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Chapter Text

Harry had a clear view of the bodies lying next to Fred: Remus and Tonks, pale and still and peaceful-looking, apparently asleep beneath the dark, enchanted ceiling. The Great Hall seemed to fly away, become smaller, shrink, as Harry reeled backward from the doorway. He could not draw breath. He could not bear to look at any of the other bodies, to see who else had died for him. He could not bear to join the Weasleys, could not look into their eyes, when if he had given himself up in the first place, Fred might never have died. . . . He turned away and ran up the marble staircase. Lupin, Tonks . . . He yearned not to feel . . . He wished he could rip out his heart, his innards, everything that was screaming inside him. . . .

-Rowling, J.K.. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (pp. 661-662)

Chapter 1: He could not draw breath

"You don't have to do this, you know," said Ron quietly, from where the trio stood in front of the wrought-iron gates leading into the Malfoy Estate. He was looking out of the corner of his eye at Hermione, whose eyes were too bright and whose lips were in a hard, firm line. "You don't have to go back in there. Harry'n I'll handle it."

"Don't be ridiculous," said Hermione, in her familiar no-nonsense tone. Harry and Ron pretended not to notice the way she gripped her forearm as if the wound still hurt. Mudblood. "It could be a trap. You two wouldn't last five minutes without me."

Harry and Ron shared a look.

They hadn't needed words for moments like this in months.

When— if— Draco betrayed them, they would get Hermione out of there first, even if it killed them.

"Come on," said Harry, giving Ron an almost imperceptible nod.

He led the way down the long, elegant driveway, Hermione on his right and Ron on his left.

Lucius and Narcissa had fled to their summer home in France, but Draco had stayed after the battle.

Harry didn't know why. Voldemort had occupied that home. His followers had bled their darkness into every nook and cranny. He could only imagine the number of innocents who had lost their lives to the Death Eaters for sport in those fancy sitting rooms and dining halls.

If Draco had had any sense, he would have burned it to the ground, or at the very least, left with his parents. And yet, he was still here.

A house-elf answered the door, looking just as drawn and haggard as the rest of them. The little elf led them silently to a room on the far side of the house. She didn't ask who they were or offer to take their cloaks. She didn't fall over herself to tempt them with tea or biscuits. She simply stared and then started down the entrance hall, through the dining room and portrait gallery, and expected them to follow.

Ron held Hermione's hand.

Harry clenched his fists.

The elf knocked twice on an innocuous door and then vanished with a pop!

After an uncomfortable moment in which the trio catalogued the points of ingress and egress, potential hiding spots or weapons, the door swung open.

Draco Malfoy stood blinking at them.

Harry crossed his arms. Ron held Hermione close against his side. Hermione's eyes glinted with a hard, bright light.

Draco scrubbed his hand over his face. It looked like he hadn't shaved in weeks.

"Right," said Draco, and he stood aside, motioning them into the room. "I found something I thought might interest the Aurors. I didn't expect them to send you three."

Though obviously worn thin, he hadn't lost his tone of utter disdain.

Harry scowled, bristling automatically.

"The Aurors tend to give us what we want," he said, "and get out of our way. You should follow their lead."

"They tried training us as recruits," Ron offered with a deceptively careless shrug, "but it turns out Hermione taught us all that rot in our first month of On the Run Bootcamp."

"Do you have information on Antonin Dolohov or not?" asked Hermione, pushing forward with that hard look in her eyes.

Draco sighed and ushered them in.

The room was a small study about the size of a professor's office. The walls were lined in bookshelves and the odd magical trinket here or there, and the main desk sat facing the two large windows overlooking the gardens. There were no spare seats for guests.

Draco rustled through a sheaf of parchments on the desk and finally unearthed a small, scrappy bit like someone's last minute shopping list.

He passed it to Harry, who frowned as he read over it.

"As loathe as I am to offer it," said Draco with a sneer and contemptuous once-over in Harry's direction, "lunch? You look as if you haven't had a decent meal since sixth year. I could have Addie arrange sandwiches and tea."

Hermione and Harry caught each other's glances while Ron only looked mournfully up at the ceiling. Eating regular meals, it turned out, was a habit, and one that they had lost during their year on the run. The past few weeks doing the understaffed, overworked Aurors' work hadn't helped matters.

Breakfast was hit or miss. They were usually too busy for lunch. They only had dinner when they weren't so exhausted they fell straight asleep after a hard day of work.

Harry saw it in Hermione's eyes that she didn't trust the offer. She would never eat anything produced in Malfoy Manor.

Poor Ron, Harry thought absently. He was no doubt daydreaming about puff pastries.

"No, thanks," said Harry, and he passed the scrap of parchment to Hermione. "That's Dolohov's contacts, then? The ones he has regular meetings with?"

"Yes, I believe so," said Draco. "It's not his handwriting, though. He wouldn't be so stupid as to write something like that down, anyway. It was probably his last partner, Watters-or-what-have-you. He'd have been tortured for not being able to keep up the information network in Dolohov's absence."

"These dates are coded," said Hermione. "But I think— yes, I'm certain— there's one this week in Knockturn Alley. Harry—"

"Where?" asked Harry.

"A place called Everest Wands," said Hermione. "I haven't heard of—"

"It's a shop for sex toys, Granger," said Draco, pinching the bridge of his nose. "A rather popular one."

Hermione clearly fought to keep her stern composure, but her cheeks tinged pink.

Ron suddenly looked very interested in the titles of the books on the shelves.

"Right, thanks for that, Malfoy," said Harry. "It's been fun."

He turned to leave, Ron and Hermione rushing to the door with him.

"Wait," said Draco, taking an aborted step after them.

Harry paused on the threshold and turned around.

"Is that it?" asked Draco. His gaze was almost feverish. "Are we even?"

Harry's eyebrows shot to his hairline. Ron and Hermione looked aghast and insulted.

"Even?" repeated Harry, testing the word as if he'd never heard it before.

He thought of Crabbe burning in his own Fiendfyre.

He thought of Dumbledore falling off the Astronomy Tower, the light already gone from his eyes, after Malfoy had disarmed him.

Snape, bleeding to death under his hands.

Fred, leaving George alone. Remus and Tonks still reaching for each other. Colin Creevey and his goddamn camera.

Hermione screaming above them, sobbing, her blood spilling onto the hardwood floors just a few dozen feet away.

Acid burned his veins. The fire in his chest was hotter than Crabbe's Fiendfyre.

"We'll never be even, Malfoy," snarled Harry. "Just get that through your head right now."

He turned on his heel, and Ron and Hermione followed.

…

"Dolohov won't be an easy arrest, Harry," said Kingsley Shacklebolt. He had moved into Fudge-Scrimgeour-Thicknesse's office for the practical purpose of being locatable, but he had yet to move any of his personal items in. He had only been elected in an emergency session the previous week, after Harry had thrown his whole-hearted, extremely coveted support behind him. Harry suspected that was part of the reason Kingsley had offered him, Ron, and Hermione Auror positions even without going through their N.E.W.T.s.

Kingsley and Harry paced around the single desk like it was a dance, moving in one direction together before one of them changed directions and got close, only for the other to change direction, too, and keep the endless circle going the opposite way.

"And Voldemort was easy?" asked Harry. It sounded different than it would have before the war. There was no teenage angst and bravado. It was dry, grim.

They both knew what it had cost.

"The latest from Avery's interrogation suggests the remaining Death Eaters have banded around Dolohov instead of Yaxley, as we originally thought," Kingsley continued, beginning the slow, ponderous pacing around the desk anew. "He may bring protection. Bodyguards. He may not even go himself. He could delegate."

"I don't care," said Harry fiercely. "If there's even a chance we can catch him, we have to take it. He could go underground any moment and we'd lose him forev—"

He broke off suddenly and looked away, blinking hard.

Kingsley gave him a look with those penetrating, sad eyes.

They paced, Harry trailing a finger along the desk to ground himself, Kingsley tucking his hands into his sleeves in a meditative pose.

"You didn't kill Remus, Harry," said Kingsley.

"No," Harry snapped. "Dolohov did."

"I only meant," said Kingsley, "it wasn't your fault. Not Remus, nor Tonks, nor any of the others. We all knew the risks, and we chose to stay and fight that day."

"I was there, sir," said Harry stiffly. "I remember what we fought for."

They'd fought for him. Remus and Tonks, even with their newborn baby Teddy at home… they'd come back to Hogwarts to fight for him. They'd refused to give him up when Voldemort had demanded it, and they'd died for him. Fred, Colin Creevey, all the others— children, teachers, Order members, civilians— they'd all died for him.

Harry clenched his fist around the edge of the desk, halting their circle again.

He tried to breathe.

He tried to feel the solid wood beneath his fingers, not the warm rush of Snape's blood. He tried to smell the Ministry office, musty and damp, not the ash and stone debris from the falling castle. He tried to see his own hand, pale against the dark desk in the dimly lit office, not the flashes of red and green spell-light he saw every time he closed his eyes.

He was shaking. There was something wild and consuming in his chest, too big to fit in his half-starved body, and Harry struggled to fight it down.

Whatever that emotion was, he couldn't afford it. He couldn't let it take him over, not when Dolohov had killed Remus and gotten away. Not when Molly Weasley had had to kill Bellatrix, who had killed Sirius and Tonks and would have killed Ginny, because Harry had been so damned useless he couldn't do it himself.

So many.

So many others had died for him.

He could spend the rest of his life hunting Death Eaters and Dark wizards, and it still wouldn't be enough.

He couldn't breathe.

He smelled smoke, felt warm blood on his hands. He heard screaming.

"An arrest of this magnitude will require a full team," said Kingsley, sounding far away and tinny. He didn't seem to notice that Harry was quietly hyperventilating across the desk. "You, Weasley, and Granger are impressive, but you will require at least two more experienced Aurors. I'll give you Herrod and Schrodinger."

Harry's mind scrambled, grasping for a hold on the real world, on Kingsley's voice and what those words meant.

It took a moment. He gripped the desk tighter.

"Fine," said Harry, pretending his voice wasn't trembling. "As long as we get him."

…

They had less than forty-eight hours to come up with a plan.

With Hermione's sharp eye for detail, Ron's unconventional but realistic wisdom, Harry's grim determination, and the Aurors' experience, they laid their trap.

Harry and Hermione kept watch from an abandoned storefront just across the street from Everest Wands' backdoor.

It was dark, and they didn't dare light their wands for fear of giving away their surveillance.

"I'll be taking N.E.W.T.s in Transfiguration, Potions, Charms, Arithmancy, Herbology, and Ancient Runes," Hermione whispered. "I think I'm rather done with Defense. What about you?"

"I've already told you," said Harry, just as quietly. He strained his eyes to keep sight on the faint shadows within Everest Wands. "I can't go back. Kingsley already said we're guaranteed a position in Magical Law Enforcement, and… and Hogwarts just won't be the same. You know? Not after… not after this. I can't."

He forced the flashbacks away, back in that place with the ferocious, all-devouring blackhole somewhere deep in his chest.

Hermione sighed softly. She peeked again around the corner of her window and catalogued the miniscule changes. No sign of Dolohov.

"I know," she said. "Ron won't go back either. But I know I won't be alone. There will be Ginny, and Luna…."

Harry's chest constricted.

He hated talking about the future. He hated the idea of splitting up the three of them. They had been through so much together. They had counted on one another to stay alive, to stay sane, to be there.

But, more than that, he hated the idea of going back to a Hogwarts where Dumbledore had fallen to his death from a beautiful, remote tower, where Snape had bled out in a dusty shack, where Remus and Tonks and Fred and all the others had laid motionless on the floor of the Great Hall— where the students would return to eat breakfast and celebrate Halloween, and be Sorted, and—

"Breathe, Harry," said Hermione, suddenly very close, and they were on the ground, and— "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pushed. I know it's too soon. I'm sorry. Just breathe, Harry, just breathe. We're alright. It'll be alright."

Harry gasped like a man drowning.

"Breathe," Hermione repeated, rubbing his arm.

He latched onto the physical contact, onto the sound of her voice as she spoke soft encouragements.

And then he was out of Hogwarts, the battlefield, and in a dark, abandoned shop in Knockturn Alley.

He breathed shakily and, when the worst of the trembling subsided, nodded at Hermione.

She gave him a faint smile. With one last squeeze on his arm, she took a step back.

Harry got to his feet. His muscles, his bones, felt weak and jello-y.

He coughed. "Sorry."

"It's alright," said Hermione. She watched him, worrying her bottom lip, and Harry saw the struggle behind her eyes. Eventually, she sighed and said, "You can't keep going like this, Harry. Don't you think you should take a break before joining the MLE? Take some time for yourself?"

"I'm fine," said Harry curtly. "I can't take a break. There's too much work to do."

"Harry…"

"What was that?"

They both straightened and stared hard out the window.

There were three wizards in hooded cloaks making their way furtively toward the backdoor of Everest Wands.

Two of the three meandered to a stop on the sidewalk, apparently engaged in a quiet conversation, while the third went ahead to the shop door. He knocked.

"Can you tell who it is?" asked Hermione, clutching her wand.

Harry squinted.

The figures were too far away to judge for sure. It was too dark to see anything other than their general builds, which placed them as adult men, by their tall, burly silhouettes.

"I don't—" Harry began, shaking his head.

The proprietor, a short man with a bushy mustache, opened the door, allowing the shop light to illuminate the man on the step.

"That's him!" said Harry.

There was no mistaking that long, pale face, so often twisted in rage or contempt. Here was the man who had cursed Hermione in their fifth year in the battle at the Department of Mysteries, who would have killed her if she had not Silencio'd him earlier in the duel. Here was the man who had come after them in the Tottenham Court Road café after Bill and Fluer's wedding, who would have taken them out before they even got their feet under them in the new warring world.

He had tried to kill Sirius in the Department of Mysteries.

He had killed Molly's brothers, Gideon and Fabian Prewett, in the first war.

He had tortured and killed Muggles and Muggleborns in both wars with glee.

He had killed Remus.

Harry shot out the door.

"Oh— bother—" he heard Hermione say, startled, behind him. She swished her wand to signal Ron and the Aurors, and then her pounding footsteps joined his on the dark street.

Harry Stupefy'd the first Death Eater standing watch before he could even look up at the sudden commotion. Then he and the second Death Eater were dueling with a vengeance.

He saw Hermione race past him out of the corner of his eye, straight for Dolohov, who had broken off mid-sentence with the proprietor when Harry attacked.

"Stupefy!" said Hermione.

Dolohov dodged, quick as a viper. He grinned, showing both rows of teeth. He looked deranged— and delighted.

"The Mudblood and the Chosen One," he said, over the sound of the streetlamp beside him exploding from one of Harry's missed spells. "My lucky day."

He whipped his wand at Hermione, and then they were dueling madly, like Sirius and Bellatrix at the Department of Mysteries.

Fuck, Harry thought, trying his damnedest to put Nott Senior down fast so he could help Hermione. But the old man was as stubborn— and as skilled— as Mad-Eye Moody. Whatever he lacked in youth, he made up for with experience. His and Harry's wands were blurs as they tried to annihilate one another.

Where were Ron and the Aurors?

With a wrench of his wand and a nonverbal Expelliarmus! Harry snatched Nott's wand out of the air. A split second later, he'd followed it up with a Stupefy.

Nott hit the ground. There was a purple flare of fire, and then so did Hermione.

"NO!" shouted Harry, darting to Hermione's side even as Dolohov escaped into the shop.

Harry dropped to the ground and grabbed Hermione by the shoulders. He held her against him and felt frantically for a pulse.

Her eyes were closed. Her face was turning pale. Her lips were bloodless, colorless.

He couldn't find a pulse.

He shook her. "Come on, Hermione! Don't do this! What do I do? What do I do? Ennervate!"

Nothing.

She wasn't breathing. Her chest was still. Her lips, parted slightly in surprise, were turning blue.

"Ennervate!" said Harry again. His heart pounded violently against his ribcage, so hard he was afraid it would burst out. Blood rushed in his ears like a waterfall. "Ennervate! ENNERVATE!"

Hermione didn't move.

She was limp against his chest.

Harry stared down at her surprised face. Wildly, his mind flew back to their second year when she'd been petrified.

Mandrake root! He thought, delirious.

That huge, hollow burning in his chest grew.

No, he reminded himself. No mandrake root. She's not petrified.

He would have clawed his way out of his own skin in that moment, if it would get him away from that horrible, devouring pit building and building inside his chest. It was too much— there was no more room for it— he couldn't keep pushing it down— he couldn't keep going—

Shattering glass and bright flashes of light came from the front of the shop.

Harry heard Ron's angry voice and Dolohov's laugh.

The broken pieces of his scattered mind snapped back into place.

Ron.

Laying Hermione down in the dirt felt like ripping out a piece of his own soul and leaving it behind. But he had to do it. She would understand— for Ron, she would understand. He settled her back as gently as he could, placed her fallen wand in her hand against her chest, and then left her alone in the warm, dark night.

As soon as he stepped into the shop, he came face-to-face with a startled Rookwood and promptly blasted him through a wall with a Reducto.

Harry stormed through the hole in the wall into the main shop and cast a shield as a flurry of lights headed straight for him.

"Ron!" he shouted, unable to see through the flares of light against his shield. He held strong, though each hit started feeling more and more like a punch to the gut instead of a flash off a shield. He squinted hard, knuckles white around his wand. "RON!"

"Harry—" came Ron's voice several yards away, out of breath. He was moving as he continued, "—Malfoy tricked us! Reducto! Protego! This wasn't a meeting with a— Impedimenta!— an informant! This is a fucking Death Eater meeting! Run!"

They tried.

But their own trap worked against them.

The Aurors had placed Anti-Apparition wards around the block so that Dolohov wouldn't be able to escape and, with Hermione's help, they'd made them one-way, so that wizards could still Apparate in but not out. They hadn't wanted to cut Dolohov off before he arrived, nor had they wanted to prevent their own backup arriving if they needed it.

But once someone was in the bubble, they were trapped.

"Backup—" Harry tried, as he managed to duck behind a shelf and give his shield a rest.

It didn't last long. Within two seconds, he was in a full-out duel with Rabastan-Fucking-Lestrange.

"Can't get to the coin—" Ron managed, diving under the checkout counter even as the marble countertop exploded over his head. "Can you—? Stupefy!"

Hermione had given them coins charmed like she had done in their fifth year for Dumbledore's Army meetings. Dawlins, the erstwhile Head Auror, was supposed to be watching the other coin back at the headquarters.

Harry managed to disarm Rabastan and stun him. He dug furiously in his robes for the hidden inside pocket where he'd stowed the coin.

Then another Death Eater was on him, and he couldn't duel and rummage in his robes at the same time.

It was a nasty, drawn-out fight.

Herrod and Schrodinger were killed in the first few minutes. Then the Death Eaters formed a circle around Harry and Ron, blocking the exits and keeping them constantly deflecting hexes from all sides, even as Harry and Ron dueled other Death Eaters one-on-one inside the circle.

They fought well together, Harry and Ron. They moved in sync from years of knowing each other, from being able to predict what the other would do without the need for words, even if they didn't know specifics. They didn't need to know specifics. They just needed to know: That look in his eye means something's about to catch fire; that set to his mouth means he's about to do something stupid and needs backup; those squared shoulders and feet mean he's about to cast something powerful, be ready to duck—

It was like the Battle of Hogwarts all over again, though.

It came down to luck.

They couldn't see every angle at once, couldn't fight so many opponents with only each other for help.

They could only keep up a constant barrage of spells, hexes, jinxes, and charms for so long before they simply got exhausted.

The injuries accumulated. A gash across the face. An arrow of fire through one shoulder. A stinging hex in the eye, a Jelly Legs curse to one leg, shrapnel striking like bullets—

Harry was dueling Dolohov when Ron got hit with a Stupefy.

"Ron!" Harry shouted, whirling to protect him before another Killing Curse could fly. He stood over his friend, breathing hard and trembling with exertion, but his wand was up and ready.

Dolohov grinned that manic grin. He held up a hand and, at once, the Death Eaters stopped casting spells and jeering.

Harry braced himself, watching Dolohov unblinkingly. He thought about reaching for the enchanted coin, but Dolohov was too fast. He'd never get his fingers close enough to brush it before Dolohov killed both him and Ron.

"I'll tell you what," said Dolohov in his raspy, amused voice. "My master was kind enough to offer you a deal in the end, wasn't he? And you were stupid enough to take it. I think I'll offer you the same. Surrender yourself, Harry Potter, and we'll let your little blood-traitor friend live. What do you say?"

What did he say? Harry thought, confusion and fear writhing in his belly. Voldemort offered that deal and died. Voldemort offered that deal and Harry died.

His sacrifice, made from love, would ensure the Death Eaters upheld their end of the bargain, though. They wouldn't be able to kill Ron, just as the defenders of Hogwarts had been protected from Voldemort after Harry's death.

His death.

It had only been a month ago.

And here… his only choice was to die again. So soon.

He thought of Hermione and swallowed hard.

His parents. Sirius. Remus. Hermione.

He had come back to end the war, but he was done. He'd finally get to see his family again.

He lowered his wand.

Dolohov grinned and motioned two Death Eaters forward.

They grabbed Harry around the upper arms, holding him in place. One of them took his wand.

"What— what are you doing?" demanded Harry, struggling, as Dolohov turned away and surveyed the wreckage of the shop.

Dolohov glanced back at him and laughed. So did the remaining Death Eaters.

"MacNair was the executioner, boy, not me," said Dolohov, with an amused, vicious glint in his gray eyes. "Me? I'm the torturer. Now, I think I saw some handcuffs in here before we blew the place to bits…."

"You're not— you're not going to kill me?"

Dolohov grinned, quick and sharp like unsheathing a knife. "No, no, boy," he said softly, tasting the words like fine chocolates. "I'm going to make you wish you were dead. I'm going to make it so that the Wizarding World never turns to you again. You're going to spend the rest of your life regretting the first time you ever heard Lord Voldemort's name."

