check, he ought to stop brooding in the dungeons and actually attend the last council meeting,” the Friar said cheerfully as they floated past a portrait of the Scottish moors.

“Makes sense,” Harry muttered as the Friar looked to him for some kind of confirmation. Everything felt…dizzy, and he couldn’t bring himself to pay any kind of close attention.

The ghost nodded, seemingly accepting his noncommittal response. “Of course, Moaning Myrtle took peeves’ side—again—after he dumped a bucket of eel slime into the second-floor girl’s lavatory. Said it ‘improved the whole space.’ Honestly, Mr. Hunt, you wouldn’t believe the drama.”

Mr. Hunt. Right. That was Harry’s cover. Jacob Hunt, younger Tlingit cousin of Professor Lane Black, visiting Hogwarts for the week. He had to keep reminding himself of that too, and not for the first time, felt a ripple of lingering frustration.

“Anyway,” the Friar said, pulling him back to the present, “Peeves is currently banned from the fourth-floor corridor, Myrtle is sulking in her darkened U-bend, and the Baron hasn’t spoken to anyone in a week.”

“Sounds intense,” Harry offered, as they reached the outside of the Great Hall.

“Quite right, Mr. Hunt,” the Friar said, nodding as they reached the top of the staircase leading down to the Great Hall.

When they made it inside, Harry’s eyes scanned the staff table immediately—and there she was. Lane.

He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed her until that moment. Going through the pictures of his parents, laughing and happy, unaware they were going to die—it had settled in his stomach heavier than he thought it would, and he found himself desperately missing his mum.

Without thinking, he hurried past the empty tables and up to the staff table, sliding into the seat beside her and pushing his leg against hers. She startled at first at the unexpected contact, but her face softened the moment she saw him.

“Jake! I was beginning to wonder if Pince’d let you down for lunch,” she said, pressing her leg back against his and reaching out to squeeze his shoulder. She smiled down at him, and he felt the smile start to crack on his face.

Seeing his expression change, a look of concern flickered across her own. She leaned down to block his face from view and whispered, “are you okay bug?”

He nodded and then, just as quickly, shook his head no. This was embarrassing. He really was fine.

Her concern deepened, and she stood, turning to address Aurora who had been deep in conversation with her when he arrived.
“I’m sorry, Aurora, but it seems as if Jake’s come down with a bit of a headache—I’m going to take him to the hospital wing.”

She nodded, a sympathetic look crossing her face. “No worries, Lane. Should I still stop by around 3 to see if you’re up for a tour?”

Lane thought for a moment and replied, “yes, absolutely! We’ll see if Jake is feeling better by then.”

Aurora smiled and, picking up her fork looked to Jake. “Feel better, chap!”

Harry nodded, and, still feeling overwhelmed, felt himself get pulled out of his chair and steered out the Great Hall.

For a few minutes, he followed Lane through the winding halls and back once when she realized she made the wrong turn.

She wasn’t running by any means, but her steps were more hurried than usual. Every so often, she turned her head down to look at him, and each time she must have seen something she didn’t like and quickened her pace just a bit more.

Eventually, they made it to the painting of Helena (the mermaid’s name, they had learned only this morning). In the span of moments, they were inside, and Lane was immediately crouched to eye level with him.

“Harry, honey?” She asked, putting her hands on his upper arms, “what happened?”

He found himself opening his mouth to tell her that, again, he really was fine, but something unexpected happened. All of the sudden, he felt a pit in his throat and his shoulders started to shake.

Lane froze, and Harry realized there was…water? On his face.

I’m crying. He thought, and then, looking at his mum’s face, wondered at her expression. She was just…staring at him, clearly…alarmed?

They looked at each other for a half a second before he felt her arms around him, and he was pulled close. She smelled, as always, like pears, and he hiccuped. She had one arm around his middle and the other rubbed up and down on his back soothingly.

“Shhh, honey, it’s okay. It’s okay.” She murmured.

It should have felt wonderful. It did feel wonderful, but for some reason he only started to cry harder. Great, big sobs. He couldn’t breathe - couldn’t catch his breath. Lane must have felt something change and she changed her hold and scooped him up like he weighed nothing.

He felt himself be carried to the couch and set down, but he still couldn’t breathe. He started to panic, but before he could really get himself worked up, Lane was there again. Kneeling right on the carpet in front of him and gripping her hands on his upper arms again.

“Harry,” she said firmly, and something in her tone snapped his eyes back to hers. He had rarely seen her look so serious, and her grip on his arms tightened almost to the point of pain.

“Harry Potter, I need you to look at me.” He was looking at her, wasn’t he? He brought his eyes back up from her mouth, which had just a moment ago had spoke with such a firm voice. Her eyes were calm and serious. “Harry, I need you to keep looking at me. I need you to breathe. When I squeeze your arms and tell you to, I want you to take a deep breath in. When I let go, I want you to take a deep breath out. Do you understand.

He thought he understood, but the pit in his throat kept him from responding, and the dizziness in his head kept him from nodding.

He was still looking at her though, and saw her move her head. She squeezed his arms. “Breathe in, Harry.”

He couldn’t. He couldn’t breathe.

“Harry,” she said, voice calmer, and leaned in. Her grip intensified and her body stilled. “Breathe, Harry.” He couldn’t. “Breathe.” Nothing would work. “Harry,” she instructed, and her grip tightened to the point of pain. “Breathe NOW.”

A shuddering gasp ripped through him, his mouth dropped open, and he felt cool clear air rush into his lungs.

“That’s good, Harry.” He heard Lane say, and felt her grip release. “Now breathe out.” His shoulders hitched, and he forced the air to leave his lungs.

They repeated this a few more times, Harry following her instructions, and after what seemed like hours, felt himself calm and the dizziness that had plagued him since the library begin to slip away.

When he felt he could breathe again on his own without listening to Lane, he refocused on her face. She was still looking at him with such intensity and he felt a flush of shame rush through him. What had just gotten into him?

He reached up his hands to clear the wetness from his face and felt her hands slip from his arms to allow the motion.

After a minute, he heard her speak again. “Harry honey, look at me, I need you to do something for me.” He nodded and she continued, “Tell me five things you can see.”

Five things I can see? he thought, but too tired to do anything other than what she asked, raised his eyes to look around the room.

