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.