Fear like ice water poured down Harry's spine.

…

Draco Malfoy didn't know why he was pacing restlessly. Since the Battle of Hogwarts, he'd spent most of his time reading in the sunroom, snacking on biscuits from Addie, and discussing his upcoming trial with his solicitor.

Even when they spoke of his and his parents' trial, he didn't get restless. There was a vague sort of resignation there, that what would be would be. He would plead his case, and if he was sentenced to Azkaban, then he was sentenced to Azkaban. He was lucky enough that he was one of the few even getting a hearing, and the only reason the Malfoys stood a chance of freedom was that Harry Bloody Potter had vouched for their change of sides near the end.

Draco sneered automatically at the thought of Potter and turned another sharp about-face in his pacing.

Harry Bloody Potter. Was that why he was restless?

Tonight was the night Dolohov was set to meet with his contact at Everest Wands. (Draco wasn't stupid. He had decoded the parchment before surrendering it to Granger.) No doubt, Harry would be hiding in the bushes outside the stockroom window, eavesdropping like the diligent goody-two-shoes he was. The new Minister Shacklebolt would have a whole platoon guarding the vaunted Boy Who Lived, Boy Who Won, Savior, whatever they were calling the prat now.

He wouldn't be in any danger, and he'd likely take all the credit afterwards if they caught that sadistic maniac Dolohov.

Draco shivered. He glanced out his window at the clear summer night and drew his robes tighter around himself. He didn't know why he suddenly felt cold all over if it wasn't the weather.

Unless it was Dolohov.

Antonin Dolohov had reminded Draco of his aunt Bellatrix, the few times they had all met. They were wrong in the head, and they took a truly perverse glee in mutilating others. But Aunt Bella had always seemed a bit frantic, while Dolohov was more easygoing. Aunt Bella, even while torturing the latest helpless Muggleborn to stumble into her lair, always wanted to be by the Dark Lord's side. She seemed to have a mental timetable always counting down, things to check off a list as quickly as possible before she could get back to groveling at his feet. Co-dependent, that one, Draco thought with dry, dark amusement.

Dolohov was patient. He took his time. He took pleasure in doing his work thoroughly.

He scared Draco in a way Aunt Bella could never quite manage.

Of course, he was the one Harry Bloody Potter would choose to obsess over next. He could never take a break from being the big bloody hero, could he?

Draco paced.

It was late. Past dinner. But it was also a lovely summer night, and surely the shops in Diagon Alley were still open? He could go for a walk, and if he happened to meander into Knockturn Alley, well…

He could congratulate Potter on apprehending Dolohov, Draco thought, summoning Addie to fetch his good cloak. Because of course Potter would succeed, with the whole Auror department babysitting him. And Draco needed to stay in Potter's good graces, at least until the trial was over. If he could get Potter to testify in front of the Wizengamot on his behalf, his case was as good as won.

He Apparated to Diagon Alley.

He gave up the pretense of strolling through the shops very quickly and let his feet take him straight to Knockturn Alley.

On the street harboring Everest Wands, the lights were out. The streetlamps as well as the lights inside the various shops. Nobody roamed the street. Nobody was in sight. It looked like the shops were all closed, but Knockturn Alley never closed, not like Diagon Alley. They did some of their best, shadiest business in the dark of night.

Draco frowned and, after a moment, pulled out his wand. He approached Everest Wands slowly, at an angle out of direct view of the front windows. Hesitantly, he weaved his wand around himself in a disillusionment charm. Maybe the Aurors had closed the street after the arrest? But it didn't hurt to be cautious.

That idea fled within the next few steps.

This was no crime scene— at least, not yet.

He came upon two bodies just outside the front door, both supporters of the Dark Lord, though they had never risen to Death Eater status to Draco's knowledge.

Draco swallowed. He held his wand high and close to his chest.

He whispered a charm to open the door silently, just a crack, and slipped through.

The destruction was horrific. Bodies lay strewn about the floor amidst broken shelves, exploded walls, and disintegrated merchandise. It smelled of burnt flesh and blood.

He couldn't tell which bodies were stunned and which were dead. He recognized most as Death Eaters, but there were a couple he didn't know at all.

It looked deserted, but he heard voices coming from a room in the back.

He edged in that direction, scarcely daring to breathe.

He didn't even have to open a door to see into the back room, because there was already a hole in the wall the size of his mother's dress robes closet.

The sight beyond made him want to vomit.

There was Harry, wholly naked and bleeding from more wounds than Draco could count, hunched over the unconscious— or dead— body of Ron Weasley. Potter's eyes were bloodshot, his cheeks shiny with tears, and his whole body curled around Ron as if he could shield him with that alone. He was clutching Ron in both hands. His wand was nowhere in sight.

Dolohov was standing with his wand pointed directly at Harry's face. Instead of his usual sadistic amusement, he looked furious.

Harry stared back defiantly, even with that haunted look in his eyes as if his entire world had shattered around him.

Where were the Aurors? Was it their bodies in the front room? And where was Granger? Draco knew she was the real force to be reckoned with among the Golden Trio. Surely, they hadn't gone after Dolohov without her?

There were other Death Eaters in the small supply room, at least six that Draco could see. And— what in Merlin's name?— chains and handcuffs, covered in blood, lying on a table in the center. A table just behind Harry. Behind Harry, whose bare wrists and ankles were bathed in scarlet and gore.

Fucking hell.

Draco, nauseated, missed what Dolohov said, but he heard Harry clearly. Harry spoke in a way Draco had never heard before, in a tone stern and unyielding as the universe itself. Power seemed to radiate from him like he was the eye of a storm, wild, barely-leashed violence, chaos.

"You will never kill another living soul, Dolohov!"

It was a bold statement coming from an unarmed teenager, except for the throng of powerful, cold magic permeating every molecule in the room.

Dolohov sneered, wrath and madness warring for dominance on his face.

He raised his wand.

Draco knew what spell he was going to utter before he even opened his mouth. He didn't think, didn't pause to consider what he was doing.

Draco threw himself through the hole in the wall and dove to intercept the Killing Curse aimed at Harry.

…

TBC...

Chapter Text

"Death's got an Invisibility Cloak?" Harry interrupted again.

"So he can sneak up on people," said Ron. "Sometimes he gets bored of running at them, flapping his arms and shrieking..."

― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

Chapter 2: Death can sneak up

Harry didn't know what happened next.

Dolohov had gone back on his word, and everything— that screaming, endless hollow in his chest— had exploded.

He didn't know where the strength came from— he hurt in ways he had never known he could hurt— and he definitely didn't know where the power came from.

"You will never kill another living soul, Dolohov!" he heard himself yell.

He registered Dolohov's wand in his face, intent obvious in the dark, lunatic look in his eyes, and something in Harry broke. It was like a dam giving out all at once, the power rushing forward in a tidal wave of soul-crushing, all-consuming darkness.

Harry screamed as it tore through him.

Green light filled his vision even as something collided with him, throwing him back and ripping Ron's body out of his arms. He was aware of grabbing it on instinct, feeling warm skin under his hand, and then something wrenched in his gut, and he screamed again.

The green light gave way to blackness.

…

His awareness came back slowly, in stages.

First, he understood he was lying on something hard. Then he understood he had a body, and, as soon as he remembered that, his body hurt.

Dying hadn't hurt last time.

He curled in on himself, groaning in pain. He felt the skin of his arms against the bare skin of his chest.

Yes, he had been naked last time he had died, too, he recalled.

"What?"

Harry's eyes sprung open.

Draco Malfoy was on the cobbled pavement of a street in Knockturn Alley beside him. He wasn't naked.

"Why would I be naked?"

"You're not Dumbledore," said Harry stupidly, and then he realized he was speaking aloud.

"Why would I be Dumbledore?" Malfoy asked, sounding the most baffled yet.

Harry struggled to sit up despite his injuries, keeping his lips tightly pressed against more whimpers of pain. That accomplished, he wrapped his arms around himself, uncomfortably vulnerable next to a fully clothed Draco Malfoy. He looked around.

"This isn't King's Cross Station," Harry said thoughtfully.

"Ah," said Malfoy, and his look of confusion cleared. He nodded to himself once, decisive, and said, "You've gone mad."

Harry didn't appreciate the Malfoy inside his head, but it was his head, so he supposed it was his own fault. As Dumbledore would have said, it was his party. Resigned, he told him, "I must have, if you're here instead of Dumbledore."

"It isn't your fault," Malfoy said magnanimously. "Many stronger wizards than you have lost their minds after being— ah— tortured."

Malfoy's eyes flicked to Harry's body as if against his will. He cleared his throat abruptly and looked away, swallowing hard. His face, already pale, had a greenish tint. He clasped his hands as if to keep from fidgeting.

"Well, then, if you've got all the answers, where are we?" asked Harry. He didn't want to stand up to get a better look around, therein also giving Malfoy a better view of his ass. He wondered why robes hadn't appeared for him at his first thought, as they had the previous time.

"Knockturn Alley," said Malfoy.

"Yes, I see that," snapped Harry. "I meant: Why Knockturn Alley?"

"Then why didn't you ask that instead?" Malfoy snapped back.

Harry sacrificed one of the hands covering himself to pinch the bridge of his nose. His glasses, he noticed, were gone again.

Malfoy was a construction of his mind, Harry reminded himself. It was no use arguing with him.

"Last time," Harry mused, "it was King's Cross Station. I think it was symbolic— a junction between two places, a means of transportation to move on or go back. Why a random street in Knockturn Alley this time?"

Malfoy eyed him again, and now it was wary.

"What do you mean 'last time?'" he asked slowly.

"Last time I died, obviously."

Malfoy shot to his feet and stumbled back as if Harry had electrocuted him. His expression was wild.

"Died? We're not dead! Why would you say—? I would know if—"

"It is weird you're here," Harry conceded. "Dumbledore had already died when he met me at the crossroads. I figured it was his spirit or something, since he wasn't a ghost. But last I saw, you were alive and— well, not well— but alive."

"I'm perfectly well, thank you!" Malfoy said, the wild look not leaving his eyes. He cast about frantically, mouth working silently as he apparently tried to find an argument against Harry's logic.

Harry waited patiently. Dumbledore had been much more comforting and informative, but perhaps he was busy this time.

Either way, he supposed his next step was to figure out how to move on so he could see his friends and family in the afterlife. He had done his job in life. He no longer had obligations tying him to the living, so there was no conflict in his mind about going back.

He was ready to move on. He was done.

"This isn't Knockturn Alley," said Malfoy, after Harry had almost forgotten he was present. He was staring hard at the street sign on the corner and then along the stretch of shops around them.

"What? You just said—"

"I know what I said! And it is Knockturn Alley—"

"Oh, for— I know Dumbledore was cryptic, but you. You can't have it both ways, Malfoy. That's just—"

"That's the corner of Gimmick Street and MacDungeon," Malfoy interrupted, pointing to the signs.

Harry couldn't read it without his glasses.

Odd. Last time, in King's Cross, he hadn't needed his glasses.

"We were just on Gimmick Street at Everest Wands in Knockturn Alley," continued Malfoy forcefully, rushing to get the words out before Harry could argue. "There's Tabbard's Pawn, across the street, like it should be, but Little Snek's Rare Pets isn't beside it. It's a grubby patch of grass, like Little Snek's never existed. And we're standing in the exact place Everest Wands should be, but there's just that grimy old shed attached to the lawyers' office over there. And the lawyers' names should be Hildebrandt and Kosh, but it's Chattem and Sons. It is Knockturn Alley. It's just… wrong."

Harry catalogued the changes. Honestly, he should have noticed the differences immediately given how much time he, Ron, Hermione, and the Aurors had spent studying the street for their surveillance. But didn't they have bigger problems to worry about? Who cared if his imaginary Knockturn Alley wasn't perfect? They needed to figure out how to get out, move on.

He was going to have to stand up and start walking, he realized with dread. Naked. In front of Draco Malfoy.

"You're just a figment of my imagination," Harry told Malfoy, bracing himself. "Unless, of course, you died at the exact same time as me, and we're both here at the same time… which might explain Knockturn Alley, at least, but is also highly unlikely…."

"I'm not a figment of your imagination!" Malfoy howled, throwing his hands in the air. "Whatever else you're hallucinating, I'm real!"

Harry stood and let his hands fall to his sides.

Malfoy stared, flushed beet red to the roots of his platinum hair, and whirled around to face the opposite direction.

"Alright, which direction, do you think?" Harry asked, unperturbed. His energy was better spent wondering how long his legs would hold him when he felt so horribly weak.

"W-what?"

"We're dead. We have to move on. Which direction is the afterlife? I'd hate to accidentally go back and end up a Hogwarts ghost, wouldn't you?"

"We're not— wait. What was that?"

A sound of scuffling caught Harry's attention, too, and he and Malfoy shared a look of confusion before Malfoy realized he was, again, staring at a naked Harry Potter. He spun back around and fiddled with the clasp of his travelling cloak.

"Let's go see," said Harry, starting in the direction of the noise.

"Wait! Here, at least put this on." Malfoy pulled his cloak off without as much flourish as he once would have and held it out to Harry, looking determinedly in the opposite direction. His hands shook.

Harry took it and wrapped it around himself with a vague sense of amusement and befuddlement. It was warm from Malfoy's body heat, heavy with the weight of expensive fabric, and lined with something surprising soft. He pulled it a little tighter, appreciative. "Thanks, Fake-Malfoy. Come on."

He took off at a trot toward the sounds of a fight in a nearby alley.

Behind him, he thought he heard Malfoy mutter something about idiotic Gryffindors before he started after him.

They reached the mouth of a cramped, spindly alleyway and skidded to a halt.

Three men— boys, really, hardly older than Harry and Malfoy— were taking turns casting spells on the sobbing, begging form of a school-aged girl. She was on the ground, curled up, holding her arms over her head as if to shield it from the magical blows. There were bright crimson lesions covering her exposed hands and wrists. Bloodied slashes like knife-strikes riddled her Muggle jumper and blouse. Even as they watched, one of the boys cast a curse that struck her in the face, and they heard the bones of her nose crunch and blood gushed out.

Harry felt as if he were the one who had been hit. He staggered a step back, the pain of his own injuries rushing to the forefront of his attention, the smell of blood overwhelming— Dolohov's raspy, delighted laugh as Harry screamed for the hundredth time— the Death Eaters hooting and whistling as Dolohov systematically destroyed his clothes, leaving him naked and utterly defenseless— panic and shame as Ron woke from the Stupefy and watched—

Harry couldn't breathe.

"You cannot help," his addled mind remembered Dumbledore saying of the shriveled, wailing baby under a bench at King's Cross Station. Was this another person's soul being tormented with which he wasn't supposed to interfere? Was this a representation of his soul?

Malfoy looked as repulsed by the scene as Harry.

The three boys hadn't noticed them yet. They could still leave and continue on their journey to the afterlife.

Harry struggled. He could still taste blood in his mouth, feel his own throat tearing from his screams. He couldn't breathe.

He didn't know the girl, could barely see her face between all the blood and her shielding arms, but she seemed to be a Muggle or Muggleborn by the way she dressed.

The three boys… Harry's eyes darted to their faces, and he felt the already wobbly ground rip itself from under his feet entirely.

The three boys looked so much like Dolohov, Rodolphus, and Rabastan, but they were young.

They didn't— those Death Eaters hadn't had children, had they? They would have been in the years surrounding Harry at Hogwarts, and he would have recognized them—

And then Harry saw the beginnings of purple fire starting from the tip of Dolohov's wand, and he reacted. His mind went clear and blank and smooth.

The Elder Wand slapped into his outstretched palm as if it had been thrown by a giant invisible pitcher. Harry flicked it at Dolohov and disarmed him before that terrible curse could fully form. He snatched Dolohov's wand out of the air in his other hand and stood in the mouth of the alleyway, radiating cold, shrieking fury.

Malfoy took a step back, his wide eyes boring into the side of Harry's skull.

Dolohov and the Lestranges looked up, their expressions confounded.

Upon seeing Harry, the Lestranges' faces twisted into taunting sneers, but Dolohov's went slack and pale.

"Get lost," said Harry, so quietly he doubted anyone could hear him, but the three nevertheless straightened indignantly, "or I will kill you where you stand."

Their offense at his audacity vanished. Instead, Rodolphus and Rabastan gave each other stunned, halfway frightened looks. If they had expected a fight, they certainly hadn't expected him to tell them calmly and implacably he would kill them in cold blood.

They looked to Dolohov, who was staring at Harry as if someone had just walked over his grave and didn't respond to their urgent whispers if he knew him.

"Fine," said Rodolphus curtly, apparently taking the lead since Dolohov had cracked. "Give Dolohov back his wand, and we'll go."

"No," said Harry. He didn't offer anything else.

"Why, you little scumbag," said Rodolphus, taking a few threatening steps forward and raising his wand. "Do you know who it is you're talking to?"

Suddenly, Rodolphus's wand flew from his grasp and into the waiting hand of Draco Malfoy. Rabastan's followed suit a split second later.

"Do you?" Malfoy sneered in response.

"Why, you—!" the Lestrange brothers began, red with fury, but Dolohov abruptly jerked back to himself and grabbed the backs of their cloaks.

"Enough!" said Dolohov. "We need to leave, now!"

"What? And let this scrawny Potter-looking runt get away with—?"

Dolohov didn't let the man finish. He threw himself backward, Apparating, and took Rodolphus and Rabastan with him.

Silence fell in their wake, broken only by the teenaged girl's muffled sobbing.

"What," said Malfoy, "in the name of Salazar's saggy left ball, is going on?"

"Not now," muttered Harry, stashing both the Elder wand and Dolohov's in his borrowed cloak. He moved to the girl and knelt next to her. "Hey, are you alright?"

He placed his hand on her shoulder, and she flinched violently, crying out.

Harry understood.

He took a few steps back, put his hands in plain view hanging harmlessly, wandless, and said, "It's okay. They're gone now. You're safe. My name's Harry. What's yours?"

The girl sniffled, gave one last miserable whimper, and slowly lowered her arms. She looked at Harry with dark, bloodshot eyes, dark hair and lashes, with a broken nose and unknown number of freely bleeding wounds.

Like peas in a pod, Harry thought sardonically, feeling his own ribs ache in sympathy.

"Gertrude McKinnon," said the girl through her stuffy, broken nose. "I'm— I'm Gertrude McKinnon."

The name niggled at the back of Harry's brain, but they had more pressing matters at hand.

"What happened, Gertrude?" he asked. "Do you know where you are and why you're here?"

"Oh, not this again," muttered Malfoy behind him, sounding aggrieved, but Harry ignored him.

Gertrude slowly, painstakingly unwrapped herself from her ball. She struggled to sit up, but Harry battled his inner hero and didn't help her. He knew she would be better off without him rushing at her, even if he knew his only intention was to help.

She managed it, leaning exhausted against the brick wall behind her.

"I was w-with my friends," she said tremulously. "We were shopping for our school things for next week. I thought I saw… well, someone I knew. I followed him, but then they… they ambushed me. Dragged me here. They…."

Her voice caught, and she trailed off. Tears spilled silently down her cheeks.

"It's because I'm a Muggleborn," she finally continued, with a proud, stubborn tilt to her chin that reminded Harry achingly of Hermione. "I know who they were. They were You-Know-Who's supporters. Death Eaters. I just never thought… in Diagon Alley…."

"You go to Hogwarts?" Harry asked, frowning. The name McKinnon tickled at his recollection again.

"Yes," said Gertrude. "Gryffindor. My sister and I both. We'll be in seventh year."

Harry reeled back. That would make her Ginny's classmate, but he would know her.

"Potter," said Malfoy sharply. When Harry glanced up, he motioned with his head to the mouth of the alleyway and said, "A word, if you please."

She needs medical attention, Harry wanted to say, but no, they were already dead. What use would first aid be?

The Elder Wand was a heavy weight in his borrowed cloak. He wondered why it had appeared, unless…. Its power would die with Harry if he died undefeated. Was it dead, too? Had followed him into the afterlife?

But he so clearly remembered Dolohov aiming the Killing Curse at him. Harry had been defeated. Hadn't he?

Thoughts aswirl, Harry arduously made his way back to his feet. His ribs were broken. He was cut, burnt, and bruised. Why hadn't his injuries faded in death?

He walked with Malfoy off to the side, where Gertrude wouldn't hear them.

"Gertrude McKinnon died," said Malfoy without preamble. He had that feverous look again, like he had when he'd asked Harry if they were even.

"Yes, obviously," said Harry. "We're all dead."

"No," said Malfoy, and he stepped into Harry's personal space to press his point.

The breath caught in Harry's throat, and he took an involuntary step back— Dolohov's laugh, raising his wand— pain…

Malfoy continued, unaware, "Marlene McKinnon was one of the original members of the Order of the Phoenix back in the Dark Lord's first reign. Gertrude died back in the seventies, while she was still a Hogwarts student, and then You-Know-Who wiped out her sister's entire family a few years later. The seventies, Potter. This isn't right."

"What are you saying?" Harry asked, breathing raggedly as he tried to push his demons away.

"I don't think we're dead," said Malfoy. "I think… I think we've somehow traveled back in time. We're in the past. That's why Dolohov and the others are so young. That's why Gimmick Alley is so different. The shops we know haven't been built yet, or they're owned by different people. It's the only logical explanation."

"Sirius and Remus were younger," said Harry. "After they died, I mean. When I saw them in the forest."

Malfoy stared at him, mouth agape, and then resolutely shook his head. "Mad."

"I'm not mad!"

"And I'm not dead!"

"Then why are you here? It's certainly not to guide me to the other side!"

"I jumped in front of—" Malfoy broke off suddenly and frowned, looking away. He repeated, more to himself than Harry, "I'm not dead. This isn't right."

"And you would know all about what's right," Harry snarled, turning his back on Malfoy. He made his way back to Gertrude.

"I need… I need a healer," said Gertrude, when Harry knelt next to her again. Her breathing was labored. "Lestrange— Rodolphus— used some kind of curse…."