“Erm…I see you, and the fireplace, Kat, the windows, and erm…” he cast his eyes around looking for one last thing, eyes falling on one of the colorful paintings she had bought from Golder’s Green, “the painting.”

She smiled, and said, “that’s very good Harry. Now can you tell me four things you can touch?”

Still confused, he thought for a moment, “I can feel your hands, my…jeans if that counts, the couch and it feels kind of cold in here.” That got a laugh out of her.

“Great job, Harry, only a few more things. Now can you tell me three things you can hear?”

He concentrated, and realized he could hear, off in the distance, the ringing of the hourly bell Had it been an hour already since they came upstairs? He looked back down at Lane, who was still knelt on the rug in front of where he sat on the couch.

When he didn’t reply immediately, he saw her brows crinkle in concern again, and he realized he needed to speak. “I hear the bell,” he rushed out, “I can hear you talking, and…” Frantically casting out his hearing in every direction, couldn’t find another thing. “Erm…that’s all I can hear actually sorry.”

She chuckled, and her forehead smoothed. “That’s all right, bug I couldn’t hear anything else either.” He felt the corner of his mouth turn up in a slight grin which she eagerly reflected.

“Okay bug, last question, what are two things you can smell and one thing you can taste?”

Two things I can smell? “I smell…pears from your perfume, and something…musty maybe? From my clothes?” She nodded, gesturing for him to continue-to name one thing he could taste.

But all he could taste for some reason was salt. “Erm…salt,” he offered, and saw her breathe out.

"Good job, Harry.” She rubbed his arms and let go - he was instantly sorry for the loss, but luckily it seemed she wasn’t going anywhere. He saw her stand up and groan, rubbing her back, and he realized she must have been crouching the whole time.

With another exhale, she plopped herself down onto the couch next to him and threw her arm around his shoulders, pulling him in close.

For a moment, they just sat there next to each other, looking at the empty fireplace.

“So, bug,” he heard her say after a while, and he angled his head up to look at her. “Are you feeling better now?”

He nodded, and with shame, realized that she must think he was crazy. Crying like that. He felt his cheeks redden, and he looked down, holding his hands in his lap. “I’m sorry.” He said.

He felt, rather than saw her, shake her head vigorously. “Don’t do that, Harry,” she said, pulling back to look at him a bit better, “it’s okay, there’s nothing to feel bad about.” Her arm that had been around his shoulders rubbed him slowly up and down.

It felt…nice. She had held him, he remembered, when he came in the door, when all this had started. Hugged him and rubbed his back as he cried, the way he had always wished Aunt Petunia would when he was sick.

He knew he had never cried in front of Lane - not once. Not even after everything that happened with the Dursleys. It hadn’t been something he had meant to do, it had just never been something he felt. Why did it happen today, then?

She was still looking at him, he knew, and he looked up. She must have read the confusion on his face, for she asked, “what are you thinking, bug?”

He looked down again, and thought for a moment, “I don’t understand why this happened.”

She squeezed his shoulders and took a deep breath in. “I’m going to make us a cuppa, and then we can talk this through, if you’re feeling up for it?”

He nodded, and looked down at his shirt which was, alarmingly, wet from what must have been tears and…sweat? He felt disgusting. “Can I change?” He asked, and she smiled.

“Of course! Take a hot shower if that helps and put on something comfortable. I’ll be here making a cuppa and a snack, and when you come out we can talk all about it. Just..” She trailed off as she stood, “call for me if you need me ok?”

He nodded, and to his relief felt like he was going to be alright after all.

Five minutes later, he was standing under the hot stream from this gold and orange shower, looking out at the beautifully sunny day. It felt wonderful, to just stand there, and he felt himself calm more and more.

He stepped out and, drying himself, grabbed the first comfortable thing he could think of - a pair of blue flannel pajamas and fluffy grey socks - and shuffled back out into the living room. Lane was still there, though she had changed quickly herself and was now looking far more comfortable in her favorite pair of barrel jeans and a loose brown jumper. She had pulled her hair up, and was sitting on the couch cross-legged with a tea service and some biscuits sat in front her.

She smiled when she saw him and, gesturing for him to sit, explained, “I hope you don’t mind-I just had Mippy bring some tea and biscuits up instead of making some myself. I wanted to change into something more comfortable too.”

He gave her a tentative smile and replied, feeling quite shy, “no worries. She makes good tea.”

“That she does,” Lane agreed, and handed him a cup.

He sipped for a moment, and she just looked at him. After a while she asked, “would you like me to start?” He nodded, relieved.

“Okay,” she said leaning back and looked at him seriously. “Harry, do you know what just happened?”

Lane watched his eyes widen and his cheeks burn. He opened his mouth as to apologize, but she placed a gentle hand on his knee and shook her head slightly.

“Harry,” she said softly, “there’s nothing to be ashamed of. What you just had was a panic attack. It feels frightening, and it can be overwhelming, but it doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you.”

He dropped his gaze, frowning, twisting his fingers together. “I feel stupid. I couldn’t stop crying, and I couldn’t even breathe right. I thought I was losing control.”

“You’re not stupid,” Lane said firmly. “Do you want to know how I recognized it? Because I’ve had them too. More than a few times. My first one was when I was in college. I thought I was dying. My chest was so tight, I couldn’t breathe, I was dizzy, and my hands went numb. It terrified me. It took me years—and a lot of help from professionals—to learn what was happening and how to handle it. That’s how I knew what was happening with you just now. That’s why I asked you to breathe with me and to name the things around you. Those tools help bring your mind back to the present when your brain is sounding alarms that don’t match the reality.”

Harry’s head snapped up. “So you… you know what it feels like?”

“Yes, bug. I know exactly what it feels like.” She gave his shoulder a squeeze. “It’s horrible in the moment, but it always passes. And once you learn what helps, it gets easier to face. You learn to manage it, instead of feeling like it’s managing you. So don’t ever apologize to me for that. You’re not weak, and you’re not broken. Your body just hit the panic button.”

Harry nodded slowly, though he still looked troubled. “But why did it happen now? I was fine this morning.”

Lane tilted her head thoughtfully. “That’s a really good question. Panic attacks are usually triggered by something, even if we don’t notice it right away. Sometimes it’s something we see or think about, sometimes it’s just too many stresses stacking up. Do you remember what you were doing right before it started?”