Harry knew it would do no good. Perhaps Gertrude had died more than twenty years ago, and perhaps this was her version of Hell. He doubted a healer could help. Nevertheless, he looked around and said,

"We can Floo to St. Mungo's, I suppose. One of these shops ought to have—"

"Hogwarts," said Gertrude firmly, and then she winced, hand gripping her ribs. "I don't… I'd feel safer at Hogwarts."

"Fine," said Harry tightly. "Why not. The Headmaster's office has a Floo."

He gestured to see if he could help her up, and she gave a reluctant nod.

They struggled back to their feet together.

"Tabbard's Pawn," said Malfoy as they hobbled toward him, a pair of cripples too proud to lean on anyone but each other. Harry could practically see the snarky comment about Gryffindors swimming behind his eyes, but at least he kept it to himself. "They'll be easier to bribe into silence than the lawyers."

…

Draco didn't know whether to be triumphant or terrified when his prediction proved correct.

On the other side of the Floo, they came face to face with a bemused Albus Dumbledore. He still had auburn peppered in his hair, and the silver was not as pale as they had known it.

He stared into the face of the man he had been sentenced to kill scarcely two years ago, and the bottom of his stomach dropped out.

"Miss McKinnon," said Dumbledore, addressing his only known student first. He rose from behind his desk with a furrow of concern upon his brow. "What has happened?"

"Death Eaters," said Potter, as if he and Dumbledore had only spoken an hour ago instead of a year. "They attacked her at Diagon Alley. She asked for Madam Pomfrey instead of St. Mungo's."

"I'll send for her at once," said Dumbledore and, true to his word, he murmured something to his phoenix. The bird took off through the open window. Then he knelt in front of McKinnon and, said, regretfully, "I would help you myself, my dear, except I seem to have misplaced my wand recently."

Potter dug in his pockets with the hand not supporting McKinnon and produced a wand Draco found vaguely familiar. He held it out to Dumbledore silently.

Dumbledore blinked once. Slowly, as if in a dream, he took the wand and looked it over, that glazed expression still on his face. Then his eyes sharpened, and he examined Potter meticulously.

"Thank you," he said. Without further ado, he started waving his wand and muttering enchantments over McKinnon.

Feeling uncomfortably like an outsider, Draco edged off to the side and watched as Dumbledore performed first aid and Potter supported McKinnon, though he looked as if he needed the treatment just as badly. Potter's face was unnaturally pale and gray, and Draco could see the way his muscles trembled even under the heavy cloak.

Ridiculous, proud, stubborn Gryffindors. It was no wonder McKinnon had gotten herself killed, a Mudblood as cocky as her.

Draco glanced away, frowning, and crossed his arms. He didn't know if he was annoyed at McKinnon or himself for that last thought.

After an interminable amount of time, Madam Pomfrey burst into the office, her wand already up.

"I heard you had— oh!" she said and set upon McKinnon like a wolf on a fresh carcass.

Together, she and Dumbledore levitated McKinnon to the infirmary while keeping up a steady stream of healing spells.

Draco and Potter trailed behind.

Once inside the infirmary, McKinnon safely under Madam Pomfrey's care, Dumbledore turned to the boys.

"Thank you for your kind assistance, Misters…?"

Potter looked at Dumbledore as if the headmaster had told a joke he didn't find particularly amusing.

"What do you mean?" asked Potter. His voice was weak and hoarse, as it had been since they had woken up in the past. It sounded, Draco thought with a churning stomach, as if he had recently screamed his throat bloody.

"It's a long story, Headmaster," said Draco almost as weakly.

"Perhaps we ought to return to my office," suggested Dumbledore, "where you may tell it in peace."

Potter opened his mouth to respond, looking angry, but Madam Pomfrey interrupted,

"Oh, no you don't! Don't think I haven't noticed the state you're in, young man. Hop into that bed there. Quickly, now, if you please!"

Harry looked back at the matron, shocked, but then cowered under her stern look. His gaze shot to Draco, questioning, and Draco lifted a shoulder as carelessly as he could.

"You may as well get patched up while we're here, Scar-head," he said. "What could it hurt?"

Because apparently Potter thought they were dead.

Draco shoved the idea aside and focused on Dumbledore, leaving a battered Harry Potter to a very determined Madam Pomfrey.

He and Dumbledore retreated to the headmaster's office.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Draco took control of the conversation and asked, "What year is it, sir?"

If Dumbledore was surprised, he didn't show it. He merely clasped his hands upon his desk and looked at Draco through his half-moon spectacles, as benign as a sleeping kneazle.

"The year is 1978, Mister…?"

Draco sighed. He said, "Malfoy, Draco Malfoy. I was born in 1980."

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, expression shuttering as he heard Draco's last name.

Draco forced himself not to flinch. With all those looks he had received in the past month, he should be used to it.

"I see," said Dumbledore. "And what has caused this anomaly, Mr. Malfoy?"

"I haven't a clue," said Draco, "although Potter thinks we're both dead."

"Potter," repeated Dumbledore thoughtfully. His chin came down to rest upon his laced fingers. "Why would Mr. Potter think you're dead rather than, from your perspective, in the past?"

"The last thing we both saw was green light," said Draco, sinking back into his chair as he honestly considered it. "Potter was about to be killed, but I jumped in front of the curse. It must have hit me or missed both of us. I'm certain it couldn't have hit Potter. But then we woke up in this time in Knockturn Alley, and he was saying the most ridiculous things…."

"Such as?"

"He was wondering why we weren't naked," Draco sneered, lip curling at the mere idea of being in a street starkers with Potter, "and why… ah… certain people weren't there to greet him, I suppose. Kept muttering about King's Cross Station. I don't know. He hasn't been making sense."

"I see," said Dumbledore again. He surveyed Draco again with that penetrating blue stare. Draco wondered if he knew what he had almost let slip, that Potter had been expecting Dumbledore to greet him in death. Dumbledore, however, continued, "And what prospects do you have for returning to your time? Have you given it thought?"

"I wouldn't know where to begin, sir," said Draco, making an effort to keep his voice steady rather than whiny. He went on doggedly, "I've never studied the theory of time travel. Typically, with most spells, it would be most effective if we knew how we had arrived here in the first place in order to reverse it to return."

"That is true," admitted Dumbledore politely. "Traveling as far as you have is unheard of in my experience. It is quite the conundrum."

"Quite," agreed Draco dryly.

A moment of silence passed between them as each considered the problem that lay before them.

Draco let out a heavy breath and looked out the window onto the pristine Quidditch pitch in the distance.

1978.

His parents had already graduated from Hogwarts and married, he calculated. They were likely still setting themselves up in their proper societal circles and careers before committing to an heir. His father was an only child, and his mother's sisters would have already graduated and moved on to their separate sides of the war.

The war.

It would be raging in 1978. That had been near the height of the Dark Lord's first reign. His father would already be a Death Eater. There was nothing Draco could do to change that.

And Severus—

Draco stilled.

Severus… would be in his seventh year at Hogwarts. He hadn't taken the Mark yet. He hadn't died yet.

Draco's hands were shaking. He clasped them tightly in his lap.

Severus Snape, Draco Malfoy, and Harry Potter, all the same age, or near it.

He wondered what cosmic force had reared its head to make that happen. It was inconceivable….

And Draco yearned.

He yearned to see Severus, even for a moment. To see him alive and unburdened by his role in the war…. It was a thought Draco had never even considered, that there had ever been such a time.

And here it was. He could Apparate to Spinner's End at that very moment and find his teenage godfather, unmarked, unscarred, alive.

A lump in Draco's throat made it hard to swallow.

He had expected to die jumping in front of that curse. He hadn't planned it, of course, but the outcome had registered even as he had moved to do it.

And somehow he was in 1978 instead.

A slip of parchment poofed into existence above Dumbledore's desk and fluttered down.

Dumbledore caught it effortlessly and scanned the note.

"It seems your friend Mr. Potter was more severely injured than he let on," said Dumbledore after Vanishing the note. His gaze met Draco's gravely, and Draco found himself sitting up straighter. "Madam Pomfrey would like to keep him for a few days, as he will not consent to go to St. Mungo's. She is also concerned his mind may have been damaged, given his unusual comments. I assume he thinks he is speaking to his matron?"

"I don't know, sir," said Draco. "Madam Pomfrey survived to my knowledge. She wouldn't meet him in the afterlife."

That stare, like x-ray vision, pierced even deeper than before. Draco knew Dumbledore wanted to ask what exactly Madam Pomfrey had survived, but he was restraining himself, just as Draco was making an effort to be vague even though he was desperate for Dumbledore's advice.

He hadn't liked Dumbledore while he had been a student. He had grown up with his parents complaining of the man far too often to hold anything but disdain for him. But, looking back, Draco regretted.

Potter had loved this man like a grandfather, had confided in him, and together Potter and Dumbledore had defeated the Dark Lord— the Dark Lord who scared Draco so much he could hardly be in the same room with him without pissing himself.

Dumbledore may have been eccentric, even manipulative, but he had a mind that came around perhaps once in a century. Even that she-devil Hermione Granger, brightest mind of their whole generation as she'd been called in countless post-war Daily Prophet articles, wasn't on the same level as him.

Draco wanted to confide in a man like Dumbledore. He wanted his help.

"Madam Pomfrey does, however, believe both Mr. Potter and Miss McKinnon will make full recoveries," Dumbledore finished quietly, watching him.

McKinnon, Draco thought again.

"She should have died today," he said before he could stop himself. "She died while she was a student, and now she'll get to finish her seventh year. Dolohov was about to use that curse he created, but Potter interfered…."

Dolohov was supposed to kill Gertrude McKinnon.

Draco's mind spun.

Dolohov had been going to kill Potter, kill Draco, but Potter's last words had been, "You will never kill another living soul, Dolohov!"

There had been that terrible power, that darkness and cold that had built around Potter. It had flooded over them in a torrent even as Dolohov had released his curse.

"You will never kill another living soul, Dolohov!"

And they had gone back to what very well might have been Dolohov's first murder.

"Oh," said Draco faintly. He didn't understand precisely how, but he knew… "It was Potter."

"What do you mean, Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco looked at Dumbledore, and the struggle within himself intensified.

How could he, a Slytherin, a bearer of the Dark Mark, trust and confide in Albus Dumbledore? It was ludicrous. It was…. He was starting to think it was Severus….

He wanted to go home. He wanted to go home, where the war was over and his parents were safe and… and he needed help.

Draco took a deep breath and, as specifically as he was able without revealing too much of the future, explained to Dumbledore exactly what had led up to their return to the past.

"There was this power coming from him I'd never felt before," Draco finished. "And, somehow, with those words, I think it reacted to what he said."

"That would indeed be an incredible power," murmured Dumbledore. "He was using no magical artifact? No spell or ancient rune?"

"Not that I could see, no."

"Fascinating."

They fell silent again.

Draco waited impatiently for the stroke of genius.

Dumbledore twirled the ends of his long beard for many long moments, peering placidly into the distance.

Just as Draco was about to demand to be included in his thoughts, Dumbledore murmured, "Another. That must be it."

"Another what?"

"Mr. Potter's words before the Killing Curse," said Dumbledore. "'You will never kill another living soul.'"

Draco's lips wanted to pull into a scowl, but he fought to keep a straight face. "Yes. He obviously thought he could somehow defeat Dolohov. It didn't happen, as you can see."

"'Another' can have multiple meanings," said Dumbledore thoughtfully. "It can mean, as Mr. Potter probably intended, 'another' as in, 'You will not kill one more living soul after this.' However, perhaps his magic interpreted it as, 'You will not kill another— not any other than your own— living soul.' It would be… unheard of, but perhaps not impossible, that his magic transported you back to Dolohov's first victim so that you could stop it."

"Uh," said Draco eloquently.

"An incredible power," murmured Dumbledore again, not looking at Draco. "But how could it be possible? There must be a piece we are missing…."

Draco's heartbeat thrummed like a hummingbird's wings in his veins.

He didn't quite understand, still, but he understood one thing: Potter had thrown them back in time with no time-turner, no incantation, not even a wand.

"He's the only one who can get us back, isn't he?" Draco's voice sounded far away even to his own ears.

Dumbledore looked down at his hands, finger laced, resting on his desk.

"Magic… though mysterious and powerful… is as a force of nature," he said. "It is bound by laws of action and reaction, cause and effect. It must make sense, even if we do not see all the pieces that led up to a particular outcome at the time. People, on the other hand…. People, I have found, are just as mysterious and powerful. But they are not bound by the same rationality."

Mental, Draco sighed to himself. He did get the gist of it, though. Yes, Potter was the only one who could get them back.

A small fission of cold fear swept through him.

They were stuck. They were stuck in 1978, away from the world they knew and instead in an era with a brand new Lord Voldemort rising.

Draco had a money pouch on him, but it wouldn't last long, and he hadn't been born yet. He couldn't access his parents' Gringotts vault. The consequences of even finding and speaking to his parents while he had yet to be conceived….

He had no home. No family or friends. No connections. Salazar, he didn't even have his official N.E.W.T. transcripts to get a decent job. He might as well have been a Muggle-born dropout.

"Why don't you and Mr. Potter stay here for the time being?" said Dumbledore kindly, seeing Draco's rising panic. "We have a week until classes start, and this bears discussion before you simply go out into the world and potentially alter history. Wouldn't you say?"

Draco hesitated and then nodded. A week. Another discussion. He could do that. That was a plan. He needed a plan.

He cleared his throat and said, "Sir, in the future…."

"Mr. Malfoy," said Dumbledore, "I think it would be in everyone's best interest if I did not know—"

"Sir, this is important," said Draco firmly. "I promise I'll Obliviate you afterwards if you feel you shouldn't know, but…" He hesitated again, uncertain exactly how to say what he needed Dumbledore to understand right off the bat. He decided to dive straight into the heart of it. "Potter— Harry— is important. To the future, I mean. And you're important to him."

Dumbledore scrutinized him quietly.

"What I mean is," said Draco, determinedly keeping his composure despite his embarrassment over the words coming out of his mouth, "Potter keeps muttering about 'moving on' and seeing his friends and family again. Maybe his magic reacted to stop Dolohov from killing McKinnon, but maybe… maybe it wanted to let him see… certain people… again."

Still, Dumbledore waited, his gaze skewering Draco to his seat.

"My world needs him," continued Draco, "but… I think we broke him. And… and I think… I think we need your help to fix him."

…

TBC

Chapter Text

"But they were not living, thought Harry: They were gone. The empty words could not disguise the fact that his parents' moldering remains lay beneath snow and stone, indifferent, unknowing. And tears came before he could stop them, boiling hot then instantly freezing on his face, and what was the point in wiping them off or pretending? He let them fall, his lips pressed hard together, looking down at the thick snow hiding from his eyes the place where the last of Lily and James lay, bones now, surely, or dust, not knowing or caring that their living son stood so near, his heart still beating, alive because of their sacrifice and close to wishing, at this moment, that he was sleeping under the snow with them."

― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

Chapter 3: His heart still beating

Harry shuffled under his new Hogwarts robes and rubbed at his hair. It felt weird. He hadn't had hair this shaggy since fourth year, and he certainly wasn't used to seeing straw-blond wisps out of the corner of his eye.

Malfoy and Dumbledore had insisted upon the change, given how much he looked like his father, who was now the same age as him, and they feared going red would draw too much attention to how much his eyes looked like his mother's.

"Stop that incessant fidgeting and have some decorum," Malfoy hissed from beside him, looking dignified in his unmarked robes and warm chestnut hair. They had spelled his hair, too, but he still had the unmistakable arrogance of a pureblood heir, Harry thought uncharitably.

They were waiting amongst the first years to be Sorted. The younger students eyed them with awe and wariness.

Malfoy preened under the attention, though Harry doubted anyone else would notice. They hadn't spent seven years getting to know the prat's moods from across a crowded classroom or Great Hall like he had.

"This is a mistake," said Harry, turning toward the doors for the hundredth time that evening. "I already told Hermione I didn't want to return for my N.E.W.T.s. Time would be better spent—"

"In the best magical library in Britain," said Malfoy, "which is here."

Malfoy stepped between Harry and the doors, forcing his attention on him.

Harry scowled and pulled again at his altered hair.

"Stop it," said Malfoy irritably, swatting Harry's hand down.

"Don't you—" began Harry, incensed, but he was interrupted by a pointed cough from the doorway into the Great Hall. He turned guiltily and saw Professor McGonagall leveling them a disapproving look. "Sorry, Professor."

"Right," she said crisply, giving no sign that they had gotten to know each other at all in the week leading up to the start of term.

Mostly, Harry thought bitterly, he and Malfoy had gotten to know Madam Pince best. She was even stricter and more difficult to get along with than he remembered from his own time. The one time Harry had dared to eat lunch while perusing a book, she had caught him and made him fear for his very life— yes, Malfoy and Dumbledore had done a fair job convincing him he was alive and in the past, not dead.

Though Harry was able to admit he had never known Dumbledore as well as he'd thought, even he knew Dumbledore could not be so cruel as to pretend not to remember him.

Spending the past few days in the library with Malfoy had been uncomfortable at best. It was so strange to be there without Hermione playing taskmaster, without Ron sitting beside him cracking jokes under his breath.

He missed them. The truth hadn't quite sunk in yet— time travel or their deaths.

When Malfoy had asked after them and the catastrophic arrest, Harry hadn't been able to reply at all.

"First years, line up, please," said McGonagall. "Seventh years, at the back of the line. And in we go; follow me."

The tiny group, plus two freshly turned eighteen-year-olds, followed McGonagall into the Great Hall.

Harry's heart clenched as it did every time he entered the Great Hall, which was why he had taken great pains to avoid it in the past week. There were the thousands of candles floating above the four long, glistening tables filled with smartly dressed, freshly scrubbed children. The dark sky glittered with stars above them through the enchanted ceiling.

The last time Harry had seen it, the spell holding the floating candles had been destroyed in the battle, and Flitwick had still been too injured to recast it. The four tables had been vanished to make room for all the bodies.

The smartly dressed children had been bloodied by fierce battle, dead, or both.

The smell of the feast wafting through from the kitchens added a layer of nausea to Harry's roiling gut. He forced himself to keep his eyes forward on the procession of first years. In his pocket, his fingers clenched around his holly wand, which he had reclaimed from Ollivander's on the previous day, grounding him.

It had been bizarre seeing Ollivander so young, and he had cut off the man's speech rather rudely, but he hadn't been able to help it. It had been even more bizarre seeing a young, slender Molly Weasley pulling toddlers Bill and Charlie by the hands as she ran errands in Diagon Alley. Her hair had been in beautiful waves down to her waist, and, for a split second, Harry had thought it was Ginny.

He had almost chased after her until some snide comment from Malfoy had pulled him back to himself.

Mallory, Harry reminded himself sharply. It was Draco Mallory now. And he was Harry Parker.

It would take some getting used to. Since deciding they would join the student body in order to stay at Hogwarts and continue their research, they had defaulted to calling each other "Scar-head" and "Ferret-face" to avoid the awkward alias thing altogether.

It was better than pretending they were friends and using first names.

McGonagall made the usual show announcing the first years, and the Sorting Hat burst into a rather slapdash song about House traits and its role in sorting them.

It felt empty to Harry and far away, like a half-forgotten dream. The last few Sortings he had actually attended, the hat had been outright political and dire in its speeches.

"So," murmured Malfoy, as they stood at the back of the line and the first years were Sorted. "Do you mind telling me what you know that I don't know?"

"I know a lot of things you don't know, Ferret-face," said Harry, not looking at him. "What are you referring to in specific?"

"Don't get smart with me, Po—Parker," hissed Draco.

"Sorry, I'll try to use smaller words. What—do—you—want—Mallory?"

Malfoy fumed. "You've been holding something back. I didn't know for certain until yesterday evening, but then you lied to Dumbledore. I know you didn't just find his wand in the fireplace when we Floo'd. You were naked when we turned up in Knockturn Alley, and you used it right then and there against Dolohov. What are you hiding?"

Harry didn't answer. He hardly knew himself, except…

Except Dumbledore had been consumed by the Deathly Hallows in the end, almost as much as Voldemort and Grindelwald had been. The only reason the Elder Wand could have come to Harry in Knockturn Alley was if it remembered its allegiance to him in the future. And he didn't know what Dumbledore would do with that knowledge— knowledge that Harry had accidentally accumulated all three Hallows at some point in the past year, and the Elder Wand was truly his.

Harry loved Albus Dumbledore. He loved him in the way he suspected family loved each other: unconditionally, even when he didn't necessarily agree with him.

He hadn't wanted Dumbledore's suspicion or, Merlin forbid, rejection. And so he had lied.

He wasn't stupid enough to think Dumbledore had bought it, of course, but at least he hadn't pushed for the truth. Dumbledore was oddly wary of altering the future, considering he was the one who had suggested Harry and Hermione use a time-turner to save Sirius and Buckbeak in their third year.

"It is a matter of the sheer volume of time in question," Dumbledore had tried to explain during one of their many discussions in the past week as they tried to figure out what to do. "Changing a decision here or there in the immediate past is transmutable. The future may restore itself like the river winding around a single stone breaking its current to resume its original path. But twenty years…. If you move a single stone, then that may cause another stone to shift a year from now, and then perhaps two more stones to shift two years from now, and so on, until you have a raging rapid where there was once a tranquil stream. Do you see the greater issue at stake here, Mr. Potter?"

No, Harry hadn't, but that was typical Dumbledore.

"Fine, keep your secrets," said Malfoy peevishly. "But just know it's not only you who's stuck here. I want to go home, too, you know."

Harry almost felt bad. He still didn't know why Draco Malfoy of all people had been transported along with him— if anything, he had been holding onto Ron when he had been killed— but he had figured out it wasn't Malfoy's doing. Malfoy had no more desire to see another rising Dark Lord than Harry did.

He had also grudgingly acknowledged to himself that Malfoy probably— probably— hadn't been working with Dolohov, as he'd suspected in the heat of battle. But considering Malfoy's controvertible actions during the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry wasn't quite ready to trust him on that.