He swallowed. “I… found them. In the yearbook. My parents. Mum in her first year, then Dad. And then… them together in seventh year. They looked so happy. And then I remembered—they’re gone. They were killed.” His voice shook as he went on. “It’s scary to see them laughing and smiling, knowing what happens later. And then I saw Dad with his friends, the Marauders they called themselves. They all looked like they belonged together. And there was a Black with him—Sirius Black. I started wondering if he was connected to you somehow, and if Dumbledore knows more than he tells us.” He looked down, ashamed. “I couldn’t stop thinking. I couldn’t stop breathing too fast.”

Lane’s expression softened and she brushed his hair back from his forehead. “That makes so much sense, Harry. That’s a huge thing to process. Looking at your parents’ faces, imagining their lives, and then realizing how it ended… that would rattle anyone, especially someone who lost them the way you did.”

Harry blinked hard, his throat tight. “And then I had to remember to keep being Jacob, not Harry. And the Fat Friar, and Pince, and everything else—it was too much.”

She nodded. “Exactly. Think about everything you’ve had to hold at once. Becoming a wizard, moving to Hogwarts, learning about this entire world, having your appearance changed, pretending to be Jacob, and hiding that we’re a family… Harry, that’s an enormous amount of change. Any one of those would be enough to stress someone. Stacked together, it’s no wonder your body said, ‘too much,’ and pulled the alarm.”

He was quiet for a while, absorbing her words. Finally, he whispered, “It felt unbearable.”

“I know,” Lane said gently, pulling him closer against her side. “But here’s the important thing—we’re going to handle it together so it doesn’t feel that unbearable next time. We’ll practice breathing and grounding when you’re calm, so it’s easier to use when things feel overwhelming again. And we’ll talk through what’s bothering you instead of you carrying it alone.”
Harry leaned into her, unsure if he wanted to cry again or just sit still. Her steady presence kept him from tipping into either. “Do you still get them?”

“Sometimes,” Lane admitted. “But not nearly as often as I used to. And when they come, they don’t scare me the same way anymore. I’ve learned how to notice the early signs, how to slow down, how to breathe through it. I splash water on my face, step outside, or name five things I can see. All those little steps tell my brain, ‘You’re safe now.’ It doesn’t make them pleasant, but it makes them manageable.”
Harry studied her, curiosity flickering through the worry. “And that helps?”

“It really does,” she said. “That’s why I wanted you to try the same things. When I asked you to name what you could see, touch, and hear, it was to ground you here in this room, with me. It tells your body that you’re safe right now, not in whatever scary thought your brain is running with.” She gave him a small smile. “And you did it. You calmed yourself with my help. That was all you.”
Harry let out a shaky breath, relief softening his shoulders. “So it wasn’t just me being… broken.”

“Not at all,” Lane said. “You reacted to too much pain, too much stress, too many changes. It’s like your body overloaded and forced you to stop. It’s scary, yes—but it’s also a sign that your body is trying to protect you. We can work with that.”

They sat in silence for a few moments, sipping tea. Then Lane asked gently, “What do you think made it feel the worst? Was it the pictures?”
Harry nodded. “Seeing them alive and happy. And realizing I’ll never have that. It was like looking at ghosts, only worse, because they were smiling and didn’t know what was coming. It made me think about death. About how close it feels sometimes.” He glanced away. “I don’t want to think about dying, but it was all I could think about.”

Lane exhaled slowly. “That’s one of the hardest parts, bug. Facing death. And you’ve had to think about it far earlier than most kids your age. Of course it scares you. Of course it makes you panic. But you’re not alone in it. We’ll take it piece by piece.”

Harry’s voice was quiet. “It’s just… a lot.”

“It is a lot,” Lane agreed. “And it’s okay to say that. It’s okay to not be okay sometimes. What matters is that you have someone with you, so you don’t have to carry it all yourself.” She kissed the top of his head gently. “You’re grieving all over again, you’re adjusting, and you’re incredibly brave. And you don’t ever have to do it alone again.”

For the first time since the library, Harry felt the tightness in his chest ease. He leaned into her side and let out a long breath. Lane kept her arm firm around him, steady and safe.

 

They stayed on the couch for a long while after that. The tea grew cooler in their cups as the minutes ticked by, but he didn’t mind. He sat curled into Lane’s side, one hand around his mug, the other absently rubbing at the cuff of his pajama sleeve. Lane sat still and steady, sipping occasionally, keeping her arm draped around his shoulders as if to remind him she wasn’t going anywhere. The fire Lane had started in the hearth crackled low, filling the silence with a comforting rhythm.

They didn’t need words for a while. Harry stared into the flames, his breathing slow now, no longer ragged or rushed. From time to time, he would glance up at her as if to make sure she was still there, and she always met his gaze with a small smile, reassuring without speaking.
The afternoon light shifted across the floorboards, warm sunbeams creeping through the tall windows. By the time the clock struck three, Harry had nearly forgotten the promise of the tour. A polite knock at the door drew them both back to the present. Lane straightened slightly, keeping her arm snug around Harry’s shoulders.

“Lane?” came Aurora Sinistra’s voice through the wood. “It’s three o’clock—are you ready for the tour?”

Lane glanced down at Harry. He stiffened at the sound, his eyes wide with worry. Without hesitation, Lane gave his arm a quick squeeze stood to answer the door, her tone warm but decisive. “Aurora, thank you so much for coming by. But I’m afraid Jake’s still not feeling well. We’ll have to take a rain check on today.”

There was a brief pause before Aurora answered, sounding sympathetic. “Of course, no problem. Let me know when you’d like to reschedule. Take care, Jake.”

Harry relaxed slightly as Lane said goodbye and settled back down on the couch next to him as the sound of Aurora’s retreating footsteps faded. Lane pressed a kiss to his hair. “See? Nothing to worry about. You get to rest.”

The rest of the afternoon stretched quiet and calm. Lane pulled a blanket over the two of them, and they settled back into the couch with a stack of books pulled from one of the many boxes. Harry chose one at random—an old, worn volume of wizarding fairy tales she had picked up in Diagon Alley—and began to read aloud softly, his voice steadying with each page. Lane listened, interrupting now and then to ask questions or make small comments, but mostly letting him take the lead.

When Harry’s voice grew tired, Lane took over reading while he leaned against her shoulder, eyes half-closed. The hours passed like that, companionable and unhurried. Outside, the sun shifted lower in the sky, and the castle carried on with its bustle, but inside their little sitting room, it was just the two of them, tea cooling on the table, pages turning slowly.


---

By the time the light outside had deepened into the amber glow of early evening, Harry’s stomach gave a loud grumble that made Lane chuckle softly. Almost on cue, Mippy popped into the room with a small crack of displaced air. The house‑elf’s large eyes blinked at them eagerly. “Missy Professor Black Lady, Mister Harry Potter Sir, is you wanting dinner now? Mippy can be bringing food.”

Harry startled a little, then laughed quietly, realizing only then how hungry he was. “I didn’t notice, but I’m starving,” he admitted.
“Then yes, please, Mippy,” Lane said warmly. “Something simple.”

Mippy disappeared and reappeared moments later, balancing a large tray nearly as tall as herself, stacked with neat sandwiches, a bowl of fruit, and a pot of soup kept steaming under a lid. She placed it carefully on the low table. “Mippy hopes this is good for miss and young sir,” she squeaked.

“Perfect,” Lane said. She handed Harry a plate, and they began eating. The sandwiches were fresh and simple—ham and cheese, cucumber, roast chicken. Harry devoured two quickly, washing them down with pumpkin juice. He felt almost embarrassed at how quickly his hunger reasserted itself.

They ate slowly after the initial rush, talking a little as they did. Lane told him bits about the staff meeting that morning, and Harry listened, smiling faintly at the images, the warmth of normal conversation soothing him further.

When the food was finished and the trays still lingered on the table, Mippy popped back in. She bobbed a low curtsey. “Would miss and young sir be wanting help with unpacking boxes? Or bringing furniture from castle storage? Mippy can be helping.”

Harry looked up quickly, his eyes lighting with interest. “Furniture? We could get more furniture?”

Lane tilted her head with a smile. “That sounds great, Mippy. What do you think, bug?”

“Yes!” Harry said eagerly. “We should.”

Mippy clapped her hands in excitement. “Then Mippy will be asking: what kind of furniture is miss wanting? There is being tables and chairs, wardrobes, sofas, beds, shelves, all sorts.” She pulled from thin air a heavy‑looking leather‑bound book and set it on the table with a thump. “This is the castle catalogue. It is only opening for those keyed to Hogwarts, but Mippy needs to ask Mister Harry Potter to turn the pages please, since Missy Professor Black Lady cannot touch.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “That’s amazing.” He pulled the book toward himself. The cover glowed faintly with enchantment. “I’ll turn the pages for you,” he told Lane.

Lane leaned close, her chin resting on her hand, watching as Harry flipped carefully through. Page after page displayed drawings of furniture: carved oak chairs, velvet couches, wardrobes with mirrored doors, long dining tables, sets of bookshelves. “Craftsman style,” Lane murmured after a few minutes, pointing to a set of sturdy pieces with clean lines, dark wood, and simple detailing. “That feels right.”
Harry nodded enthusiastically. “I like those. They look solid. Homey.”

Together they marked several pages: a pair of deep armchairs, a sturdy desk, a few tall bookshelves, and a low coffee table. Harry turned the book toward Mippy, who tapped it with her long finger. The items glowed briefly, then disappeared from the page.

Within minutes, Mippy popped out and back again, dragging along furniture that seemed far too large for her small frame. Piece by piece, the room transformed. Boxes were levitated to the corners, unpacked with practiced flicks of her fingers. Armchairs appeared by the fire, the couch settled into place along the wall, the new bookshelf filled itself with neatly stacked tomes from crates. Lane's art from Golders Green littered the walls, and Harry darted about, eager to see each item settled, while Lane laughed quietly at his energy.

By the time the last box was opened and the table dusted clean, the flat felt warmer, fuller—more theirs. Harry stepped back, breathless with excitement, and looked up at Lane. “It looks like a real home now.”

She smiled at him, eyes shining. “Yes, bug. It really does.”

And for the first time all day, he felt that everything would be all right.

Chapter Text

Lane POV: August, 1991 - Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Lane Black was slowly but surely getting used to Hogwarts.

It hadn’t been easy at first - the castle was a veritable labyrinth of passageways, staircases, and interlocking rooms. To make it worse, the sentient staircases that gave the professors so much grief refused to move when she was on them, and she spent many afternoons patiently waiting for the stairs to swing back properly so she could get where she needed to go.

But she was adjusting. Slowly. By the end of her first week, she’d begun to anticipate some of the castle’s more stubborn behaviors, and could at last make it from her rooms to the Great Hall without getting waylaid.

The only frustrating holdout was the food. Rich, traditional, British fare had never sat right for her, yet day after day she found it piled high for all three meals in the Great Hall. Stews, puddings, meat pies, piles of buttered bread, thick sloppy gravies, and more desserts than she’d ever seen outside a county fair.

At first, she had worried she’d gain 10 pounds in a week. The rest of the staff seemed to dig in without a second thought (except for Quirrell who only ever poked at his plate), but Lane was coming from a lifetime of careful moderation. Each bite felt like an overindulgence, and more often than not, the rich food left her feeling greasy and bloated.

Thankfully, it seemed that between the multiple staircases she climbed every day to reach her quarters, the Staff Room, the Great Hall, and her frequent pilgrimages to the library—not to mention chasing after Harry who couldn’t seem to get enough of exploring the castle—the calories were working themselves off.

Still, what she wouldn’t give for a place to practice—there were no dojangs in the Scottish Highlands, and it had now been weeks since she hit the mats. She’d have to ask McGonagall if there was a spare room she could use on the weekends. Who was she kidding-of course there was. Hogwarts was not lacking in the rooms department.

She and Harry had been able to reschedule their tour of the castle with Aurora in the days following his panic attack, and after an illuminating and slightly dizzying few hours, she found that Aurora was fast becoming a friendly and calming presence in her life.

Despite their almost decade-long age gap, Aurora was funny and smart, and they both had more than enough in common. Both had originally come to England after a heartbreak, although Aurora’s was decidedly more difficult. Lane had, of course, originally moved to Great Britain after her German partner had cheated, and while that had been difficult, it had nothing to Aurora’s story.

She had been married - that’s where the name Sinistra had come from. Aurora herself was from South Africa, and had met her husband on a trip abroad in Italy when she was only twenty-two. After a whirlwind courtship, they had gotten married on the beach at Lake Como, and had spent five very happy years together before her husband had been killed in a freak accident. It had been her husband who loved astronomy, so after a year passed, and she could no longer bear to live in their home any longer, she packed everything up and accepted a post as astronomy professor at Hogwarts.