"And now," said Professor McGonagall, after the last first years had been Sorted, "we have two students recently transferred from our sister school, Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in North America. They will be attending classes here for the year leading up to their N.E.W.T.s in the summer and as such need to be Sorted. First, Draco Mallory."

Draco sniffed, straightened his shoulders and the arrogant tilt of his jaw, and glided up to the stool. McGonagall placed the hat on his head.

To his credit, it took longer than his first Sorting. Harry recalled how the hat had barely grazed his hair before screaming "SLYTHERIN!" the first time. Now, it seemed to debate with him, and Draco muttered under his breath just as Harry had done his first time through. In the end, though, the hat called out again, "SLYTHERIN!"

Malfoy nodded as if satisfied and strode toward the clapping table clad in green and silver.

"Harry Parker," said McGonagall.

Harry trudged forward and sank onto the stool. McGonagall placed the hat on his head.

"Well, well, well," said the hat. "Acquaintances with the last one, I see. Another student I have already Sorted, though I haven't met you yet. Gryffindor last time, was it? Let me see, let me see…."

Do what you want, thought Harry bluntly. I have business to take care of this year. It doesn't matter the House.

"How very Slytherin of you, Mr. Potter. However… after seeing what's in your mind, I do not feel I can place you in Slytherin."

Why not? asked Harry. Place me in Slytherin. I'll take them down from the inside. They'll never see it coming.

"Another classic Slytherin sentiment," said the hat. "But, Mr. Potter… you walked to your own death."

Harry's chest went cold.

I had to. There was a prophecy.

"You had a choice," said the hat. "Mr. Potter, you chose to sacrifice yourself to save everyone you loved. You walked into a forest where you knew you would die. You faced He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and didn't defend yourself. You walked to your death willingly."

It was the only way.

"It was the only way to save the ones you wished to protect," corrected the hat. "There were alternatives. You didn't even consider them."

So what? thought Harry, anger rising within him like a serpent ready to strike. Half the students in here are going to die, either in this war or the next. Half the teachers, too. Do you think that makes everyone a Gryffindor? Look, Hat, I just want… I just want to move on. I'm done, okay? I'll help Malfoy get back, that's his choice, but my choice is to go a lot farther than the future. I just want to be with my friends and family again. I'm… I'm nothing without them. I need them.

"Well, why didn't you just say so?" asked the hat jovially. "In that case, it's easy enough. You'll go to GRYFFINDOR!"

The table on the far left roared its approval, and Harry pulled off the hat reluctantly. He nodded to McGonagall as he stood, and she gave him a suspicious but polite nod back.

It hurt. She and Dumbledore were the most difficult to be around because, despite being two decades younger, they still looked like themselves. They looked like Harry's professors.

But Harry reminded himself that this wasn't his McGonagall. She hadn't survived Dumbledore's death yet. She hadn't fought Death Eaters roaming the halls of her beloved Hogwarts, and she hadn't turned the school she loved into the last foothold, the last stand of the Light and then watched it be smashed into rumble and bones.

She had never placed her last hope, the lives of her students and friends, into the hands of Harry Potter.

God, what if she never had to?

The thought was tantalizing, even if Dumbledore had expressly forbidden him and Malfoy from changing any major events they knew of in the past.

Harry kept placing one foot in front of the other, a habit of not-dying so many times, until he reached his old familiar table, filled with unfamiliar bright faces.

Until a male voice called, "Parker, come sit here!" And then, "Shove over Padfoot, suck it in, Wormtail. Moony, what in the blazes are you doing reading a book at the welcoming feast for? Put that up before I take points. PARKER!"

Harry looked up into the young, bespectacled face of James Potter, grinning ear to ear and waving like a lunatic.

James Potter. You look so much like your father. James Potter. He was an arrogant, bullying toe-rag. James— Lily, take Harry and go! It's him! Go—run—I'll hold him off—! Potter.

Green light. High pitched laughter. His mother's screams. Dementors and a Killing Curse.

Harry knew what it was like to look at Voldemort's face while he uttered those last two words.

James was still waving and now pointing emphatically at the seat next to him, between him and—Sirius. Young, handsome, arrogant Sirius Black. Padfoot. Snuffles. His godfather. Brilliant, reckless, energetic —such men are not usually content to sit at home in hiding while they believe others to be in danger—

Bellatrix's shrill laughter, a rippling veil—

Sirius.

Does it hurt?

Dying? Not at all. Quicker and easier than falling asleep.

And— Harry couldn't breathe. There was Remus Lupin, sitting next to the mousy haired, pointy-nosed Wormtail, tucking his book beneath the table with a shy, apologetic smile and… and he was young, but he was Lupin.

A boy! Lupin, dazed by his own happiness. You'll be godfather?

I didn't want you to die. Right after you'd had your son— Remus, I'm sorry—

His shabby, perfect professor. Tea and grindylows and werewolves.

And there was Wormtail, twitching uncomfortably under Harry's haunted gaze, painfully shy and inferior.

What a goddamn coward.

Even young, Harry had nothing else to think about Wormtail, Peter Pettigrew, the rat.

Harry allowed himself to be ushered onto the bench next to James, hardly flinching at all at his touch, and he looked down to find a glimmering golden plate and goblet appear before him.

"It takes a while to get used to," said a female voice directly across from him, and Harry looked up into green eyes as vivid as his own. Lily Evans smiled kindly and—

Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead—

—Stay close to me—

Until the very end.

Avada Kedavra.

"I'm Lily Evans, Gryffindor seventh year, Head Girl," said Lily. "That overdramatic baboon there is James Potter, Head Boy. I'm afraid you'll be sharing a dorm with him and the boys." She grinned, sharp and fast, a fierce, witty light like a fire in her eyes. "Welcome to Hogwarts, Harry."

…

The two seventh year Slytherin prefects, Evan Rosier and Johanna Wilkes, tried to point Draco to a seat across from them like a disobedient dog, but Draco smiled a polite, icy smile and sat between Severus and a teenager who had to be a Greengrass.

He proceeded to ignore Rosier and Wilkes with the magnanimous grace he'd picked up from his mother at holiday balls. She had normally employed it against those pureblood and half-blood families with recent besmirches to their names— a daughter marrying a Muggleborn, a son producing a squib heir— but Draco had learned the tool well enough to use it for his own agenda.

Gryffindor, please, Draco thought derisively of his conversation with the Sorting Hat. I'd rather eat my wand. Of all the insulting, impertinent things to suggest….

He made a mental note in the back of his mind that Potter could never find out.

Despite what the rest of his world thought of Slytherins after the war, Draco was proud of his ambition and cunning. He had both aplenty.

And more than that… Severus. His godfather was sitting right beside him in the flesh. Young. Alive.

Draco could scarcely sit still for the giddiness swirling inside him.

"If you thought turning down your first offer of alliance would be a show of power," said the Greengrass girl, "that was a poor choice. Rosier and Wilkes— those prefects— are at the top of the hierarchy. They'll make you pay for that."

Draco gave an elegant shrug and waited for his goblet to fill itself.

It looked like he would have to wait until after the welcoming speech, unfortunately.

"Rosier and Wilkes," he repeated pensively, pretending to mull it over. Then, "No, I'm afraid it would never have worked out between us. Draco Mallory, at your service. And you are?"

"Elodie Greengrass," said the girl. She had a droning, subdued voice, but a cutting glint in her pale eyes. "And that fellow there with his nose already in a textbook is Severus Snape."

"Charmed," said Draco, watching his godfather for a reaction.

But Severus continued pouring over his book, a Transfiguration text, and didn't even glance up at the attention.

"He has his moods," said Greengrass sedately, "especially just after the summer hols."

It stung. Draco couldn't pretend even to himself that it didn't, but he couldn't show it. Severus wasn't his godfather— not yet. He was just a clueless teenager trying to survive school in the Slytherin house. He didn't owe Draco anything.

He didn't know Draco owed him everything.

"Right," said Draco, hoping his voice didn't sound as brittle as it felt.

He reminded himself he wasn't there to stay, anyway. Though Draco and Dumbledore suspected Potter was the only one who could return them to their proper time, Harry had laughed at the idea. He had been no help to the point of obstinance.

The plan, therefore, was to research a solution in the library, and meanwhile, in case they never found what they were looking for, at least create an identity they could use in the outside world complete with N.E.W.T. credentials. If they hadn't found a spell to return them to their proper time by the end of the school year, they were doomed to live out the rest of their lives quietly, not interfering with the events they knew would happen.

It was something neither of them wanted.

"What was Ilvermorny like?" Greengrass asked, gazing at him with dewy eyes.

"It was fashioned after Hogwarts," said Draco, shaking himself from dismal thoughts, "so it was rather similar, I imagine. Four houses, teachers and tests. It's a castle on a mountain rather than a lake, though."

He hoped she didn't ask for details. He had read the brief paragraph about Ilvermorny in The Founding of Standardized Schooling in Britain and Across the World before committing to their cover story. He'd never visited, though, and he had only met one American wizard in his life.

"You don't have an American accent," she observed.

Draco glared up at the staff table, where Dumbledore was in conversation with McGonagall. Why wasn't he giving the welcoming speech yet?

"My family and I are from Britain," said Draco stiffly. "We only moved to America for a few years for my father's job."

Greengrass hummed thoughtfully.

Finally, Dumbledore rose and held his arms out, as if to greet each and every student with a simultaneous embrace.

Draco let out a sigh of relief.

"To our new students, welcome!" he said in a ringing voice. "To our old hands, welcome back! I have only a few start-of-term notices before we sink into this delicious feast and become too befuddled by good food and good company to pay attention to an old man's ramblings.

"First years, please note that the forest is out-of-bounds. Select seventh years would do well to remember this, too." He stared straight at the Gryffindor table, and, for a moment, Draco automatically assumed he was talking to the Weasley twins again before he remembered where he was.

Did Dumbledore know Potter that well already?

He almost sniggered.

"Secondly, caretaker Filch has asked that I remind you for the, ah, two-hundred-and-seventieth time now that magic in the corridors between classes is forbidden, as are a number of things he will let you know as he sees them.

"Next, we are very pleased to welcome back Professor Kettleburn from his sudden mid-term vacation last spring, and he asks that you please refrain from asking personal questions about the two fingers missing on his remaining arm."

A wild-haired man with an eyepatch and one arm raised his three-fingered hand in the air to accept his applause, which was rather loud and jubilant for a simple professor's return from a vacation.

"Also, we are delighted to have a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher joining us: Professor Bowie!"

A grim-looking man with a messy blond bun on his head and an overabundance of jewelry raised a whiskey flask and lit cigarette in greeting.

His applause was slower to start, scattered and confused.

Draco eyed him in disbelief. And he'd thought they were scraping the bottom of the barrel for Defense professors in the future.

"Professor Bowie would like me to announce the revival of our school's dueling club, with mandatory attendance at least once a week for fifth years and higher."

There was a mix of groaning and cheering in response.

Draco grimaced. But Salazar, Bowie did look a bit like that idiot Lockheart, didn't he? He could only hope their similarities ended at the blond hair and jewelry.

"And, as always, those wishing to try out for their House Quidditch team should submit their names to their Head of House before the last Friday of this month."

Dumbledore fell silent for a moment, looking out at them. Candlelight flickered in his half-moon spectacles, obscuring his eyes. He continued more quietly, and the student body hardly breathed for fear of drowning his voice out, "I need not remind you what dark times we find ourselves in. The danger to our families, the danger to our society outside these walls has never been greater. I have always strived to make Hogwarts a safe haven for students. However, I need your cooperation and support in order to make it truth. Please, I cannot urge you strongly enough to do the right thing. Take care of one another. If you see anything strange or suspicious, report it to a member of the staff immediately. Obey the rules, even as pointless or restricting as you may find them. Only by actively choosing to be cautious, vigilant, and united will we get through this terrible time. Thank you.

"Now, let us tuck in! Pip pip!"

Draco looked around at the gourmet spread that had appeared at Dumbledore's clap and couldn't have felt less hungry.

All around the table, Slytherins of every year were smirking knowingly to each other, jostling a neighbor in the ribs, or treating the rest of the Houses to predatory, superior looks.

Severus didn't look up from his book, but his jaw was clenched and the knuckles wrapped around the text were white.

Draco wished maybe he had chosen Gryffindor this time around, after all.

…

James Potter shot a sideways glance at Sirius without moving his head.

It took Sirius a moment to stop shoveling blackberry tarts into his mouth to catch it, but when he did, he cast James a surreptitious thumbs-up beneath the table. Cheeks still as full as a chipmunk's, Sirius gave Remus's toe a stomp next to him, and Remus jolted.

Remus gave Sirius a look that could have scorched paint off a wall, but this his eyes moved to meet James's, and he gave a fraction of a nod.

Rather than trying to be subtle with Peter, Remus tapped Wormtail on the shoulder and whispered something in his ear.

Peter broke into a face-splitting grin and only tried to take it back a notch when Remus muttered something else in his ear, wearing a look of mild chastisement.

Peter nodded into his dessert plate, covering his mouth with a hand as if politely to keep people from seeing him chew.

Message received down the line, Sirius looked pointedly at the boy sitting between them, Harry Parker, and then tilted his head at James, a question made to look like he was smoothing his fine, wavy hair in front of the ladies who were staring at him.

How the girls could still be so enamored when Sirius was chewing open-mouthed with cheeks like he'd tried to swallow two whole planetary globes, James would never understand.

Again, James moved his eyes without turning his head. He studied Harry.

A bit off, that one, he and Sirius had almost instantly and nonverbally agreed.

There had been a look in his startling green eyes when he'd approached them like he didn't know whether to break into laughter or tears. The look had been so intense, James's heart had skipped a beat when those haunted eyes looked directly into his.

Then, despite the visceral response to seeing them, the boy had hardly said two words since. He had sunk into the spot between James and Sirius and then picked at his food uninterestedly. Even though he was skin and bones and, beyond that, looked so exhausted he might have spent the day leading up to the feast swimming across the Atlantic to get from Ilvermorny to Hogwarts, James was sure he hadn't actually taken a bite yet.

James thought uncomfortably of the rumors of Voldemort's Inferi army and wondered, only half-joking, if they had an infiltrator in their midst.

He glanced back at Sirius and gave an infinitesimal shake of his head.

Harry wouldn't be a problem. He'd have to be more alive to run to a teacher over what they were about to do.

Sirius nodded his understanding, and four hands went idly to the wands in their pockets down the Gryffindor table.

James counted it down with what would look like an absent-minded tapping of his fork against his plate to the casual observer.

Three, two, one— he set the fork down— go.

It was their traditional welcoming feast fireworks display. The chatter was dying down across the hall, bellies were uncomfortably full, and students were happily looking forward to returning to their old beds for a blissful night's sleep.

James started, providing the distraction so the others could levitate, toss, or downright run their bundles of fireworks to the proper locations. It had taken forever to figure out the spell used to enchant the floating candles and also keep the melting wax from dropping on students' heads every second like tiny scalding bombs, but he'd needed to learn it so he could alter it to do… this.

The little balls of flames detached themselves from the candles and rose into the air. It took the students and teachers a few seconds to even notice, but then they quickly began "ooh"-ing and "ahh"-ing.

James glanced furtively at the head table. The professors were usually more tolerant of the fireworks display at the welcoming feast as long as it was relatively harmless and the skill behind it impressive enough. They did enjoy a student who studied over the summer break.

And— yes!— McGonagall's eyebrows rose, impressed, and Flitwick looked like his birthday had come early.

The Marauders were in the clear.

A bit of a show-off— and Wormtail needed a bit more time to get back from the Hufflepuff table on foot— he had the candle lights change color in a fluid, unending wave, like a rainbow rippling across the surface of a lake.

Across the table, Lily gave a small, appreciative gasp, and James felt his heart skip a beat, but then it was soaring.

All eyes were locked on the mesmerizing display.

Wormtail was back.

Remus took over the next bit while James floated on his Lily high.

The flames shuddered for a split second before turning sapphire blue and gleaming bronze. The amorphous cloud took shape, coalescing into a giant bronze and blue eagle. The great eagle flapped its wings and gave a screeching, "CAW!" before taking flight around the hall.

Ravenclaw lost its mind, standing and cheering, while the other Houses and teachers clapped and laughed good-naturedly.

While Remus had the fire-eagle swooping, twirling, and soaring like the apex flyer it was, Sirius shot off a spell under the table to ignite the fireworks surrounding Ravenclaw table.

Blue and white sparks erupted from the table, flowing and crashing over it like an ocean wave, complete with misty spray. James flicked and jabbed his wand in their direction, a modified Aguamenti they'd worked out in fifth year to mimic rain, and the next crash of firework waves exploded out of existence and left the whole of Ravenclaw House soaked, as if they'd taken a real ocean wave to their table.

Above them, the eagle dove into the dispersing water and landed on the table a yellow and black badger.

Wormtail's turn.

The badger was a little disproportionate, its left side a little chubbier than its right, its ears a bit too big and tail oddly curly and off-colored, but it wasn't bad considering Wormtail hadn't scraped together a good enough O.W.L. score in transfiguration to continue to N.E.W.T. level.

Wormtail had the small-animal behavior down pat, though.

The fire-badger stood on its hindlegs in the middle of Ravenclaw table, sniffing with its nose up high in the air, its smoky little whiskers quivering.

A few of the Ravenclaw girls aww'd.

Then the badger dropped to all four legs and scurried off, startlingly fast. It raced around the Great Hall under Peter's direction, stopping suddenly to sniff or darting unexpectedly toward someone. The students laughed as the badger went to harass the Hufflepuff table, trying to climb on students and nose into their pockets.

Hufflepuff didn't think it was quite as funny, given it wasn't a real badger but fire.

Peter sniggered as he twitched and flicked his wand, going after a girl who had called him a dunce on the Express a few hours earlier.

Remus shot off a spell under the table to ignite the fireworks under Hufflepuff table.

Streams of brown, gray, and green sparks shot up, covering the table in a snapping, popping image of grassy, deep dirt.

The fire-badger went to town digging, and here Sirius cast a spell he had created to directly combat his mother's constant Scourgify's in fourth year. Dirt. Dirt and grass and mud and something that smelled tremendously like fertilizer. As the badger kicked dirt merrily over all the Hufflepuffs, Sirius grinned behind his hand, took aim at the badger's targets, and shot off jets of dirt at them.

The Hufflepuffs cried in outrage, jumping out of their seats and trying to shield themselves, but Peter and Sirius were insistent.

Once everyone had had their fair share, the badger dropped down, shifted, and became a snake in the grass.

Sirius took over.

The snake was a gorgeous piece of magic. Emerald green and antique silver, individual candle flames curved in an intricate pattern to create the illusion of scales.

Sirius grew it slowly as it slithered to the edge of Hufflepuff table and slid down… and down, and down, until its tail hit the flagstone floor twenty feet behind its sleek head, its body as wide around as a grown man's torso.

James didn't imagine Harry's flinch at the sight, and he privately agreed with the sentiment.

Snakes were the worst.

The snake slithered slowly, sinisterly across the Great Hall, hissing lowly.

The students and teachers stared, transfixed, holding their breath.

So, James had cast the hissing spell mostly to cover up Sirius's muttered monologue in the silence as he twisted and swirled his wand under the table.

"Oh, no, what's that on my tail?" Sirius whispered in falsetto as the snake swayed drunkenly back around on itself, curling up and eyeing the hall judgmentally. Only those nearest Sirius could hear him. "By Salazar, it's dirt! Dirt on my tail! Why would such a noble, purebred serpent as I have unclean dirt on my tail? Gasp! It's because I haven't any legs! No legs, great golly! I mean— great Salazar! What happened to my Merlin-loving legs?"

The snake lifted its head and flitted its tongue to taste the air. Its head wound to face Slytherin table.

"Leeegggsss," Sirius whispered. "You have leeeeeeggggssss, Slytherinsssss. I wantssss your legssss. Snivellusssss, come closer…. Your greasssse will fuel my flaaaaamessssss, and I need leeegggsssss."

Harry Parker was staring at Sirius in horrid fascination. His expression darkened at the mention of Snivellus, though, and took a disapproving hue.

James let his head drop in his free hand and made the hissing spell even louder. "I'm going to smother him with his pillow tonight, I swear to the Founders."

The snake slithered onto the Slytherin table, and it would have been eerie, chilling even, had James not been able to hear Sirius's ridiculous commentary. The realism of the flame-snake, the powerful, graceful way it moved, the way its tongue flicked and it raised its body to stare at each student dead in the eye.

"Ohh, what a lovely bonnet," Sirius whispered as the snake stared down one second year girl. "I just remembered I'm a girl snake, and I need a bonnet to cover up how I have no hair! And—gibbering toadstools, I'm naked! Quick, lasssssiesssss, give me your clothessssssss…. I can't let Sssaalazaaaar see my laaaaadyyy-ssssnake partsssss…"

Forget waiting until they got to the dorm. James was going to drown him in a vat of pumpkin juice right here.

He sent a stinging hex at Sirius's foot, warning him to wrap it up.

Grudgingly, the flame-snake moved to the center of Slytherin table, and Sirius split some of the candle flames from the mass to become a clutch of eggs, which the lady-snake, for Merlin's sake, wrapped herself around. She regarded the Slytherins with venom in her gaze and upon her forked, candlelight-flickering tongue.

James shot off a spell at Sirius's fireworks.

Sirius had gone less for creativity and more for explosions.

As the fireworks bombarded the Slytherins with blinding flashes of light and ear-shattering booms, the fire-snake exploded in a flare of red and pink gore, and eggs rained down from the ceiling.

A lot of good chickens had sacrificed their young for this prank to come together, James noted with a solemn nod of gratitude.

The blinded, deafened Slytherins were not prepared to be physically struck by projectiles. They jumped around, screaming and pointing wands, though they had no idea what they were pointing at, because the projectiles turned gooey and slimy after they struck their targets, and what were they?