Now, at thirty-five, and seven years Lane’s senior, she had built a life for herself here at Hogwarts, and Lane could only hope to do the same for herself and Harry—even if it seemed like finding someone for herself would now be forever off the table.

How could she find a partner here? When her whole existence was a lie? Not only would dating a wizard be difficult in and of itself, but there were simply no wizards at Hogwarts. She couldn’t hold a conversation with the only two near her own age (not that she would want to-while Snape was silent, there was something about Quirrell that made her skin crawl). She couldn’t travel quickly enough to London and back to date - there were no portrays or flows that would take her. She simply had to be content with putting her life on pause for the next seven years.

But for Harry, she would do anything.

Harry.

Poor Harry.

She wouldn’t admit this to Harry, but his panic attack scared her. It wasn’t something she had expected, and although she knew how to deal with them when they arose, she had no experience in helping heal the root cause.

Even after the Dursleys, Harry hadn’t had a single attack - barely even cried. She knew that this was some form of trauma coping - not natural and probably not healthy, and that’s why she had hired the therapist. Tess had done wonders with Harry - helping him to be more communicative, and to start to make peace with what had happened (although Lane knew all too well those kinds of demons stayed forever), but there had been no mention of anxiety or panic attacks then. No signs. Nothing.

Her own initial instinct when she watched Harry begin to hyperventilate was to panic herself, but what good would that have done anyone. She just hoped that, in getting it together for him, he couldn’t tell that she had no idea what to do herself.

They had talked about it after, of course, and it made sense why Harry had gone through this. There was realistically only so much change someone can go through in such a short time before feeling overwhelmed, but Lane found herself desperately wishing they could have brought Tess with them to Hogwarts.

She realized she’d have to keep a closer eye on him than she’d thought originally, and hope that getting his face back, and actually starting school as himself, would push him over the edge and back into calmer waters.

 

In the days after her walk of Hogwarts with Aurora, and Harry’s troubles, she had been scheduled for a tour of the grounds with none other than Rubeus Hagrid.

To say she had been nervous would be an understatement.

Her first proper interaction with Hagrid had been in the barn in Lancashire, and it had changed the course of her life. He was massive, loud, and had barged himself into their night completely uninvited. There was a moment she thought he was going to kill Harry—or her.

Still, Dumbledore had convinced her to take the tour and give him another chance, and when she and Harry had met him outside on the steps, he began to apologize profusely.

“Didn’ mean ter scare yeh,” he said, beetle black eyes watery and earnest. “Didn’ realize yeh were standin’ righ there when I barged in. I was jus’ worried about ‘arry. Yeh alright now, though, yeah?”

It had been clear, quickly, that Hagrid didn’t really understand the concept of personal space though—or perhaps hadn’t realized how intimidating his presence really was that night in the barn. But Lane felt he ultimately meant well. She wouldn’t warm to him immediately that was for sure, but she felt she could work on that feeling of deep discomfort that came up when she was around him.

After his initial apology, heh had glanced around a bit nervously and then leaned in slightly, lowering his voice.

“An’ don’ worry,” he murmured, eyes sincere. “I won’ tell a soul ‘bout yeh havin’ a son.”

Lane blinked, caught off guard. She had assumed Dumbledore had explained everything to Hagrid—but now seemed like all he’d done was tell him she had a son…separately? Not that Harry, the very boy standing beside her disguised as Jake, was the son in question. Even Harry looked confused, eyebrows knit as he glanced up at her with wide yes. What was he going to think when Harry (looking like himself as he had in the barn) showed up at Hogwarts in a few weeks?

She considered that maybe Hagrid was just a bit slower to catch on to things. Gentle, loyal, but not one for nuance. She made a mental note to ask Dumbledore what on earth he had been thinking - it seemed like either of the better options would have been to tell him the whole truth like McGonagall or to try to wipe his memory like Diggle had.

Eventually, she decided to let it go with Hagrid for now. “Uh…thanks, Hagrid. I appreciate it,” she said, offering a polite smile.

Hagrid beamed, clearly pleased. “Yer secret’s safe with me,” he added with a conspiratorial wink.

Harry looked up at Lane, completely bewildered, and Lane had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.

After that, the grounds tour had turned out to be unexpectedly pleasant. Hagrid was in his element, pointing out the greenhouses, the edge of the Forbidden Forest , the lake with its enormous squid, and the boathouse where first-years would arrive across the water. Lane and Harry oohed and ahhed at everything while Hagrid cheerfully introduced her to creatures he was caring for—a baby hippogriff with bandaged wings, a cluster of nifflers digging up sparkling stones, and even a grumpy goat with a monocle. She mostly kept a few feet between herself and Hagrid, and he seemed to pick up on it, keeping his distance politely. They spoke about the way the grounds changed in each season, how snow piled up on the courtyard arches in winter and wildflowers grew along the walls in spring.

She remembered talking to Harry about him that evening in their quarters.

"I think I forgive him," she’d said simply, as she’d pulled her hair into a loose braid before bed.

"Who? Not Dumbledore?" Harry asked.

"No, Hagrid." Harry had nodded cautiously, adding, “anyone who treats animals as Hagrid must be all right.”

“My thoughts exactly, Bug.” She had agreed.

Besides, she thought, he could have seriously hurt them that night in the barn—especially after she had cut him with that machete in pure panic—but he hadn’t. Not even close. That counted for something.

---

The real challenge that week, though, came when she met one-on-one with Professor McGonagall.

The meeting was scheduled for Thursday afternoon in McGonagall’s office, and Lane had come prepared. She’d spent hours in the library combing through old syllabi, scribbling out timelines, and cross-referencing the OWL and NEWT requirements for Muggle Studies and even History of Magic. She hadn’t known exactly what McGonagall expected, but she knew as a regular person, that at the very least, the old curriculum wasn’t going to cut it for a student to actually understand the non-Magical world. The versions she'd read were outdated, flat, and startlingly Eurocentric.

"Professor Black," McGonagall said crisply as Lane sat down across from her polished mahogany desk. "I’ve had a chance to review the syllabus draft you submitted."

Here it comes, Lane thought, clutching her folder a bit tighter.

"I must say," McGonagall continued, adjusting her spectacles, "at first glance, I thought it was radical."

Lane blinked. "Radical-bad or radical-good?"

McGonagall pursed her lips, then tilted her head slightly, the ghost of a smile flickering at the corner of her mouth. "Radical in the sense that it deviates significantly from what we’ve traditionally taught."

Lane nodded slowly. "I thought it might. But I promise I was careful to include all the the OWL and NEWT expectations. I just… adjusted the framing."

She leaned forward slightly, eyes earnest. "The old course material felt less like an actual class and more like a field guide for observing exotic animals. To be perfectly blunt, in a slightly concerning way. I want these kids to understand No-Maj people in context. Historical context, yes, but also cultural, ethical, human context. Why things happened. Who got left out. What parallels exist with magical history. What we can learn from mistakes."

McGonagall raised an impressed eyebrow, and Lane felt a surge of satisfaction at her proper use of American Wizarding slang.

"I studied anthropology in college," she explained. "And I tried to bring that same spirit to the Muggle Studies syllabus. What I wanted to do was turn it into something that shows students the richness and relevance of non-magical culture—not just British, but global. There are sections on pop culture, like film and music, and how they influence even wizarding society. We look at food, holidays, technology, and the way No-Maj structure their families, communities, and laws. I even included a full section on American muggles, since, well... that's where I'm from, and it turns out our cultural differences are fascinating to compare. There's also a bit on magical communities outside Britain—how magical and non-magical people coexist in other countries, or don't. Let them ask questions, draw parallels. Let them write reflections and essays, not just copy definitions. If they can relate to the material, they'll remember it."

McGonagall was quiet for a moment, then reached for the parchment.

"Your proposal to compare the evolution of muggle communication technology with magical communication methods, like owls and the Floo Network, was well-argued," she said. "And I admit, a home economics class and incorporating modern muggle food trends as a way to explore cultural integration is… surprisingly insightful."

Lane felt her shoulders relax a little. "So, not too much?"

"There are a few edits I would suggest," McGonagall replied. "Mostly in terms of structure. And some weeks may be too dense for younger students. But overall... I approve."

Lane beamed. She could barely contain it.

They spent the next hour walking through the syllabus week by week. McGonagall offered suggestions for pacing, ways to tie lessons back to Ministry standards, and even names of a few historical figures Lane hadn’t yet heard of. Lane took copious notes, grateful for the elder witch’s sharp mind and fair demeanor. They even debated over including a unit about magical journalism and propaganda, using examples from the Daily Prophet over the past century.

"If it fits in the spring term," McGonagall said, tapping her finger against the desk, "you might consider inviting a guest speaker from the Wizengamot. I know someone who owes me a favor."

By the end of the meeting, Lane felt something she hadn’t felt in weeks: confidence. Not just the quiet hope that she was doing okay, but the grounded assurance that she might, just might, actually thrive here.

McGonagall stood to shake her hand. "I believe the students will be lucky to have you, Professor Black."

Lane smiled. For the first time, the title didn’t feel so strange.

She had just begun gathering her notes and sliding them back into her folder when McGonagall paused, one hand still resting on the corner of her desk.

"One last thing, Professor Black, have you scheduled your mentorship meetings yet?"

Lane froze. Damnit. She’d been hoping that particular requirement would somehow slip through the cracks. She quickly tried to think of an excuse, any way to dodge the question, but nothing came to mind that wouldn’t sound suspiciously like a lie.

"I… I mean, sort of," Lane said slowly. "Professor Sinistra and I took a tour yesterday and talked about Hogwarts and the students, made plans to meet every other Monday for tea. So that's something. But I haven’t approached Snape yet."

McGonagall's eyebrows rose sharply. "What do you mean, you haven’t approached him? He was supposed to approach you!"

Lane opened her mouth to respond, but before she could even sputter out a half-excuse, McGonagall spun toward the fireplace, grabbed a pinch of green powder from a ceramic dish, and tossed it into the flames.

"Severus Snape!" she called, voice firm and clear.

The fire roared green, and to Lane’s complete shock, a man’s head emerged in the flames.

Snape looked furious.

"Minerva, I am in the middle of—"

"You are supposed to begin your mentorship duties this week," McGonagall interrupted coolly. "But, Professor Black informs me that you have made no contact."

Snape's eyes flicked toward Lane. "I have multiple batches of restorative draft brewing today. I can’t leave the lab unattended."

"You can take a few minutes," McGonagall snapped. "You will meet with her, and establish your weekly schedule as directed."

Snape's gaze settled coldly on Lane. She felt a strong urge to shrink back under the intensity of his stare, but forced herself to stand straighter. If he wanted to be a dick about this, that was his choice—but she wasn’t going to flinch.

"According to my schedule," she said, keeping her tone even, "I’m free Wednesday evenings after dinner."

Snape narrowed his eyes. "Fine," he said stiffly. "Next Wednesday."

He began to pull away from the flames when McGonagall cut in again.

"No. No pushing this off until next week. You will meet with her tomorrow after lunch for your initial session instead of meeting with me. Wednesdays after that."

Snape's jaw tightened. He gave a curt nod, then disappeared from the fire without another word.

Lane let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

McGonagall turned back to her with a slightly apologetic expression. "I'm very sorry about his demeanor. Severus can be… abrupt."

Lane shrugged, though her heartbeat was still racing. "It’s fine. I can handle it."

"Don’t take it personally," McGonagall said, voice gentler now. "He has his own way of doing things, much as I disapprove. But if he gives you trouble, you come to me. Understood?"

"Understood," Lane said. "Thank you, Professor."

McGonagall gave her a nod, then sat back down and returned to her paperwork. Lane took the hint and exited, folder clutched tightly in one hand, her mind already racing ahead to tomorrow.

She hadn't expected to confront Snape so soon. But at least now, she wouldn't have to keep dreading it.

Lane had agonized over what to wear for her first advisory meeting with Snape.

Harry, bless him, understood it was a big deal in theory, but didn’t quite grasp why it warranted wardrobe panic. He had scarfed down his lunch in record time before sprinting off to the greenhouses, where Professor Sprout had promised to show him a Venomous Tentacula in full bloom. Lane had barely gotten a chance to ask for his opinion before he was gone, hollering something about protective gloves and flesh-eating vines.

Left to her own devices, she stood in front of her wardrobe for almost thirty minutes. At first, she considered a comfortable teaching robe—neutral brown, worn-in, familiar. But something about Snape’s glare from the fire the day before had stuck with her. He had looked at her like she was an intruder. Or worse, a joke.