Eggs were a funny business if you weren't in the know.

The Slytherin Ilvermorny boy, James noticed, had conjured an umbrella and was watching the commotion with the dry interest of a scholar, untouched.

So he was odd, too, huh?

Maybe it was the school that did that to them both.

Harry, James saw, was frowning harder, displeased. Then James noticed an equally dark warning look from McGonagall and Slughorn, and he quickly moved onto his part.

James took control of the red grotesque flames and rearranged them into a crimson and gold lion.

With great dignity, the lion hopped to the ground. His shaggy, golden head high, he sauntered away from the Slytherin table and straight up to the teachers' table. Remus provided the enchantment to make him purr, deep and rumbling in his fictional chest. And, like James's mother's dearly beloved cat, the lion slinked leisurely up to Professor Dumbledore and butted his massive head into the headmaster's chair, demanding pets and adoration.

Dumbledore chortled and feigned scratching the great cat under the chin. Remus had it purr even louder.

The lion moved on to twine around McGonagall, who was struggling not to crack a smile, and then Kettleburn, who grinned in delight and made big motion with his one arm. It was his usual hand gesture when he talked about how loud some magical creatures were and, though it looked different with only three remaining fingers, Remus must have caught it, too. James had the lion throw its head back, and Remus provided a frighteningly good roar.

With Kettleburn's full-bellied laugh, the lion made his way off the teacher's platform and toward the Gryffindor table.

James's housemates eyed it warily. They had seen what had happened to all the other houses.

James hammed it up a bit, keeping the tension going as the lion apparently lazily went around stretching to show off his sleek, muscular body, and jutting his fuzzy, flickering head into people's chairs in demands for praise.

Finally, the lion jumped onto the table and sauntered straight up to Lily. It sat down in front of her and stared, heavy-lidded and purring.

Nice one, Remus.

Sirius, on the other hand, leaned forward to mouth, 'That's your cue?' with a great deal of scorn. Nevertheless, he shot off a spell to ignite the Gryffindor table fireworks.

White, silver, and gold streaks seared into the air to join the stars in the enchanted ceiling. There was a flash like sunlight, and then the hundreds of burning projectiles fluttered softly back to the ground, their shapes changed into that of delicate, glowing white lilies.

James allowed the flame-lion to dissipate so he could see Lily's reaction across from him.

The Great Hall fell into darkness without the candles. The moon and stars lined everything in the most fragile silver. The Gryffindor table alone stood out as the fading lilies glowed softly, blanketing them.

Lily didn't look at him right away. She looked at a flower than had fallen onto her empty plate and, with gentle, slender fingertips, picked it up. She cupped it in her hands, transfixed. Her lips twitched and quivered, struggling not to smile.

Then she closed her eyes, bowed her head, and gave a soft laugh.

She looked up at James with mirth in her eyes and a quirk of a smile.

"Cute, Potter," she said. "It might even be your best fireworks display yet."

"Me?" asked James, though the brightness of his answering grin might as well have lit up the whole hall. "I don't know why you'd think I would do something like this. Why, as Head Boy, I know we aren't supposed to vandalize other houses in such a manner!"

Then Sirius was on top of him, shoving his face into the table, where James's half-eaten pie smeared across his glasses.

"Padfoot! Get off! What—?"

"We trashed the lily idea ages ago, you berk!" Sirius was saying as he and James wrestled over the table. "We let you take the best house, and this is what you do? What lame ass—"

"Mr. Black, do please get your hands out of Mr. Potter's trousers," said Dumbledore tranquilly, cutting through the excited buzz of voices in the darkness.

James and Sirius froze, Sirius in the act of stuffing pudding down the front of James's pants and James in the process of shoving Sirius's head into the vat of pumpkin juice.

"Dear Head Boy," Dumbledore continued serenely as the rest of the students roared with laughter at their expense. "Perhaps you and the Head Girl would be kind enough to relight the candles? Since, of course, handling the aftermath of pranks is something that falls under your responsibilities this year. And then, after that is done, you may choose three terribly generous individuals to help clean up the rest of this…" he gestured to the dirt and fertilizer, the puddles of water, the carnage of raw eggs, "…mess."

"Of course, Headmaster," said James, blushing. Sirius was trying to tap out, his face having been submerged in pumpkin juice for several seconds now, but James shoved it down even harder and attempted to rub his nose against the bottom of the bowl.

Remus finally separated them.

James turned to Lily, feeling that dopey smile return as he looked at her in the starlight.

"Think you're up to this, Evans?" he asked in his cockiest voice.

Lily raised an eyebrow and smirked.

"We learned how to light a candle in first year, Potter," she said, pulling out her wand. "I think I've got this."

She started swishing her wand before James could stop her. Horrified, he dove across the table at her, shouting like a madman, "No, the wax! THE WAX!"

He crashed through the plates and half-eaten dishes, and his momentum saw him tackling Lily to the ground from behind.

As Lily slapped the shit out of him for the thirty-first time ever, and the first time in seventh year, Sirius barked with laughter until he started choking, hacking up more pumpkin juice from his lungs.

Parker was staring at them, the look of disapproval melting from his expression. He looked even more mesmerized by them than most students had been by the lightshow.

"I think he's waiting for us to do a trick," James whispered to Lily, on top of whom he was still lying. "Quick, let's kiss. It's the only wa—"

Slap number thirty-two, second of the seventh year.

Lily shoved him off her with an irritated huff.

...

TBC...

Chapter Text

"I wish...I wish I were dead..."

"And what use would that be to anyone?"

― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

Chapter 4: I wish

James and Lily both pulled Remus, Sirius, and Peter to help them clean up the mess from their fireworks display, leaving Harry to find his own way to the seventh-year Gryffindor dorm.

He wasn't upset— at least, not about going to the dorm alone. It gave him ample opportunity to set up the wards he, Ron, and Hermione had perfected over their year on the run. He had found weeks ago that, despite Voldemort's defeat, he could no longer sleep without them.

He settled into the bed nearest the door, careful of his still-tender ribs, and lay down.

It didn't take him long to figure out he wouldn't be getting any sleep that night.

He couldn't get the images out of his head— Sirius tormenting Snape, James preening in front of Lily, Wormtail sitting there in their midst, laughing and playing along, one of them, and Remus… Remus alive and happy, unburdened by the stigma that would plague him the moment he stepped foot outside of Hogwarts.

Then the images shifted. He saw Hermione falling under Dolohov's purple curse, that look of surprise still etched on her face.

He saw Ron crumple one last time under that same wand, his face still red from the force of his screaming.

Harry propelled himself out of bed before he realized he meant to. His hands were shaking, his breathing coming in ragged gasps.

He screwed his eyes shut and pressed the heels of his hands into them, trying to force the pictures out from behind his eyelids, but it was no use. He could still see Ron and Hermione. He could still hear them.

He tried to breathe, tried to think of anything else.

He didn't know how long he stood there, but, slowly, he became aware of staring into space, his breathing returned to normal and holding his wand, which had been stashed under his pillow, in a white-knuckled grip at his side.

He let out a breath.

No, he didn't think he'd try sleeping again soon.

With nothing else to occupy him, he wandered down to the common room, thinking of sitting in front of the fire.

A girl who looked startlingly like Gertrude McKinnon was already there, chatting coyly with a sixth-year boy and his friends. As soon as she saw Harry, however, her eyes widened, and she ushered the boys up to their dorm.

"Trudy told me what you did," said the girl, taking Harry by the elbow and leading him to the sofa directly in front of the fire. She pulled him down next to her. It was intimate, Harry found, but there was nothing romantic or playful in her eyes. "I'm her sister, Marlene. Harry… thank you. Without you and your friend… I might have lost my sister."

Tears sprang to her eyes, and Harry grimaced. He patted her shoulder awkwardly and muttered, "It was nothing. Anyone would have done it."

Marlene wiped her eyes and glared at Harry, remarkably like her sister. "No, anybody wouldn't have done it!" she said. "We— the seventh year girls— we're an odd generation. Me, Trudy, Lily, Mary… we're all Muggle-born, you see. And we've always had to look out for each other because nobody else will. And we— we weren't there for her last week! She didn't have anybody else; she could have died. And then you came along, and… and…" She sniffled and forced herself to hold her chin high. She said, "And we're thankful. So, whichever of us got to you first, we wanted to say you don't need to worry about a thing this year, alright? We all know how hard it is being an outsider, and we've got your back. You'll have at least one of us in all of your classes, so we can show you to the classrooms and help you catch up on anything you missed from the previous years. And we'll never leave you to fend for yourself at mealtimes, and you'll never face a Slytherin alone while we're here, and… and…."

She seemed determined to offer more, to offer everything he could possibly need, but Harry cut her off gently.

"Thank you," he said. "That's… that's really kind of you, Marlene. I appreciate it."

Marlene nodded in acceptance, her bottom lip trembling, but she took a breath and regained control of herself. She said more crisply, "I saw you didn't like the boys' welcoming feast prank earlier. Don't worry about them, okay? Once they see you're friends with me and Lily, they won't dare bother you."

"You and Lily?" Harry echoed, surprised. He could guess why James wouldn't want to antagonize Lily, but he'd never heard of Marlene McKinnon in relation to them.

"James won't do anything to upset Lily," said Marlene matter-of-factly. "He's a fool for her. And Sirius Black knows better than to mess with me."

She tossed her long, dark hair behind her shoulders, a pleased, wicked gleam in her dark eyes.

She reminded Harry not of Bellatrix, but of Andromeda. They were similar, but so very, very different. He suddenly wished Sirius had told him about her, this girl who had been such a nuisance to Voldemort that he'd had her entire family annihilated.

Harry found himself smiling despite his dismal thoughts. "Thanks, Marlene."

"You're our friend, Harry," said Marlene boldly. "Don't forget it. We won't."

She excused herself shortly after that, and Harry followed suit.

It was much easier to sleep than before.

…

Their first class the following morning was Defense Against the Dark Arts.

All four of the Gryffindor seventh year girls crowded around Harry to show him the way.

"So you're the buggered class," said Professor Bowie, not bothering to stand up from behind his desk or put out his cigarette. Even the door into the corridor was left open. "First class to have a different Defense professor every year, I hear, and you'll be trying to scrape together a passing N.E.W.T. at the end of this."

He laughed.

As N.E.W.T. students, there were few enough of them that all four houses had the same class together.

Harry caught Malfoy's raised eyebrow and unimpressed look, glancing over to see if Harry found it as amusing.

Harry gave him a deadpan look in response. Yes, they'd also had the same problem, but that didn't mean it was any less of a problem. O.W.L.s had been messy enough. He could only imagine N.E.W.T.s would be even worse.

"We've had some very good professors, sir," said Lily indignantly. "Just because they didn't stay long doesn't mean we didn't learn what they had to teach."

"But what did they teach, Miss…?"

"Evans. Lily Evans. And I've still got my final exams from previous years, if you'd like to see."

"That won't be necessary, Miss Evans," said Bowie, with a grin that reminded Harry of Mad-Eye Moody just before a fight. "I already know what I want to teach you lot, and it has nothing to do with exams. How many of you are Muggle-borns or half-bloods? Oh, alright, Slytherins, I know you're not going to answer. My point is… I'm going to teach you to survive. We've got less than nine months before you lot are out in the real world where there's a war on, and at least half of you are going to be targeted. I don't care about the N.E.W.T. curriculum. I care about your lives. Anyone got a problem with that?"

A handsome seventh year Slytherin that reminded Harry forcibly of Tom Riddle raised his hand.

"I have a future in the Ministry, Professor," said the boy lazily. "Can I at least expect you to glance at the curriculum?"

A few of the Slytherins chuckled.

"Mr…?" said Bowie expectantly.

"Rosier, sir," said the boy. "Evan Rosier."

"Ah, Rosier," said Bowie darkly. "Your father is head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, isn't he?"

"That's right, sir."

"Bang up job he's done of that," muttered Bowie, and Rosier's face twisted. "Yes, for your information, Mr. Rosier, there is some information from the seventh-year curriculum I've found worthwhile. If you study the text on your own time, you just might do well enough for your father to hand you a job on a silver platter, like you've always expected. Anyone else?"

Rosier scowled. Several of the Slytherins looked offended on his behalf. The other students remained silent.

"Alright, let me see where you're at," said Bowie. "I can't think of a better student to start us off than our very own Head Boy. Come up here, Mr. Potter."

Harry jolted, but luckily, James stood up and headed to the front of the room before anyone noticed.

"I'm going to cast an illusion," said Bowie, "of a Dark creature or wizard. They will attack immediately. Defend yourself!"

Before the class had time to prepare themselves, a cloaked figure had appeared in front of James and shot a brilliant red spell from its wand.

"Protego!" said James, reacting effortlessly, and the curse bounced off his glowing shield. "Expelliarmus!"

The illusion-man's wand flew from his grasp and into the air, where it vanished with a flick of Bowie's wand.

"Correct," said Bowie. "The Shield Charm will repel all but the Darkest curses, and it's always good to disarm your opponent first chance you get. Five points to Gryffindor. Alright, Potter, have a seat. Miss Evans, you're Head Girl, let's have you next."

Lily marched forward with a determined set to her jaw.

"Now!"

A lurching, groaning corpse appeared out of nowhere, arms outreached for Lily. It was surprisingly fast.

"Incendio!" cried Lily, blasting a stream of fire at the Inferius' chest.

The creature wailed in agony before Bowie flicked his wand again, and it disappeared.

"Correct. Fire is the only defense against Inferi, as no spell has been found to prevent dead flesh from burning. Five more points to Gryffindor. I'd have given more points for the Firestorm Spell, which I'll be teaching this year, but I'm not surprised you either don't know it or didn't dare use it in a classroom. Alright, Miss Evans, have a seat. Let's see… Mr. Rosier, you were so enthusiastic earlier. Why don't you come try your hand next?"

Rosier smirked and rose gracefully to his feet. He sauntered to the front of the room.

Mr. Bowie cast his illusion, and all the warmth vanished from the classroom.

Harry found his teeth chattering, a familiar, all-encompassing dread filling his chest as a hooded, cloaked figure rose in the front of the room.

A dementor.

Rosier's smirk became more of a scowl. "Expecto Patronum!" he cried, but not even silver mist emanated from his wand. His whole face twitched, and he tried again, "Expecto Patronum!"

Nothing. The dementor slowly advanced, reaching out a skeletal gray hand toward Rosier's throat.

The cold grew worse.

Harry thought of Ron and Hermione, unmoving. They'd stayed by his side to the very end. It was his fault they were dead.

Just like it was his fault they were all dead— his parents, Sirius, Remus, Tonks, Mad-Eye Moody, Fred…

"Anybody want to help Mr. Rosier?" asked Rosier, taking a puff on his cigarette. "Anyone?"

The class was looking pale. Their breath frosted in the air.

"Mr. Parker, has Ilvermorny perhaps taught the Patronus Charm?"

Harry got to his feet in a daze. A Patronus. Yes. Yes, he needed to cast a Patronus. That would get the images out of his head. If he cast a Patronus, maybe he would be able to stop shaking.

Automatically, he started calling memories to the forefront of his mind. Luna, "We're still alive. We're still fighting." Dumbledore's portrait in the headmaster's office, eyes shining with pride.

He raised his wand, ragged breaths fogging the air.

"Don't be daft, Po— Parker!" said Malfoy, getting to his feet first, an angry red stain on his pale cheeks. "Madam Pomfrey said no practical magic for at least a week! I'll do it."

Harry gaped at him.

Lost in the dementor's misery, he had forgotten Malfoy was there. He'd forgotten where he was— in the past, in front of the only people in the world who would recognize his Patronus's form for what it was.

And they couldn't know.

"Expecto Patronum!" said Malfoy sharply, slashing his wand at the front of the classroom.

His Patronus wasn't corporeal, but it was bright and swift. It raced between the desks to launch itself between Rosier and the illusory dementor like a misty, silvery shield.

"Not bad, Mallory," huffed Bowie, ending the dementor illusion. The whole class breathed a sigh of relief. "Five points to Slytherin for the save. Rosier, looks like you need a bit of practice. Knowing the incantation isn't enough if you can't perform the spell. And Mr. Parker, Madam Pomfrey isn't going to save you from an attack. I don't care if you're injured or half-dead. If you can breathe, you can fight, understand?"

"Yes, sir," said Harry. Now that the dementor's effects were wearing off, he found himself irrationally angry at Malfoy for stepping in. "I know that."

He wouldn't meet Malfoy's eye for the rest of class.

"He's a bit delicious, isn't he, your Ilvermorny friend?" asked Marlene, sliding neatly up to Harry at the end of class. She was throwing a heavy-lidded look over her shoulder at Malfoy. "I don't usually go for Slytherins, but that was just sweet how he stood up for you."

Sirius's bark of laughter on his other side made Harry jump.

"Yeah, Parker, that was just sweet," said Sirius, throwing an arm around Harry's shoulders. It was less a companionable gesture and more a vise, trapping him in place. "Were you friends with a Slytherin back at your school? How charming!"

"Why don't you run along, Padfoot?" said Marlene mockingly, shooting the Marauder a venomous glare.

"They don't have Slytherins at Ilvermorny," came Lily's voice coming up on Marlene's other side. It was chilly. "Next time you want to make fun of someone's choice of friends, why don't you think first?"

"Because the timing would be lost, Evans," said Sirius, but he seemed to realize Harry was too well-defended to continue. He gave Harry's shoulders a parting shake, too rough to be entirely friendly, and let go. "Jokes are all about timing."

"Too right you are, Padfoot!" James bounded up to them, straightening his bookbag and sending Lily a winning smile. "Timing is crucial to a good joke. What are we talking about?"

Lily scoffed and Marlene laughed outright.

"Come on," muttered Harry. "We're blocking the door. What's next?"

As the girls led the way to the next class, closely followed by the Marauders, Harry resisted the urge to look back at Malfoy. It was bad enough Malfoy had made him look weak in front of the entire class— for once, a class of strangers who didn't know him as the Boy Who Lived or the Savior of the Wizarding World— now he'd made Harry look like a Slytherin sympathizer in front of Sirius.

It had been hard sitting at the welcoming feast as a stranger among the Marauders. It had been uncomfortable going to breakfast and making small talk with Remus and Mary while James and Sirius bickered with Lily and Marlene. It had been surreal sitting in a classroom with them as an equal, a regular student among regular students.

It would be an early death sentence to any potential friendship with them if they thought he had already befriended the Slytherins, though. Sirius was not the kind of person to let that go, especially as a teenager.

And Harry wanted that. Even as it pained him in ways he hadn't known he could hurt, he wanted to be their friend. He wanted to know James as more than just the father who had stood up to Voldemort and died. He wanted to know Sirius in his prime, loyal, happy, wild, before Azkaban had dimmed a part of his light forever.

He wanted to see Remus have fun with the friends he had spoken of so fondly, friends he had missed so terribly.

And Wormtail…

Harry eyed the stout blond boy at the rear of the procession, trying to hide the look of distaste he knew must be on his face.

Harry wished more than anything he could change who Wormtail would become, more than Sirius, more than Remus, more even than his own father.

The rat really was their friend. They included him, they listened to him, they went out of their way to reassure him when he hadn't tested high enough to continue a class with them.

Harry wished there were some way to force the rat to remember that on the horrible night approaching. If he could change Wormtail, he could change everything.

But Dumbledore's warnings rang in Harry's ears, and he ducked his head in silence.

He couldn't change Wormtail. He couldn't change anything.

The most he could do was get to know these people while he had the chance. He and Malfoy could figure out a way to return to their own time any day now, and then the Marauders and Lily would be gone forever. Again.

He found himself trailing the loud ones— Sirius and James, Lily and Marlene— and falling into step with Remus, who was looking at him thoughtfully.

"Mal— uh, Mallory and I weren't friends," he found himself saying, almost pleading. "Back at our school, I mean. We actually spent the last six years hating each other. His family and friends, and mine…. We had very different views on the world, you know?"

"So, why do you think he defended you today?" asked Remus. His face was impassive, but it wasn't judgmental, at least. He seemed genuinely curious.

"I don't know," said Harry, throwing out his hands in frustration. "Back home, he would have enjoyed seeing me struggle! And even if he wasn't enjoying it, he's always been a cowardly little—" rat, but Remus might not take that well, given Peter's animagus form, "—ferret. I didn't think he could 'play the hero' even if he tried."

"Hm," said Remus. They walked a handful of steps in silence. "He might be missing home. Maybe you're the closest he can get. Maybe it took traveling a few thousand miles away, and bunking with Slytherins, for him to realize you're not that bad."

Harry cracked a smile. "I doubt that. But that'll be good for a laugh later."

Remus shot him a swift, wry grin. "Glad I could help."

Harry's heart felt a little lighter for the rest of the trek. Sure, maybe James was too caught up in Lily to pay him much attention, and yeah, he might have gotten off on the wrong foot with Sirius, but Harry still had Remus. It was enough.

Ever since they had met in Harry's third year, and especially later, after Sirius had fallen at the Department of Mysteries, Remus had always been enough. He wasn't Harry's father or even godfather, but he had always been a friend.

Transfiguration had Harry wishing he'd done more preparation before jumping right back into school. Taking a year off while studying little more than Defense had seen his sixth year transfiguration knowledge dry up. It was far worse than the little things he usually forgot after a long summer holiday. Instead of forgetting details and specifics, he found he had forgotten entire spells and concepts.

And McGonagall apparently intended to push forward without a backward glance.

She immediately set them up with mirrors and had them work on human-to-animal partial transfigurations.

Harry stared at his blond reflection in dread. He just barely recalled working on human transfiguration in his sixth year— changing the color of their eyebrows, the shape of their nose, etc. It had come in handy more than once when he, Ron, and Hermione had been on the run and needed disguises when they ventured into a town for supplies. But he had no recollection of the spellwork involved in human to non-human forms.

Worse, what if he tried something and reverted back to his black hair, sitting just a couple of seats away from his lookalike father?

He probably shouldn't have worried. As usual, James and Sirius made themselves the center of attention as soon as McGonagall stopped speaking.

They were so quick, Harry didn't even have time to see their wandwork in order to copy it.

"I challenge you, sir," said James imperiously, looking down his nose at Sirius, "to a duel… of fish-hands!"

He raised his hands dramatically, revealing not hands, but the rear halves of what looked like two trout.

He whapped Sirius across the face with a fish tail.

"What!" squawked Sirius indignantly. He raised himself up and said, "I accept your challenge, Sir Flops-a-lot, because I have… duck-hands!"

He revealed his own transfigured hands, which were shaped as duck heads, complete with feathers, bills, and distractingly loud quacking.

"En garde!"

As they got into the strangest slap-fight Harry had ever seen in his life, McGonagall appeared over their shoulder with a deadpan stare.

"Boys," she said, and they froze as one. "Mr. Black, why don't you put your skills to use helping Mr. Lupin? And Mr. Potter, I believe Mr. Parker would appreciate your assistance."

"Yes, Professor," they said in unison. They even had the same rehearsed, contrite tone.

Harry found himself fighting a blush of embarrassment as James glanced over at him, seeing he'd made no progress at all.

"Er," said James, looking down at his fish-tail hands and then at his wand on the desktop. "How do you reckon I hold my wand to reverse this?"

"I got you, buddy," said Sirius, and he reached for his own wand, the duck head clamping it in a bright orange bill. A sweep and loop of his wand later, their hands returned to normal.

"Nice one, Pads," said James, clapping Sirius on the shoulder with a grin.

As he made his way over to Harry, Harry couldn't help but remember the first time he had visited Ollivander's as a child. Ollivander had remembered James and Lily's wands, sold so long ago.

Lily's had been made of willow and good for charms, Ollivander had said. James's had been mahogany and a powerful tool for transfiguration.

"You're very good at this," Harry found himself saying, as James and Remus traded seats.

James grinned even brighter. "Thanks! We— me and Sirius, that is— put a lot of time into human-animal transfiguration last year."

Right, Harry thought, startled by his own forgetfulness. They had learned to become animagi recently. Of course, they would have started out by experimenting with transfiguration spells such as this. And no wonder Remus was behind. He hadn't learned to become an animagus with them; his wolf was in his blood.

"So, what animal are you going for?" asked James. He lounged beside Harry, amiable and relaxed, his feet kicked out in front of him, sideways in the desk with an arm draped over the backrest.

He looked less like Harry than Harry remembered, the longer he looked, but the similarities were still enough to be distracting.

"Uh," said Harry, blanking. "Well, I guess I saw this guy turn his head into a shark's once. Maybe that?"

"Eh, if this is your first try, I'd recommend going for a mammal," said James. "That way you don't have to worry about different internal organs and such. And something proportional to the body part. And, while we're at it, choose a body part without a ton of individual bones and muscles. The less you have to account for, the easier it is. Try… your ear."

"A mammal ear," repeated Harry.

"Yes, exactly," said James. "Here, this is the wand movement, and the spell for mammals is homo mamlia clifors. Be sure you have it down nonverbally before the test, though. McGonagall only gives half-credit for verbal spells at the N.E.W.T. level."

A proportionally sized mammalian ear. Harry thought abruptly of Sirius changing parts of his face into Snuffles over the Christmas holiday at Grimmauld Place to amuse them when Arthur had been in the hospital. He and Tonks had gotten into a competition, which Tonks had inevitably won, having a wider variety in her arsenal, but it had been one of the few fond memories of that dismal time.

Smiling a little to himself, Harry thought of Snuffles' ear, swished and looped his wand, and said, "Homo mamlia clifors!"

His left ear went warm, then prickly, and then the volume of the conversations around him increased while, at the same time, the words became muffled. He reached up and felt a warm, floppy, shaggy ear. His mirror confirmed it was black and reasonably like a dog's.

"There you go!" said James, sitting up with delight. "Well done! Try the other one."

The second one turned out better than the first, looking exceptionally like Snuffles' ear.

Pleased with himself, Harry waved his wand and tried to nonverbally end the spell.

"Here, you've still got some hair in your ear—" said James, raising his own wand toward Harry's face.

The pleasure turned to unthinking, primal terror at the sight of a wand pointed in his face. For that second, Harry could only see Dolohov's wand, hear the jeers of the Death Eaters, screaming, pain—

Ron— no!

Harry found himself on his feet, gasping for breath, his wand pointed at James's chest. James's wand clattered to the floor at Harry's feet, the result of an Expelliarmus though Harry didn't remember casting it. The clatter echoed in the silence that had dropped over the class.

James was staring at him wide-eyed and immobile.

Harry's chair and desk had been blasted out of his way, knocking into his neighbors'.

"Mr. Parker!" said McGonagall, reacting first. "The last I checked, this was the transfiguration classroom, not the dueling club! What do you think you are doing?"

Cold sweat trickled down Harry's scalp as he struggled to breathe. He found himself swaying, the edges of his vision graying. He tasted blood in his throat as his memory screamed itself hoarse.

He couldn't breathe.

"Sorry, Professor," said James, a shifting movement out of the corner of Harry's eye. "I forgot— apparently Madam Pomfrey excused him from practicals for the week."

Harry couldn't see the look that crossed McGonagall's face, but her tone had gone softer when she said, "Mr. Potter, see that Mr. Parker finds his way to the infirmary, please."

Harry was leaning hard against the desk beside him, trying to stay on his feet, trying to breathe. Why… why couldn't he get Dolohov's twisted face out of his head? Why were his ears still ringing with the Death Eaters' laughter?

His body hurt. His throat hurt.

Where was Ron? Where was Hermione? Something awful was happening and he needed them, dammit.

Someone grabbed his arm, and Harry reacted violently, ripping his arm free and stumbling backwards.

He hit something hard and fell, and when he looked up, he saw someone who looked astonishingly like himself staring back, startled.

Insanely, he thought of the seven Harrys escaping Privet Drive for the last time, that stupid, stupid plan that had gotten Mad-Eye killed and could have gotten all of them killed— Ron, Hermione—

Dolohov's curse of purple fire, laughter—

Parker? Someone was calling the name Parker, and everyone was looking at him. Why were these people calling him Parker?

But he got the feeling he couldn't— shouldn't— tell them his name.

He was Undesirable Number One.

His vision was tunneling. He was suffocating under the panic, under the pain. But Dolohov wouldn't let him pass out, that was too much a kindness for him.

"Oi, Scar-head, snap out of it," came a familiar drawling, snide voice.

Draco Malfoy had approached from the side and was kneeling down, a sneer on his face even though his gray eyes sparked with something like worry.

Before Harry realized what he was doing, he reached for Malfoy's sleeve and gripped the fabric as tight as he could.

Malfoy.

Malfoy wasn't Dolohov. Malfoy had saved Harry once. He hadn't identified Harry in Malfoy Manor, even though he had recognized him. He hadn't turned Harry over, even though he would have been rewarded. His life would have been assured, at least for a while. Malfoy was a scared child, a coward in the face of war, not a real Death Eater. Not a sadist.

Harry clung to his sleeve and tried to breathe, tried to ground himself in Malfoy's presence.

Malfoy might have been the biggest brat in all of Hogwarts' history, but he wasn't a threat. He didn't even register on Harry's danger-scale after having faced Voldemort and Dolohov.

Maybe he couldn't trust Malfoy, but Malfoy was known.

Harry held onto Malfoy's sleeve and slowly, agonizingly, started to breathe.

"I'll take him, Professor," said Malfoy, and then he was urging Harry to stand.

Harry followed him up only because he couldn't force himself to let go of that sleeve yet. He needed it, or he'd fall again, back into that blackness in his mind where there was only pain and laughter and purple fire.

He was aware of movement, and then a draft of cooler air as they went from classroom to corridor.

Then Malfoy said, sounding both angry and shaken, "What the hell was that, Potter? McGonagall was right; that was a transfiguration lesson, not a free-for-all! And I thought you wanted to see your parents. Why would you attack them? Bloody hell. And what are you doing, clinging to my robes like a child? Let go. What is wrong with you?"

Harry didn't answer but, as Malfoy shook his arm with the sleeve Harry was clutching, he forced his fingers to release one-by-one.

He took a deep, shuddering breath, and then another. Empty-handed, ungrounded, he fumbled in his pockets for something to hold.

His wand.

It didn't have all the nicks and bumps it would gain by the time he went hunting for Horcruxes, but it was still his holly and phoenix feather wand. It was still his.

He held it like a lifeline.

They had made it halfway to the hospital wing before Harry could respond.

"Sorry," he muttered, unable to look Malfoy in the eye. The full understanding of what he'd done hit him, and he wished he could sink into the floor. He had attacked his father in a classroom of children and then clung to Draco Malfoy for protection like a maiden in a bodice-ripper novel. His face felt unbearably hot. "I don't— uh— I don't need the hospital wing. I'm fine now. Uh, sorry."

Malfoy stared at him like he had grown a second head.

"Yes," Malfoy said slowly, enunciating clearly as if Harry were a very stupid child, "you do. You've gone absolutely nutters, again. Surely Madam Pomfrey will have something to set you right. What did she give you last time when you were going on about Dumbledore being naked in King's Cross Station?"

"I wasn't— that wasn't what I said at all!"

"No? I forget. It was all nonsense, anyway, what does it matter?"

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose.

Why, dear God, why had he grabbed onto Malfoy like that?

Already, his thought processes from his panic were fading from memory like a bad dream.

Why couldn't it have been anyone else? Literally anyone.

It would have been painfully awkward, sure, but at least it wouldn't have been Malfoy.

Marlene McKinnon had said she owed him. Where had she been?

"Look," said Harry once he had gotten control of himself again. He still felt cold and shaken, but he continued firmly, "I'm not going to the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey doesn't have anything for me. You just go back to class. I'm gonna… I'm gonna go back to the library for a bit."

He wanted to say he was going to the dorm to take a nap, but he knew sleep would be his enemy now, memories and nightmares waltzing hand-in-hand behind his eyelids.

His best bet was to distract himself for the time being.

Malfoy continued staring at him. His mouth worked silently for a moment, starting, stopping, and starting again. Then he just shook his head and dragged his hand through his too-long hair.

"Bloody Gryffindors," he muttered. "Fine. I'll come with you, make sure you don't attack any passing first years on the way. Unstable sodding skiver…."

He continued muttering uncomplimentary things under his breath as they changed directions toward the library, but Harry ignored him.

He gripped his wand so hard his nails dug bleeding crescents into his palm around it.

He could breathe, he reminded himself.

He was in the past, and once he helped Malfoy find a way back to their time, he could move on. He could move on to parents who remembered him, to his real godfather and friend. To Ron and Hermione, who at least were together beyond the veil.

He wasn't done yet, but the end was in sight. He could do it.

…

Potter had a break after Transfiguration, but Draco had to leave for Alchemy. Draco had been thrilled to enroll when he'd first seen it. There had never been enough interest among the other students in all four of his last years at Hogwarts, but these students in the past had better taste than his peers, it seemed. Now, his excitement was subdued in the face of Potter's breakdown.

He tried to put it from his mind, but he kept returning to that look on Potter's face. It had been horrid, nothing but panic and desperation and… and that was not the Potter Draco knew. That was not Dumbledore's reckless golden boy, the schoolboy who could do no wrong in the eyes of the professors. That was not his Quidditch rival, not the second coming of Godric Bloody Gryffindor who had an undeniable 'saving people thing' and who flew like a bloody bird.

But maybe that was what the Savior of the Wizarding World looked like. He had been gone for a while between the end of their sixth year and that final duel with the Dark Lord.

Maybe he'd had to change to become the person the wizarding world needed him to be.

Draco was uncomfortably aware that he had little to no idea what Potter had been up to while Draco attended their seventh year at Hogwarts. School that year had been far from pleasant, even though the Slytherins were favored over the other Houses. It had been a shock even to their sensibilities to get a taste of what the world would be like under the Dark Lord's rule. It was a lot harsher even to purebloods, and watching his classmates from every House crumble under unmerciful, never-ending punishments had changed something in Draco.

He'd gone through his own hell over the past year. He hadn't spared much time to wonder over Potter's.

He was starting to wish he had.

Every time Draco or Severus had insulted his father in previous years, Harry had rallied to the man's defense like James Potter was some kind of hero. No matter how many detentions Snape had given or how many points he took, Potter had always stood up for his father's honor.

And now he had attacked him.

Something was very wrong.

Sure, Potter Senior looked like a downright idiot, dumping raw eggs on the whole Slytherin table and getting into a fish-hands slapfest with his equally idiotic friend, but Draco couldn't see why Harry wouldn't like him. Harry was, in Draco's not so humble opinion, just as idiotic.

Draco made it to the Alchemy classroom in a pensive mood. He sat next to Severus and was rewarded with suspicious, furrowed eyebrows and silence.

Severus-the-teenager was a hard kid to get to know, though Draco could hardly blame him. Even after a single night in the Slytherin dungeons, Draco could tell Severus was an outcast. Elodie Greengrass had been the only one to speak to him with any civility. Their dormmates were crude and mocking, and it was clear they found his status as a half-blood something to torment him over. The other years actively avoided him as if he were contagious, and Severus made no attempts to ingratiate himself with any of them.

By seventh year, he was probably used to it.

Still, Draco didn't give a rat's ass about any of the others.

He took the bed next to Severus's in the dorms, he took a seat at the breakfast table next to Severus, and now for the third time, he took the desk next to Severus's in class.

They sat next to each other and listened to Professor Edison in silence.

Draco was fine with that.

After class, one of the Gryffindor girls— not one of the McKinnons or the redhead with Harry's eyes, Draco couldn't remember her name— came up to him before he could finish packing his bag.

She shot a nervous glance past him towards Rosier and Mulciber and shifted weight from foot to foot.

"Um, Mr. Mallory?" she said quietly, clearly trying not to draw their attention.

She had it anyway. Rosier and Mulciber were watching her closely and whispering to each other with rather lewd-looking smirks.

Draco sent them a judicious sneer before returning to the Gryffindor girl.

"Yes?"

"My friends and I were just wondering," she said. "Is Harry okay? Is he still in the hospital wing?"

"Po—Parker is fine," said Draco shortly, finishing with his bag and standing. "If he's not at lunch, you will probably find him in the library. If you'll excuse me?"

"Oh! Yes. Um, thank you." The girl scurried off.

There were no other Gryffindors in Alchemy. Draco thought privately she had been very brave to come up to him as she had without any friends for support, especially with the way Rosier and Mulciber were looking at her.

He wondered for the second time in two days if it wouldn't be so bad to be sorted into Gryffindor after all.

Get a grip, Malfoy, he told himself, so stunned at his own traitorous thoughts that he almost tripped over a chair. Potter's insanity is rubbing off on you. Don't think such ludicrous things.

He shook himself, shuddered briefly at the thought of red and gold everything, and hurried to lunch, mustering as much dignity and impassivity as he could.

Nobody else needed to know he might-have-maybe-a-little-bit considered the Sorting Hat's offer... just for a second.

…

Sirius called a Marauders meeting in the bathroom of their dorm, since Harry Parker could walk into the dorm at any moment.

It was well after dinner, and, as far as they knew, he was still in the library.

The library was an odd place to be on the very first evening of term, James would admit, but he still felt a twinge of guilt over his role in Harry's… distress… during Transfiguration, so he didn't want to judge him something as horrible as 'bookish' just yet.

Remus was all the seventh year Gryffindor boys could handle. Anymore bookishness now, and they might as well cancel the graduating class altogether.

No, it just wouldn't do. James was sure Harry would get over it soon, once he was feeling better.

"So," said Sirius, lounging against the door jamb like a damned underwear model. He was fully dressed, but his robes were open, his tie loosened to the point of falling off, and the buttons of his shirt were undone almost to his navel.

James leaned back against the tank of the toilet, which he had claimed like a throne as the undisputed leader of the Marauders.

Remus was perched on the edge of the tub, while Peter sat on the floor between his and James's feet.

"What do we think of Parker?" asked Sirius. There was a cold, calculating glint in his eye that always made James uncomfortable.

"I like him," said James, purely to forestall whatever Sirius had prepared against Parker. "The girls have adopted him like a puppy, and you know they're canny. They'd be the first to turn on him if he were a bad sort."

"I agree," said Remus. "He seems… out of place, but I have hopes for him. I think he's maybe just missing home."

Peter didn't say anything.

James understood.

Though Harry looked at them all with a strange intensity, it was different with Peter. Everything about Harry's aura, powerful and bright while directed at James, Sirius, and Remus, became closed off and cold when he looked at Peter.

It had taken some time for them to figure out what was different, but once Peter had pointed it out with all the acumen of a prey animal, it was undeniable.

Harry didn't like Peter at all, and they had no idea why.

He had only just met them.

"He's a tight-laced rule humper who's friends with a Slytherin," said Sirius without hesitating.

"We don't know he's a rule humper," said James, rolling his neck to release some of the tension in his muscles. "He hasn't done anything yet."

"You saw him at the welcoming feast," said Sirius, suspicion and distrust flaring in his blue eyes like unholy fire. "He had no appreciation for our hard work! He looked offended when we egged the Slytherins!"

"I think he might be friends with that Mallory," James admitted reluctantly, "but that doesn't mean he's going to run to McGonagall on us all year. As long as we leave Mallory out of the worst of it…."

"I don't think that's quite it," said Remus, once James had trailed off. He looked thoughtful. "He said he and Mallory weren't friends. I rather got the impression they were like you and Snape, actually." He nodded at James, who scowled in a Pavlovian response at Snape's name.

"They sure seemed chummy in Defense when Mallory stepped in like Harry was a bloody damsel in distress," said Sirius relentlessly, "and when Harry grabbed onto him like a harlot in Transfiguration."

"Easy," said Remus quietly, warningly, not looking up from a spot on the floor.

Sirius wilted, giving James the chance to respond.

"Harry clearly has issues Mallory knows about," he said in his most confident, placating leader voice. "And Ilvermorny doesn't have a Slytherin house. Whatever Mallory is, I don't think he'll be as easy to bunch in with that lot. Even if they're not friends, maybe Mallory is just a decent sort helping a classmate."

Sirius and Peter both made faces at the idea of a decent Slytherin.

James could tell he was losing them.

"No, James is onto something," said Remus quietly, before James could come up with a defense. He was still looking at the floor with a faraway, pensive gaze. "I think Harry must have some sort of medical issue, maybe even something like— like mine. He's seen Madam Pomfrey before term even started, like I had to my first year. All last night and today, I could… I could smell healing potions on him. And did you notice how stiffly he moved whenever he had to sit down or stand up? It reminded me of last year when— when you broke a couple of my ribs, remember?"

James winced and said immediately, "Sorry, again, Moony, you know I didn't—"

"It's alright, quite alright," said Remus dismissively, as he always did.

It was one of their first jaunts on the full moon after the long summer break, and Padfoot had been too wild, too excited. Remus had been feeding off that energy in his werewolf state, getting more and more ferocious, until their play-fights had turned downright vicious. James's threat of antlers hadn't driven them apart as it normally did, and, once Moony had gotten hold of Padfoot's throat and wouldn't let go, James had been forced to kick.

James knew he would remember the sound of breaking one of his best friend's ribs for the rest of his life.

Just as he would remember trying desperately to heal Sirius back in their dorm, too afraid of getting caught as unregistered animagi, too afraid of being forced to abandon Remus on full moons, to go to Madam Pomfrey. There had been a lot of blood.

"But… the full moon isn't until next week," said Wormtail, breaking the macabre train of James's thoughts. Wormtail fidgeted with the hem of his robes as they turned to look at him. "He can't have lycanthropy. If he went to see Madam Pomfrey yesterday… well, the last full moon was over two weeks ago. He wouldn't still be injured. Remus heals pretty fast. Right?"

"Right," said James encouragingly. "So, it's not lycanthropy, but maybe some other curse—"

"Dark curse," muttered Sirius, but James ignored him.

"Look," he said bracingly, flailing his hands for effect. "It's just been one day. Let's not judge our new roomie just yet, alright? We'll keep an eye on him, make sure he's well. We'll go light on the pranks, focus on our N.E.W.T.s, and see if he comes around. And in the meantime, we have a map to finish. Yeah?"

Remus nodded, and Peter quickly said, "Yeah!" But Sirius didn't look pleased.

He only gave a spiky nod, not meeting James's eye, and pushed off from the doorframe.

Sirius led the way out.

...

TBC...

Chapter Text

Scrimgeour: "It's time you learned some respect!"

Harry: "It's time you earned it."

― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

Chapter 5: Respect

Draco could no longer sleep in the company of others, and that all his dormmates were present or future Death Eaters did not help matters.

Seventh year in the Slytherin dorms— his first time around— had been hell. The son of a disgraced Death Eater, he had been a prime target for the others to step on in order to move up the hierarchy. Crabbe especially had shoved Draco's face in the dirt to curry favor with the Carrows, who had been impressed with his brutality in performing curses in Dark Arts class.

The attention hadn't suited Crabbe. He was the best at performing the Cruciatus Curse in their year, and he made sure all the terrified lower years knew it. He had taken aim at Draco more than once for trying to reign him in, but Draco had spent a whole summer and Christmas break hosting the Dark Lord at Malfoy Manor and was usually quick enough to avoid it.

Goyle had learned to duck his head and stay out of it, unwilling to take sides between them.

Nott hadn't had Crabbe's raw ferocity with curses, but he was far cleverer; and Zabini, while not Death Eater material, had been nothing but a through-and-through opportunistic ass since first year. Between them and Crabbe, Draco had learned to place wards on his bed curtains and check for tampering every night.

He was amused, and a little saddened, to see his teenage godfather doing the same.

The Slytherin boys in the '70s were much the same as the ones Draco had left in the '90s.

He had been grilled, all under the veneer of politeness, on his blood status and family ties his very first night. It had been a tricky dance for Draco to navigate. He needed enough connections to make staying in the Slytherin dorms livable, but he had to be especially careful not to drop names of wizards who could be easily reached and questioned.