So she changed course.

She finally chose a set of more formal wizarding robes she’d brought almost on a whim. Deep forest green, with subtle gold trim at the sleeves and collar. They were elegant, tailored, and sharp. She added her mother’s emerald jewelry set—a pair of small stud earrings and a delicate pendant—as a quiet reminder of her roots.

For the first time since arriving at Hogwarts, she wore her hair fully down. Mippy, ever the helpful house-elf, had been working tirelessly to help her figure out how to style her curls without a diffuser. Together, they had landed on a solution involving a cream right out of the shower. The result was a cascade of glossy, springy curls that framed her face and fell just to her tailbone.

She arrived at the dungeons just before dinner, precisely at the scheduled time. Snape hadn’t shown up in the Great Hall for his meal at all, which didn’t surprise her--she suspected he preferred the quiet solitude of the potions lab to any social setting.

The air in the dungeons was cool and damp, the stone walls humming with a kind of low, magical vibration. She paused outside the door marked "Staff Potions Laboratory," straightened her robes, and knocked.

"Enter," came the clipped reply.

She stepped in.

Snape was already seated at a side table in his same stark black robes, a set of notes unfurled in front of him, quill scratching steadily.

"Professor Snape," she said politely.

He didn’t look up. "You’re late."

She glanced at her watch. "Actually, I’m two minutes early."

His eyes flicked up, dark and annoyed. "Then let’s not waste time.”

 

"Okay," she said, placing her pen down. "What exactly is your problem with me?"

His gaze narrowed. "Excuse me?"

"You say my last name like it burns your mouth, and you've vehemently disagreed with everything I've said. Let’s stop pretending. What is it?"

Snape didn’t hesitate. "I know the Blacks-even went to school with one in my youth. I hated him-wretched excuse for a wizard."

She blinked—then laughed. "And what, you think we are all the same? That has nothing to do with me."

He sneered. "Apple. Tree."

Lane felt a flash of heat rise in her chest at his vicious words - even if her real family had nothing to do with this random wizarding line, her last name was still Black - her grandfather had obviously been a Black, even if it was the wrong one, and so the insult to the name alone was real enough.

She decided to press her point, leaning into her fabricated background: "My mother was a Black," she said sharply. "But she was dead before I was old enough to even remember her. She was a traveler. Just passing through. I never even got to learn anything about them." There, she thought, equally vicious, that ought to shut him up.

or a long moment, he didn’t say anything. Just stared.

And not just a glance or a glare—he was making a lot of eye contact. Unbroken. Intense. Unusual. At first, Lane had matched it, glare for glare, not willing to be the one who blinked first. But as the seconds ticked by, and he continued to bore into her with those black eyes, it started to become... uncomfortable. Not threatening, exactly, but strange. There was something searching about his gaze now, almost as if he was reading lines off her face like a puzzle he hadn't realized he wanted to solve.

It wasn't the kind of look she expected from someone who had just been hurling barbed comments at her. It was too focused. Too analytical. He wasn’t just staring her down—he was trying to figure her out.

And it was getting under her skin.

She shifted slightly in her seat. Still he didn’t speak. Just looked right back, studying him as well openly for the first time. He was tall and severe of course, but up front she could see even more lines than she would have expected on a thirty-one year old. Dark eyes, dark stringy hair - she thought he might have a chance at being attractive honestly if he didn't wear hatred so plainly on his face. He was tall and lean, after all, and very intense.

As she looked, the anger in his expression slowly drained, replaced by something more internal. His lips were pressed into a line, his brow furrowed, and she watched it morph from hostility to... what? Confusion? Frustration? Then disbelief.

Lane crossed her arms.

"What?" she asked, finally breaking the silence, her voice tight.

He didn’t answer.

Lane’s brow furrowed. "What?" she asked again, sharper this time.

Still no reply. Just more eye contact.

"Seriously, what?!" she repeated.

Finally, after a long pause, he muttered, "Unusual."

But the word came out like it physically hurt him to say it, as if he couldn’t quite believe it even while it was happening. Lane narrowed her eyes, watching him carefully. His jaw twitched, and his hands clenched tightly at his sides, like he was trying to hold something in.

The moment stretched. Then, without warning, Snape’s entire demeanor shifted again—this time into a rage so intense Lane genuinely thought he was going to explode. His nostrils flared. His fists slammed down on the edge of the table, rattling the inkwell. His breath came short and sharp, and his eyes flashed with something so visceral it made her pulse spike.

She instinctively reached toward the knife she kept hidden around her ankles - a knife she had taken to carrying ever since she entered the terrifying reality of an all-wizard castle.

Snape stood abruptly, the legs of his chair scraping against the stone floor. He didn’t answer right away but instead strode to the fireplace, grabbed a small jar from the mantle, and tossed a pinch of green powder into the flames.

"Dumbledore!"

Lane was beginning to understand that this fire thing was their weird wizard version of walkie-talkies. A moment later, Dumbledore’s face appeared in the flames, calm as ever.

"Severus," he said pleasantly. "What a surprise."

"You didn’t think to inform me," Snape snapped, "that the woman you assigned me to mentor is an Occlumens?"

Lane blinked again. A what now?

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled, and that just seemed to infuriate Snape further.

"Did you pair me with her deliberately?" he demanded.

Dumbledore tilted his head. "Severus, you know it's terribly rude to look into someone’s mind without their consent. It’s even ruder to be upset when they can keep you out."

Lane felt a lightbulb go off. This must have been what Dumbledore meant, weeks ago, when he said she was immune to everything, even the mind magics. Her immunity to mind magics specifically was part of the reason why they were using the Tlingit as her cover.

For a moment, however, she didn't care about the importance of keeping a low immunity profile. Something about Snape just pissed her off. Thinking only of how satisfying it was to finally have the upper hand, she turned toward him, crossed her arms, and smirked.

That enraged him.

"You shouldn’t be able to keep me out!" Snape thundered, rounding on her. "What are you hiding?!"

Lane took a step back instinctively, but didn’t flinch. "Nothing I’m required to share with you."

"You’re a new professor—barely even cleared by the Board I heard—no accreditation or experience teaching children of any kind! You come here suddenly, cloaked in mystery, and now flaunting a natural talent at Occlumency, and I’m supposed to what? Pretend that’s normal? Pretend it's not suspicious"

At this Dumbledore began to interject, "Now Severus, the fact of the matter is she did clear the review of the board, and--"

But Lane had had enough and rushed to cut him off, "you don’t have to pretend anything," Lane said, her tone icy now. "Just do your job, mentor, and stay out of people's minds. It's not difficult."