He'd had to reduce his status to half-blood.

He, Draco Malfoy, a half-blood.

But the pureblood lines were too well documented, too well known to sneak in without revealing himself, and so he gritted his teeth, bowed his head, and reminded himself he'd asked for this. He'd wanted to be with Severus just a little longer. He'd wanted to see just a little more of his poorly used godfather before he returned to his time and Severus was gone forever.

And so Draco smiled politely, pretended he didn't notice the first few times they tried to get into his locked and warded possessions, and kept his focus split between Severus and finding a way back to his own time.

Therefore, Draco noticed when Severus started relaxing during the second week of term.

Draco knew Severus's childhood hadn't been a happy one, though he had never bothered to ask for details. It soon became clear, however, that it took time for him to open himself back up to Hogwarts after spending time at home. It took the first week for the Hogwarts food to put a little color back in his cheeks, then the second week for him to stop looking so emaciated. It took days before he spoke to anyone, and then a full week before he spoke in more than monosyllables.

The older Slytherins seemed to know to leave him alone during that time, but Draco didn't appreciate Potter's little group of Gryffindors throwing insults and a few hexes in the corridors between classes. Potter was never with them those times— he seemed to have been adopted by the Gryffindor girls like a delicate unicorn foal— but Draco couldn't help but feel a little resentful.

Potter had defeated the Dark Lord. Couldn't he control a couple of bullies in his own House?

In the second week of term, Severus stopped casting wards on his bed and all his possessions. He had gotten comfortable enough with Draco's presence to do homework with him in the common room and had even muttered a dry but surprisingly filthy joke under his breath during their potions class earlier that day. The older Severus would never have referenced those body parts engaged in those activities within Draco's hearing before.

Draco was delighted.

He was less pleased with his own ongoing insomnia, but he was glad this Severus, at least, could sleep in peace. This Severus hadn't gone through a war yet.

Draco diligently kept up his wards, traps, and protective charms.

It was late in that second week of term that Severus dropped, exhausted, into his bed and then let out an ear-piercing screech, popping back to his feet as if his bed had been a massive spring.

Draco, who had been reading in his own bed, dropped his book and was on his feet, wand in hand, in an instant.

"What is it, what happened?" he demanded.

"YOU— THEY— WHAT— POTTER!"

Severus had shouted Potter's name so many times during their years at Hogwarts, it took Draco a moment to remember this Potter was Potter Senior, James.

"What did he—?" began Draco, looking at Severus's bed for the source of the problem.

The sheets had been rumpled by Severus's less-than-graceful fall and then exit, so Draco didn't immediately notice the wet streaks.

He was confused how Severus's bed could have gotten wet, and why, when Mulciber walked in, drawn by the shouting. Mulciber stopped dead, took in the scene, sniffed the air, and then abruptly howled in laughter.

"Hey! Hey, guys!" Mulciber shouted over his shoulder, toward the common room. "Guys! Snivellus just wet the bed! He's pissed himself!"

Mulciber dropped to his knees he was laughing so hard, clinging to the doorframe to support himself.

Draco gaped, but he too could smell it. It was the smell of urine, wafting from Severus's wet bed.

Footsteps came pounding up the corridor between the dorms.

Severus and Draco stared at one another.

Draco's mind went blank. He had no idea what to say, what to do.

His dormmates had tried to torture and maim him in his sleep. He couldn't even fathom them doing something as— as juvenile as pissing in his bed.

He didn't know what his face looked like, but it must have been discouraging.

Severus's cheeks colored even as he scowled his most dire scowl, and he flew past their beds toward the bathroom. He slammed the door shut behind himself hard enough to rattle stone, and there was the distinct click of a lock.

Draco found his voice when the other Slytherins— God, fifth, sixth, and seventh years had all come running— burst into laughter and jeers in the doorway.

"Don't be idiots!" snapped Draco with as much disdain as he could muster. "It was those bloody Gryffindors, the— what do they call themselves?— the Marauders. Snape had barely sat down."

But they weren't listening.

Draco repeated himself, louder, but it didn't do more than get a few taunts thrown in his direction instead. He considered pulling out his wand to jinx them, but the younger years were already moving on, talking animatedly amongst themselves, and really, how many would Draco have to jinx to keep it from spreading throughout the school in a matter of hours? He doubted he could get them all before Rosier Stunned him or worse.

In the end, Draco sat back down on his bed and stared over at Severus's empty one and the locked bathroom door, feeling more useless than he had felt since returning to the past.

He had been getting comfortable in Hogwarts, too, he realized.

It was so easy to get lost in the everyday hustle and bustle of classes, of research, of the drama of teenagers.

The war hadn't touched this Hogwarts like it had his own. Everything here was so easy, so simple, so safe.

It was easy to forget he was nothing but a coward when push came to shove. It was easy to forget he was useless, nothing more than a scared little kid in the face of the real world and its problems.

When the Dark Lord had tasked Draco with killing Dumbledore, he'd known it had been little more than his own death sentence. He'd been given a year so that his parents would agonize over him, all the while knowing he was doomed.

And then Severus had taken that burden from him. When Draco had been too spineless to cast the Killing Curse, Severus had done it for him. He'd shredded his soul so that Draco wouldn't have to.

And Draco couldn't even save him from a stupid schoolyard bully.

Draco clenched his wand until his knuckles were bloodless.

Potter, Severus had said. Probably Black, too. They were never far from one another.

They weren't supposed to change the past, but this one little thing Draco could do. It was a stupid little tiff between Slytherins and Gryffindors, nothing new. Surely, confronting Potter Senior and Black wouldn't alter history.

Surely, Draco could do one thing right for his godfather.

He wasn't clear on how to exact his revenge just yet, but he trusted his instincts, his cunning, to have something by dawn.

Wordlessly, he cast a cleaning charm on Severus's sheets and pulled his own curtains closed. He sat awake, pretending he was reading into the early hours of the morning.

…

Draco didn't have anything by dawn.

He'd thought of his mixed success with pranks in the past— dressing up as dementors for that Quidditch game in third year, the Potter Stinks badges in fourth— but nothing along those lines seemed good enough as revenge against the Marauders.

He had gleaned over the past two weeks that the oddly-named gang was something like the predecessor to the Weasley twins in his time: Pranks were their bread and butter. The rest of the school knew to stay on their good side lest they become the next targets of a well-aimed Levitation Charm or bucket of hippogriff dung. Moreover, the rest of the school worshipped them. Potter Senior and Black in particular got admiring glances from their peers for just about everything.

Draco… could reluctantly admit he'd been more of an immature brat with his forays into practical jokes in the past. The Marauders made it into an art. Their skill with magic, even for seventh years, was impressive. Their confidence and camaraderie made it hard not to envy them.

Draco and Severus entered the great hall for breakfast that morning, Draco still in turmoil. He spotted the seventh year Gryffindors at once. Potter Senior and Black were in the center of the table, the center of attention, as usual, while Harry sat farther down the table toward the end, between the young Professor Lupin and his redheaded mother. They were having a much quieter conversation, more suited to the early hour. There were dark bags under his eyes, Draco noticed, much like his own.

Draco considered casting an invisibility spell on Potter Senior's and Black's robes as they passed so they'd find themselves in their undergarments in the middle of the great hall at the height of breakfast hour, but even Draco knew how that would go: Potter Senior would no doubt be surprised at first, but then he would grin that idiotic grin so unlike Harry's, strike a shameless pose like a witch in a nudie magazine, and ask Evans (that was her name; Severus had mentioned it several times), "Like anything you see?"

The berk's arrogance knew no bounds; of that, Severus had been entirely straightforward.

And Black… Black could probably just raise an eyebrow at the nearest witch and get a date on the spot. Salazar, the girls would probably be fighting over him. Did the Gryffindor common room have a gym or something? It wasn't even funny how fit that young man looked.

Draco didn't know what to do. The Marauders had spent six years building up a following in the school, becoming idols, while Draco was the new kid. And Severus had spent six years establishing himself as an oddball outcast. They didn't have a leg to stand on.

Even if Draco stripped Potter Senior and Black of their robes, he recognized he was more likely to get a detention than vindictive-sweet revenge.

Silently, he walked toward the Slytherin table, fuming and ashamed.

Then Sirius Black caught sight of them. He lifted his head, made a show of sniffing the air like a dog, and said, "What's that smell? It smells like someone pissed their pants. Oh— hi, Snivellus!"

Potter Senior barked a laugh. "Getting a bit old for that, aren't you? You know, blokes our age are supposed to have a different kind of wet dream, but I s'pose you're not there yet."

Severus whipped out his wand, snarling, but that was when Evans caught sight of them from the far end of the table.

"Hey!" she called sternly. "Whatever you boys are arguing about now, cut it out! I'm not cleaning up another of your messes this early in the morning! Don't make me take House points!"

She sounded so much like a mother, even Draco felt a pang of sadness that Harry had never known her.

It passed, though, when Black grinned a cold little grin and told Severus, "You heard the Lily-flower. Move on, before even the Muggle-born who won't have you bitch-slaps you back into place. Go on."

He made a dismissive, shoo-ing gesture towards the Slytherin table.

"How dare you?" hissed Severus, white and shaking with rage. "I know it was you two who did it! Although how you got into the Slytherin dorms… always sneaking around… you must have found a way…. If you ever—"

"Run along," said Potter Senior, and he had lost the laughter in his face.

"Yeah," said Sirius, "or maybe another great black dog will find his way to pissing all over your bed."

Potter Senior turned a pleasantly surprised look on Black. "No! Did you really—?"

And Black nodded, and the two high-fived over the table.

And Draco saw red.

His Severus had revealed that Black was an unregistered animagus after the Dark Lord's return. Black was a large, shaggy black dog.

He didn't know why, in that moment of blind rage, why it was worse to image a dog willfully peeing on Severus's bed rather than a bratty teenager casting a rude spell with a wand, but it suddenly made all the difference.

Draco whipped out his own wand and, with cold fury, conjured his school-standard wizard's hat from the Slytherin dorm. He snatched it out of the air, stalked past a bewildered Severus and straight up to the center of the Gryffindor table.

He threw the hat on the table directly in front of Sirius Black.

Black had stopped laughing. He looked at the wizard's hat in astonishment. Then, when he looked back at Draco, there was a calculating gleam in his eye.

"I challenge you," said Draco, "to a duel. Wands only. Midnight. You choose the location."

"You're mistaken," said Black, surprisingly soft. "The challenged has the right to choose the weapons, not you."

"So you do know some proper etiquette," sneered Draco. "Your family wasn't totally remiss in raising you, Black."

The look on Sirius's face was ugly.

Potter Senior, Severus, and the few students around them had gone silent, staring in shock at the serious turn of events.

"If you don't want wands, send the change along with your second," continued Draco coldly. "And, as you know the castle better than I do, as a new transfer, I presume you will allow me the small courtesy of switching who chooses the time versus the location."

"Fine," spat Sirius. He picked up the hat and held it up like a flag. "Granted. I accept your challenge, Mallory. Wands. Midnight. The Forbidden Forest behind Greenhouse Six. James is my second."

"Snape is mine," said Draco, not even glancing back at Severus to know he'd accept. Any chance to curse Potter Senior or Black, he knew he'd be on board.

"Contact?" asked Black.

Draco opened his mouth to snap no, that he didn't want their seconds to try to talk either of them out of it for any condition, but he stopped. He smiled his own chilly little smile. "Yes," he said. "I will accept your public apology to Snape as satisfaction. Be sure to have your second send it along as soon as you get cold feet."

Black looked like he didn't know what to make of Draco, like he'd never seen anything like him before. Then he threw his head back and barked out a laugh. "You've got the language and the attitude of a pureblood," Black said, still chuckling, "but you have no idea who my family is, do you?"

Draco wanted to argue that of course he did; his mother was a Black. But Draco Mallory had been in America for the past decade. He couldn't claim to know British society as well as he did.

"My father taught me dueling etiquette as soon as I could hold a toy wand," Black continued mercilessly. "My training partners were Bellatrix, Andromeda, and Narcissa Black— now Malfoy. And let me tell you, my family didn't get the name Black because we teach our kids so much Light magic from a young age. Get it?"

Draco got it. And he was starting to regret acting so impulsively.

Anyone who grew up training to duel with Bellatrix Lestrange, in the ancient Black household, could not possibly be an easy foe.

But he tilted his chin up and continued sneering. "And you know nothing about me, either, do you?"

Black had the nerve to roll his eyes as if it didn't matter. He said, "If you want contact, we'll need thirds. Our seconds won't get along long enough to pass a message. HEY MOONY, YOU'RE MY THIRD!" He shouted down the table.

"Oh, God," they heard Lupin's response, full of dread. "Third what? You haven't been experimenting with those plants again, have you?"

"Get your delectable ass down here and find out!" Black called back, wise enough not to announce their intentions to duel where the professors could hear.

Draco faltered. Duels barely required seconds, and that was mostly a formality. He hadn't considered needing a third. He hadn't exactly been subtle about his lack of respect for the other Slytherins and their egos. The only one he could think of was Elodie Greengrass, but he doubted she'd be willing to duel a werewolf for him if it came down to it. She was civil, she wasn't a saint.

Severus hovered closer and murmured where only Draco could hear, "Regulus Black. He's a sixth year, but he's good. Not quite up to Bellatrix's level, but enough to wipe the floor with Lupin. And he'd enjoy a go at his disgraced brother."

Oh, that was… that was uncomfortable, Draco thought, eyebrows raising. Then again, there was a reason Severus got to be the Head of Slytherin House. Manipulating family politics to get him a willing third… that was good.

Draco opened his mouth, turning back to the elder Black to tell him, when he saw that Harry had accompanied Lupin down the table to see what was going on. As they leaned in to listen to Black and Potter Senior explain it in excitable whispers, Lupin's face grew exasperated. He rolled his eyes to the enchanted ceiling multiple times as if to ask for patience from a higher power.

Harry's face, however, went slack with shock and then dark with fury.

He pulled his wand on Black.

"You did what?" Harry demanded.

"Whoa, what's your issue, Parker?" said Black, frowning and leaning away from the wand tip. "It was a joke!"

Harry's wand hand was shaking. Something tumultuous crashed behind his green eyes. He seemed to be struggling, but Draco didn't know if he was trying to hold himself back from cursing Black or trying to hold himself together.

"That's not a joke," said Harry lowly, from between clenched teeth.

Black was eyeing his trembling wand with worry.

Harry hadn't exactly portrayed himself as stable these past two weeks.

"That was cruel," Harry continued, just as lowly, "and he didn't deserve that. Severus Snape is a good man."

Draco had no idea who was more shocked to hear those words coming from Harry Potter's mouth: himself, a teenage Severus who had scarcely met Harry before, or Black, who looked unspeakably betrayed by his fellow Gryffindor.

Harry looked at Draco with fiery determination. "I'm your third."

Draco's eyes widened.

"But Regulus—" began Severus.

"No," said Draco. "I'll take Po-uh-Parker." To Harry, he said, "You're, ah, sure about this? I mean, I know he's…." He shot a sideways, uncomfortable glance at Black, whom he knew was Harry's godfather.

Harry glanced at Black again, and Draco didn't imagine the look of disappointment and hurt in his face.

"Yeah," said Harry, moving away from the Marauders. "You'll— uh— have to remind me what thirds do. We never really got that far at— at our school. And I don't know etiquette like you purebloods…."

"What?" exploded Draco, before he could stop himself. "But you dueled the—"

"It wasn't the same," Harry cut across him, before he could say something incriminating. He shifted awkwardly and looked away from them all. His breathing had sped up, become shallow. "Fighting for your life… for your friends' lives… isn't the same as a duel."

"Bloody hell," said Black, looking between Draco and Harry in disbelief. "What have you two been up to, then?"

"Shut up, Sirius," said Harry in a cutting tone, not missing a beat, though he grabbed onto the table as if to steady himself. "I just… I can't even look at you right now."

"Hey!" protested Black, looking both confused and offended, while Potter Senior said,

"Don't talk to Padfoot like that!"

"And you," Harry said to Potter Senior, with such a look of hurt, "I expected better…. You're seventeen, not a kid anymore…."

Harry shook his head, screwing his eyes shut hard, while Potter Senior looked truly baffled.

Harry said to Draco, "I'm gonna… I'm gonna go. We'll… talk later."

And he fled.

Guilt and concern hit Draco in equal measure.

Potter was having another breakdown. Because of him.

It would have been simpler if Draco had just spelled Potter Senior and Black's robes transparent. That was just a joke.

Instead, Draco had put Harry in that impossible position where he couldn't "do the right thing" and stay on good terms with his family at the same time.

Draco knew intimately well how terrible a position that was, and Harry was far more of a righteous, martyring bastard than he was.

Putting every ounce of bitterness he had into his voice, Draco said to Black, "We'll be in touch."

He and Severus turned on their heel and resumed their walk to the Slytherin table.

They sat down to curious stares from their housemates, who were no doubt wondering what had taken them so long at the Gryffindor table, before some even less tactful morons saw that it was Snape and then pointed and laughed.

"Ignore them," Draco muttered to Severus, settling in to fill his plate. "We'll either have the satisfaction of hexing Black's face off or his groveling apology by this time tomorrow."

Severus shot him a narrow, thoughtful look and didn't speak immediately. He filled his own plate of breakfast food before he finally said, "You didn't need to do that. It was foolish. The Blacks are well-known for their dueling prowess and powerful Dark magic."

Draco knew.

His mother didn't like to fight. She had even given Draco her wand during that final battle at Hogwarts just to keep him safe.

But great Salazar, could she fight.

Lucius, like all pureblood fathers, had taught Draco dueling etiquette from an early age.

Narcissa had taught Draco how to win.

She had never trained him until the summer after the Dark Lord returned, content to let Lucius and Draco enjoy time male bonding, probably convinced Draco would never need to seriously duel anyone in his life. When the Dark Lord returned, however, she had taken him out into the garden and proceeded to scare decades off his life.

Narcissa Black Malfoy didn't like to fight, but she was damn sure Bellatrix's sister.

"I know," said Draco, taking a bite of bacon. "But I couldn't let that stand. What he did was despicable. And I meant what I said about him not knowing me, either."

"Parker called you a pureblood," said Severus, as neat and pointed as a needle.

Draco almost choked on his bacon.

With an effort, he forced it down and swallowed hard, taking a long swig of juice to wash it down. When he was able, he said, trying to affect disinterest even as his eyes watered, "He only meant I was raised in the Wizarding world. He wasn't. I'm not sure he understands the difference between pureblood and half-blood, honestly. It was different at Ilvermorny."

"Hm," said Severus. He took a drink of his juice, apparently content to let the subject drop, but Draco caught that dark, gimlet gaze on him more than once during the rest of the meal.

Draco knew he was holding onto his other questions, waiting for the opportune moment.

Draco had no idea how he would answer.

He himself had no idea why Harry had said Severus Snape is a good man.

And he had no idea why Harry Fucking Potter would side with him over his own father and godfather, even if they were stupid gits.

…

Remus found Harry in the library after lunch. He was sitting at a table by himself with a large, dense-looking old book on… the lettering was too small for Remus to see from a distance, even with his slightly enhanced werewolf vision.

Harry was tapping and rubbing the table next to the book, his gaze a million miles away. He did that a lot, both the fidgeting and the thousand-yard stare. He didn't seem to be aware of either habit, and Remus had been too polite to bring it up. Whatever issue Harry was struggling with, whatever he had needed healing potions and the first week off magic in class for, it was serious, Remus could tell.

Harry was far more closed off than any of the Marauders, including even Remus himself, and getting to a peaceful acquaintanceship with him hadn't been easy.

He was polite and quiet, and he mostly spent his free time with the girls or in the library, but there were sticky moments whenever he interacted with the Marauders either in class or in the dorms.

They could be joking around, throwing around some harmless banter, and Harry would slowly relax with them. It would feel like progress. And then the smallest comment would set him off— a comment on the Chudley Cannons' chances that season, Peter wondering if Li Mei Chang would go to the first Hogsmeade weekend with him, Sirius talking about repairing that damned motorbike he'd bought over the summer from some neighboring Muggles, James bemoaning how his parents were still suffocating him at seventeen with their twice weekly letters, Remus muttering darkly about having to learn the Patronus Charm even though less than half the wizarding community was capable of producing a corporeal Patronus….

Remus had learned to listen for the unsteady breathing, to watch for the tapping or grasping fingers that warned of an impending panic attack.

When he saw those warning signs, he redirected conversations as quickly as he could. How much it helped, and if any of the others noticed, he couldn't tell.

Now, he made sure to telegraph his approach, stomping louder than he would normally walk, coughing as if to clear his throat, rustling in his bag and crinkling parchment. Those who surprised Harry tended to get a wand in their face or, in some cases, Disarmed before they could even blink.

He was very good at Expelliarmus.

That was useful information to have if they were going to duel.

"Hullo, Harry," he said. "Mind if I sit down?"

"Of course not," said Harry, pushing out the chair opposite him for Remus.

Remus sat down and tried very hard not to look guilty when Madam Pince stalked by. There was no way she knew it was him under the Invisibility Cloak checking books in the Restricted Section for their map, right?

"I suppose Sirius sent you?" asked Harry glumly.

"Not so much," said Remus, giving Harry a wan smile. "He's never going to apologize, not to Snape. Uh— I should mention that's what seconds and thirds do in duels. Er, bearing in mind I'm not from a Founding Family or anything… we're supposed to see if there's a way to talk this out before letting it end in bloodshed, from what I understand."

"Ah," said Harry, with a nod. "Well, in that case…. If it were just Mallory and Black, maybe. They, uh, have a little common ground. But not if Snape's involved. Mallory and Snape… they're thick as thieves."

"Do they know each other from childhood?" asked Remus, cocking his head to the side in curiosity.

"Huh?"

"It's just, you and Mallory just transferred," said Remus, unsure where Harry had gotten lost. "Why would they be so close unless they had known each other already?"