He sneered and stalked forward another pace, voice rising. "You mock me with your smile, as though you know something I don’t."

"Maybe I do," she said.

"WHAT are you hiding?!" Snape shouted, hands clenched into fists that trembled at his sides. "Why are you here? Who sent you? What kind of magic lets a slip of a woman like you shield her thoughts from someone like me?"

Dumbledore, still in the fire, interjected again, "Severus, if you can't manage a professional conversation without resorting to mind-reading, perhaps teaching isn’t for you."

But Snape wasn’t listening anymore.

"You’re not just a Black," he hissed at Lane. "You’re something else. Something… wrong."

Lane stiffened. "Don’t project your issues onto me just because your tricks aren’t working."

Snape growled low in his throat. "How dare you—"

"Enough!" Dumbledore snapped.

Both of them turned.

Dumbledore sighed. "Severus, take a walk. Cool your head. Lane, my office, after dinner.”

Snape looked murderous, but after another moment of glaring at Lane, he swept out of the room, his robes billowing like an angry cloud.

Lane exhaled deeply.

Dumbledore’s face remained in the fire, still twinkling. "Spectacularly handled, my dear. We’ll talk this evening." And with that, he vanished.

Lane stared at the fireplace for a long beat, then muttered, "What the hell just happened?"

Being summoned to the Headmasters office felt a lot like it did when she was little and in trouble with her parents.

She had barely the energy to talk to anyone at dinner. Even to Harry, who was absolutely bouncing in his seat while describing his afternoon in the greenhouses. Something about the Venomous Tentacula twitching when it heard sound, and how Professor Sprout had made it do a little "wiggle" that looked like it was dancing. Lane nodded along, smiled at the right beats, and even chuckled when Harry mimicked the plant, but her mind was somewhere else.

She kept glancing down the table, toward Dumbledore, who sat placidly near the center, eating treacle tart and discussing something lighthearted with Flitwick. He didn’t seem angry with her. That should have helped, but she was still in such a foul mood. Her whole body felt like it was vibrating from the confrontation with Snape, and now she had to sit through dinner like nothing had happened? She picked at her food. A bit of roast chicken. One bite of potatoes. No dessert.

She wasn’t sure what she was going to say to Dumbledore. She was exhausted, and angry—not just from today, but from everything. And despite his apologies for what had happened to Harry, they had always felt… inadequate. Hollow. Now, with all that bubbling up, she worried she might actually lose her temper.

After dinner, Dumbledore rose and nodded in her direction, and she followed him out.

Aurora caught her eye as she stood, giving her a subtle look that clearly said, Everything okay? Lane gave a slight shrug and a weary smile in return.

She caught up with Dumbledore by the stairwell. They walked in silence for a moment.

"Lovely dinner tonight," he offered cheerfully.

"Didn’t eat much," Lane muttered.

"Ah," he said. "You missed the gooseberry crumble. Excellent texture."

Lane snorted despite herself. "You really do notice the food."

"One of the few joys of being an old man," he replied, eyes twinkling.

They approached the gargoyle guarding the entrance to his office. Lane paused.

"Do I need a password?"

"Bertie Bott's," Dumbledore said pleasantly.

"What is that?"

"A very special sort of jelly bean," he said. "They come in every flavor. Including… socks, unfortunately."

Lane gave him a look. "You’re joking."

"I never joke about candy."

The gargoyle sprang aside, and the spiral staircase carried them upward.

Once in his office, Lane settled stiffly into a chair as Dumbledore poured tea.

"How are you settling in?" he asked gently.

"Quarters are nice," she said, a little stiffly. "My office, too. Syllabus is good to go. Harry and I’ve been… enjoying it. Mostly."

"I’m glad," he said, offering her a cup.

She took it, sipped, then stared at the steam.

"Want to tell me what happened with Severus?" he asked.

Lane hesitated. "You heard most of it, but the rest was that he was rude. He's been rude to me and he's been rude to Harry. That said, I'll admit I didn’t handle it as well as I should have."

"Hmm," Dumbledore said, not pushing.

"I mean, I knew he wouldn’t like me today based on our previous interactions. I just didn’t expect him to go nuclear."

"Severus is naturally distrusting and easy to anger," Dumbledore said. "He will likely be suspicious of you for some time."

"Great," Lane muttered. "Just what I need."

There was a pause.

"Perhaps," Dumbledore said delicately, "it would be better to clue him in."

Lane looked up, startled. "Clue him in on what? Who I really am? My magic immunity? Who Harry is? Or the whole Tlingit mind defense stuff?"

"The latter," Dumbledore said gently. "No reason to tell anyone more than they need to know."

Lane set her teacup down a little harder than necessary, her rage at Severus instantly morphing into rage at Dumbledore. "On that note… on clueing people into my secrets, why did you tell the house-elf everything? And why didn’t you erase Hagrid’s memory? Or at least give him the whole truth?"

Dumbledore just looked at her, twinkling and mischievous. "I thought it was right."

Lane stared at him. "You thought it was right? That’s your excuse?"

The heat rose even quicker.

"You’ve done a lot of things because you thought they were right, Professor Dumbledore. Like leaving Harry with the Dursleys. Like trying to take him from me. Like trying to wipe my memory. Like never checking in on him. Like yanking us out of our life in Golder’s Green and putting me in front of a classroom with a fake-ass backstory, while he has to live hidden in plain sight. I could go on and on."

Her voice rose with each word.

"You didn’t ask. You didn’t give us a choice. You just made decisions and expected us to fall in line. And I did. For Harry. Because I had to. Because I wanted him to be a part of the world he's supposed to be in. Because of the stupid fucking rules the Ministry of Magic has about magical education. At no moment did we take your desires into consideration.. But you act like it’s for you. Like I, we, owe you something."

Dumbledore didn’t interrupt.

Lane stood. "I don’t know what you want. I can't read you, and I don’t trust you. So if you truly feel any regret for what you’ve done—then the very least you can do is include me in decisions that affect me and my son. From now on."

Her voice shook, but she didn’t look away, and he had the wherewithal to look at least slightly chastised.

"It’s the least you can do."