"Oh," said Harry. "No. Uh, Mallory just works fast, is all."

That was a strange response, but Remus accepted it with an only slightly delayed grunt.

They sat in silence for a few moments. Remus decided to pull out his potions essay to get started on, even though it had just been assigned that morning.

Eventually, Harry asked, "Does he hate me now? Sirius, I mean."

He sounded so vulnerable, even though he and Sirius were hardly the best of friends.

Remus looked up from his essay and frowned. "No," he said slowly. "I think he's… confused. We all are, honestly. It's rather unheard of for a Gryffindor to side with a Slytherin on something like this. You might have noticed our Houses have a bit of a rivalry."

"But what he did," said Harry, with an edge of desperation, "it was horrible. Why would anyone…?"

"Ah," said Remus, looking down at his potions essay as if it held all the answers. "You were, ah… bullied? At your old school?"

"No," said Harry, flushing. Then, "In primary school. Muggle, I mean. My cousin…" He trailed off.

"I won't pretend Sirius was in the right," said Remus. "He didn't tell any of us about it before he went and did it. But you've got to understand, the way they are, if Sirius hadn't done that, Snape would have started it with a hex in the hallway or a smear rumor started about, you know, whatever he thought would embarrass James or Sirius at the moment. They're not friends. James and Snape are fighting over Lily's affection, you must have noticed, and Sirius hates Slytherin with a passion. All his family's been Sorted there, and they've disowned him for being a Gryffindor. It's complicated. I'm sorry you got caught up in it."

"That doesn't make it okay," said Harry thickly. "They're old enough to know better. I've just turned eighteen— summer birthday— and when I was seventeen, I was worrying about… about much bigger problems than House rivalries and girlfriends."

"You were fighting for your life," said Remus softly, tentatively, bringing up what they had all found so shocking at breakfast.

"Yeah," said Harry, not meeting his eyes. "Yeah. We had our own troubles. At Ilvermorny, I mean. People were dying. Nobody cared about this stupid stuff."

"That must have been hard," said Remus, and the words sounded pale in comparison to the depth with which he felt them. "I know it's… it's tough out there in the real world at the moment. The worst we have to deal with here is detention. I can't imagine…."

"Yeah," said Harry again. He was pressing his fingers harder into the table, tapping more insistently.

Time for a change of topic.

"I think I have an idea," said Remus. "If you'll allow me?"

Harry looked at him with interest and something else. Something more profound, though Remus shied away from identifying it.

"I think we can both agree Sirius was in the wrong," said Remus, leaning forward and speaking more quietly, "but we don't want anything too bad to happen to him…."

Harry listened, and as Remus talked, a slow, sparkling smile began to emerge.

He nodded along, encouraging, and Remus wondered why it felt so much like he was talking to Lily.

…

TBC…

Chapter Text

"Dobby never meant to kill. He only meant to maim, or seriously injure."

― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

Chapter 6: He only meant to maim

Professor Bowie took a long swig from his whiskey flask.

Harry had gotten a good whiff from it just a few hours ago and could confirm it was whiskey, not Polyjuice Potion. His eyes had watered from the strength of the alcohol, which bordered on moonshine.

"Welcome, you lot, to the first dueling club practice!" cried Professor Bowie, immediately hushing the chatter from the dozens of assembled students. It was the upper years' practice, mandatory, held separate from the lower years. They were in the Great Hall, the four long tables gone and replaced with a sparkling golden stage near where the high table had sat. He continued, "I have Professor Flitwick here with me as co-coach, since he has won not one, not two, but three national dueling championships, and not one, but two international championships!"

Harry and the others gave a respectful and somewhat surprised round of applause for Professor Flitwick, who chuckled and gave a good-natured bow.

In all his years at Hogwarts, Harry couldn't remember hearing that about Flitwick before. Why hadn't he continued the dueling club in Harry's time instead of Lockhart?

"Tonight is going to be a special treat," continued Bowie, who lit his cigarette with his wand tip, "because we have six volunteers from your veteran seventh years! Boy, are they going to give you a show!"

"What," said James, not far from Harry.

"What," said Malfoy, equidistant.

"Fuckers," said Sirius, looking to Remus and Harry in betrayal. "Absolute, manipulative traitors. I can't believe you landed in Gryffindor, either of you."

Snape's lips were twitching as if he wanted to bare his teeth but couldn't quite remember how.

"First, before we get into that, let me give you an overview of dueling," said Bowie. He was standing on the stage with Flitwick, in clear view of the students. "Although dueling is now, first and foremost, a sport in which wizards demonstrate their aptitude with offensive and defensive spells alongside their performance under pressure, dueling was long before that a means to settle disputes between two wizards. As you may have noticed in the Great Hall this morning, a challenge between competitors was issued, according to the Old Ways, by throwing one's wizard's hat at another. If the challenge is accepted, the challenged wizard picks up the hat and states the first term: weapons.

"Now, most wizards choose wands as their weapon. There have historically been exceptions, however, such as potions, broomsticks, and, in the case of Herolda Finnich, two pork sausages, one of which was contaminated with Salmonella.

"Next, after the weapons have been established, the challenger issues the location of the duel. Then the challenged is allowed to select the time. Between them, they select their seconds, or wizards who will take over in case the primary is unable to continue the duel, and occasionally thirds and fourths and so on, depending on alliances involved.

"The two duelists will also agree on contact, which is a term that refers to whether or not their seconds will be in contact with one another. In many cases, the duelists have a dispute which can be solved by the extraordinary means of talking about it. The seconds, if they are allowed contact, will meet to discuss whether there is common ground for the duelists to start a dialogue and work out the issue nonviolently. If, however, there is no contact, or the seconds determine there is no chance for a peaceful resolution, we move onto the duel itself.

"Dueling etiquette, in and of itself, is simple. The opponents bow to one another," he paused, and he and Flitwick bowed to each other, each bending precisely at the waist. He continued, "They assume a stance, typically with the knees bent, ready for moving in either direction, and wand held shoulder-level facing their opponent. And then they are allowed to cast whatever spells they deem prudent to incapacitate their opponent.

"Here in this club, we will use the sporting rules, though note that some private duels may be different. For wizards, you may duel until one surrenders or one is no longer able to wield his wand. For witches, you may duel until one surrenders or first blood is drawn. Because, as we all know, witches will more readily duel to the death, unlike wizards, who will beat each other up and then go out for a drink afterwards.

"Now, any questions before our demonstration?"

The students cheered, ready for a show. Anybody with a question— Harry saw a few Ravenclaw hands go up— was shut up with no sympathy.

"Great, then," said Bowie, taking one long, last drag on his cigarette before flicking it off the stage. The few nearest students scattered to avoid being burned. "Professor Flitwick, let's do a reenactment of this morning, shall we?"

"Splendid, splendid!" said Flitwick. "I do love a bit of theater."

"Would you like to be the challenger or challenged?" asked Bowie. He tucked his flask back into his trouser pocket and drew his wand.

"Let me challenge," said Flitwick. "I so rarely get to be filled with righteous indignation."

"That little hobgoblin," muttered Malfoy, seething.

"After you, then, good sir," said Bowie.

Flitwick tore the pointed hat off his head and threw it forcefully at Bowie's feet. He cried, in his shrill voice, "You have insulted my dearest bosom friend, sir! I demand satisfaction!"

"Your friend is a Kneazle turd, sir, and I accept your challenge!" said Bowie, swiping up Flitwick's hat and brandishing it like a disgraceful, failing term paper. "I name wands as our weapons of competition!"

"Then we will meet with our wands at the Great Hall, you scoundrel!" said Flitwick. He shook his tiny fist for good measure.

"So be it! Be there at eight o'clock, evening, sharp!"

"You will have it! Draco Mallory, as my second, will be there as well!"

"Shit-fuck," said Malfoy, practically spitting. He scowled at Harry, disgusted.

"And I shall bring Sirius Black as my second!" said Bowie dramatically.

"Judases, all of you," snarled Sirius.

"I will agree to contact," said Flitwick magnanimously, "if you wish to send along your surrender— or apology."

"Never!" said Bowie. "Though, if you wish contact, we will need thirds, as Black and Mallory are not on speaking terms. I name James Potter!"

"And I name Severus Snape!" said Flitwick.

"Gosh-darn and blast it all," said Bowie, shaking his head. "They're not speaking either! We shall need fourths, if you are so cowardly that you wish to pass along your regrets for challenging me. I name Remus Lupin!"

"I will never regret challenging you, you gormless worm!" said Flitwick. "Harry Parker shall be my fourth!"

"So be it!"

"It is done!"

The Great Hall was roaring with laughter.

"Now, students," said Bowie, with mock seriousness. "Despite being the only two on speaking terms, Remus Lupin and Harry Parker could not fathom a way for us to overcome our immense and passionate hatred of one another. It was determined that we would proceed to the duel. Remember! Since we are all wizards, the fight shall be to surrender or inability to hold a wand! Now, seconds, thirds, fourths, get up here."

All scowling at Remus and Harry, the named duelists filed to the stage and stood behind their respective coach: Harry, Severus, and Malfoy behind Flitwick; Sirius, James, and Remus behind Bowie.

"Right," said Bowie, his voice carrying. "We shall demonstrate how a duel in numbers works in reality. Professor Flitwick and I will try to incapacitate one another, and once one is incapacitated— I know not yet which of us, though I regret it may be me— his second will take over and duel the primary. The second may defeat the primary, in which case he will stay and continue to duel that primary's second, or he may lose, in which case the original primary may duel the opponent's third, and so on. Basically, once we start, we are in this until one team is fully finished. There is as much strategy in planning the order of a team in dueling as there is in any Quidditch match. Understand?"

The boys nodded.

"Good," said Bowie. "Once we are out, Flitwick and I will referee. We expect nice, clean duels from all of you. Nothing illegal, nothing lethal. Got it?"

"Yes, sir," said the boys, some more darkly than others.

"Then let us begin!" said Bowie.

He and Flitwick turned to each other, bowed at the waist, and assumed their stances, wands raised.

Harry watched with something like amusement as Bowie and Flitwick shot off spells at each other, each crying out the spell verbally and exaggerating the wand movement. Harry had seen Flitwick duel in earnest at the Battle of Hogwarts and knew it looked nothing like this performance, geared toward educating.

Flitwick had dueled Dolohov and won, Harry recalled suddenly, and he couldn't help glancing at Remus as grief rose up within him. Dolohov had escaped before Kingsley had rallied the Ministry and started making arrests, but Flitwick had incapacitated him, at least.

This, the dueling club and Bowie, must have happened the first time around in the original timeline. He and Malfoy hadn't altered that much. Why the ever-loving fuck hadn't Remus paid more attention?

But his anger was misplaced, and he just as abruptly felt ashamed of himself.

Remus had grown up to be an exceptional wizard. During the Battle of Hogwarts… there had been so much going on, all of it so fast and so unpredictable. Harry didn't know what had happened during Remus and Dolohov's duel, but he very much doubted it was anything like the controlled conditions of a dueling club.

Fighting the deep, consuming tidal wave of grief and rage, Harry forced himself to pay attention to the duel in front of him.

So tame. So sportsmanlike.

"Any advice, Scar-head?" Malfoy's lazy drawl came from just behind Harry's shoulder.

Harry had to stop himself from drawing his wand and hexing him in reflex. Then he turned to stare at his former nemesis.

"You survived a war, Malfoy," he hissed, low enough that Snape couldn't hear, especially as enraptured as he was by the spectacle of professors hurling jinxes and hexes at each other. "Are you seriously concerned about a supervised duel?"

Malfoy glanced away, for all appearances unruffled, but his jaw was clenched and flexing. He still looked strange with his chestnut-brown hair. Instead of slicking it back like his usual platinum blond hair, he allowed it to fall loose, free around his face.

"You don't understand," Malfoy said eventually, barely moving his lips to speak. "The Blacks… my mother was a Black…. He's well-trained. The curses he probably knows…. It won't be like our little duel in second year."

Understanding flooded through Harry. He hesitated and then grabbed Malfoy's forearm and gave it a light squeeze, startling a swift, surprised glance from Malfoy before he again pretended nothing was happening.

"He's still just a kid," said Harry quietly, bracingly. "He hasn't… he hasn't gone through what we have. Not yet. Maybe the Blacks teach their kids some fancy wandwork, but he doesn't know. Not yet."

Malfoy nodded once, still not looking at Harry, and repeated as if to himself, "He doesn't know."

Harry looked at Malfoy, considering, and swallowed hard.

He remembered escaping from Malfoy Manor, that horrible night. Bellatrix had already summoned Voldemort, convinced of Harry's identity and defeat. When they had escaped, and she had killed Dobby…

Harry remembered seeing through Voldemort's eyes as he'd dug Dobby's grave by hand. He remembered how brutally Voldemort had tortured the Malfoys and Bellatrix for summoning him only to allow Harry to slip through their fingers.

Voldemort had tortured Draco.

It probably wasn't even the first time.

"If it helps," said Harry, also feigning interest in the professors' duel, "Sirius tends to favor the Blasting Curse. He's quick, but he can get distracted… playing around…."

It was painful to say, painful to remember the way Sirius had been taunting Bellatrix just before she had gotten in a clean shot. Worse still to be revealing that weakness to anyone else, but especially Malfoy.

Malfoy, however, only nodded and murmured thoughtfully, "Like Bellatrix."

"NOT like Bellatrix!"

Snape shot a startled and annoyed look in their direction at the outburst.

Harry didn't care. He was panting, his anger suddenly white-hot, and looking at Malfoy like he'd never seen him before.

He couldn't believe— what had he been thinking, trying to help Malfoy? Betraying Sirius—

"I didn't mean it as an insult," said Malfoy, turning a sharp gaze around their vicinity to make sure nobody was paying attention to them instead of the duel. "I just meant… well, in pureblood families, we call it the Black family madness. No, hush, Potter, it's still not an insult, it's a fact. I'm sure your godfather was nothing like Auntie Bella. But they were related, and it occasionally shows. And I would apologize for the comparison, but he did just piss in my godfather's bed, so forgive me if I'm not particularly sympathetic."

Harry huffed and sputtered, red-faced. He couldn't articulate all the raging, conflicting thoughts and feelings hurtling through him at the speed of a meteor shower and just as fiery and violent.

He hated— this was why he hated Malfoy, why he never should have tried to comfort him. But Sirius— falling through the veil— and Severus Snape (he was a good man)— blood everywhere and puncture wounds in his throat—

And Sirius comforting Harry with a grin that looked so happy and so close to tears: "Oh course he was a bit of an idiot! We were all idiots!"

But Bellatrix had killed Sirius— killed Dobby— tortured Hermione—

"Oh, dear, that's not a flattering look for you," said Malfoy with a smirk.

"You—!"

But Flitwick had just managed to Disarm Bowie with a picture-perfect spell, ricocheting it around Bowie's shield charm like a hook.

"Here we go," said Malfoy, at once becoming serious.

Bowie bowed off the stage, and Flitwick returned his wand and the bow with a breathless but pleased little titter.

Sirius stepped up, his face lit with excitement. They bowed to each other.

"Quick question, Professor," said Sirius, even as he assumed a dueling stance as natural as breathing. "You're not going to give me detention if I manage to hit you, are you?"

"Of course not, dear boy!" said Flitwick, looking revitalized and equally in his element. "It's all in good fun!"

"That's not what you said about the mir—"

"I'll simply set Professor McGonagall upon you!"

"Oh, Minnie." A dreamy look crossed Sirius's face. "The love of my life. 'twould be naught but a pleasure to see her more outside of class, even if it were—"

"Stop stalling, Black!" shouted Bowie from the sidelines, lighting up another smoke. "Hex your Charms Professor or I'll hex you!"

Flitwick helped by casting the first spell, another Disarming spell, which Sirius flicked away like an annoying gnat. They grinned at each other.

Even though Harry had been the one reminding Malfoy it was a safe, supervised duel, it was difficult to watch. After the first few exchanges, he had to turn away, close his eyes, and focus on breathing.

Sirius is safe, he repeated to himself like a mantra. It's just Flitwick. Sirius is safe.

It didn't matter, another voice countered, because Sirius was already dead. Nothing could hurt him anymore.

None of it mattered. They were all dead, except Harry and Malfoy and Flitwick.

"Are you having another fit?" came Snape's voice. It wasn't as deep as it would get in later years, but it had that same surprisingly soft, silky quality Harry would always associate with dimly lit potions classes in the dungeons.

Harry looked up to find Snape's dark, bottomless eyes on him. Astonishingly, he didn't look judgmental or derisive, but there was an intense, piercing quality to his gaze.

Harry wondered if he had started practicing Legilimency yet.

Harry shook his head, breaking eye contact just in case, and took a deep albeit shaky breath.

No. No, he wasn't having another panic attack.

They were in the past. For the moment, they were alive, and they were safe. All of them.

And even though Harry hadn't been able to stand up for Snape in that awful memory in the Pensieve in fifth year, he was standing up for him now.

Maybe it wouldn't help anything. Maybe it didn't mean anything.

But maybe it did.

Snape nodded once and returned his attention to Sirius and Flitwick's match, satisfied.

Perhaps Flitwick was tired from his flashy duel with Bowie; perhaps he and Bowie had arranged beforehand for the winner between them to bow out quickly and let the students have their shot at each other. Either way, Sirius managed to get a full-body lock on Flitwick surprisingly quickly.

Sirius, grinning, flicked his wand to release the Charms professor. Panting, Flitwick stood. They bowed to one another, and Flitwick moved offstage to supervise with Bowie.

Malfoy's jaw clenched. He straightened his shoulders, the muscles going taut, and deliberately lifted his chin as he marched up to face Sirius.

They bowed, neither taking their eyes off the other.

Sirius's grin had taken on a wild energy, a sharper edge of teeth.

Malfoy looked determined, all tight coils of muscles and laser focused intensity.

"Alright, Mallory," said Sirius, raising his wand. "Your sense of humor is abysmal. Let's see if your wandwork is any better."

"You think this is a joke," said Malfoy. He sounded as if he had finally realized the crux of the dispute between them. His lips went thin as he, too, raised his wand. "Parker was right. You're just a kid, Black. And you need to grow up."

Sirius's smile twitched and then took an even sharper edge. He cast the first spell— yep, there was the fiery orange of a Blasting Curse— and Malfoy countered it with a Shield Charm in the same breath.

With that, the floodgates opened.

Sirius wielded his wand like a sword. His arms were a blur of sharp flashes, jabs, and parries. He advanced, step by step, never pausing his spellcasting even when it meant ducking or leaping over a jet of light. He was a raging storm of motion, never hesitating, never letting up.

Malfoy kept his feet planted. His wand movements were fast, precise, controlled. His expression was one of concentration, but Harry recognized that steely glint in his eyes as something he saw often in the mirror: Malfoy knew he might get hurt, but he was determined to see it through anyway.

Jets of light whistled in every direction; sparks danced off shields.

Sirius drew up to Malfoy until they were almost toe-to-toe, but Malfoy refused to move. A moment later, Malfoy blasted him back with a wind charm Harry didn't recognize, but there was enough brute strength that Sirius couldn't avoid it.

Sirius circled Malfoy, forcing him to turn in place, but Malfoy still didn't give an inch.

"I didn't really expect your friend to last this long against Black," Snape muttered to Harry, as the violent, fast-paced duel dragged on. "He must be quite talented."

"I really wish everyone would stop referring to him as 'my friend,'" Harry muttered back.

"At this rate, I won't get my turn to hex Black for another ten minutes."

"Don't be ridiculous," said Harry, giving Snape a scorching side-eye. "Didn't you hear Malf— Mallory at breakfast? He's going to beat Sirius. For you."

Snape didn't respond for a moment but gave Harry another intense, piercing stare, which Harry returned as best he could without directly meeting Snape's eyes. He'd mastered that trick in fifth year.

Finally, Snape said, "He is an odd sort, that much is clear. Still, I doubt he can win against Black. A no-name half-blood against the Ancient House of Bl—"

"Hey, Ferret-face!" Harry shouted into the fray. "Quit taking the piss and finish him already! His arm movements are too big, and he keeps leaving his left open!"

Malfoy didn't hesitate. He ducked under Sirius's latest hex and shot a Blasting Curse of his own into the left side of Sirius's chest, which he had indeed left open after a grandiose movement for the Full Body Bind.

Sirius flew into the air and then crashed to the ground offstage.

Snape whirled to give Harry a look of shock, then Sirius roared, "SNAKE!" at the same time James's voice carried, "Oh, no he didn't!"

"Thanks, Parker," said Malfoy, straightening his robes and dusting imaginary lint off his shoulder. He sounded as if he were merely thanking Harry for holding a door open or keeping the kettle warm.

"You were taking your time, weren't you?"

"Not all of us are as impulsive and rash as you Gryffindors."

"He's no Gryffindor!" shouted Sirius, leaping back onto the stage and clutching his wand. His robes had a scorched and smoking hole on the left side, show blistered red skin underneath. "Parker, you traitor!"

"Do you surrender?" asked Malfoy pleasantly.

"Hell-fucking-no, I don't! Reducto!"

"Protego! Bombarda maxima!"

The ground at Sirius's feet exploded like a grenade, blowing Sirius into the air yet again, this time engulfed in a mushroom cloud of fire and smoke.

Harry started forward, horrified, his heart in his throat—

"Is that the best you can do? Expulso!" came Sirius's voice along with a jet of bright blue light from behind the smoke.

But Sirius couldn't see where he was aiming through the smoke, and the curse went wide, missing Malfoy entirely and soaring into the audience of students. The professors were on the wrong side of the stage, Sirius's side, they were too slow—

"Protego maxima!" shouted Harry.

The blue jet of light hit Harry's shield and exploded with enough force to whip his hair back. The gouts of flames cleared, and Harry saw his mother on the other side, face white and stunned.

Beside him, Snape went rigid, following his glance.

"Boys!" squeaked Flitwick, hopping anxiously from foot to foot. "Boys—"

Sirius and Malfoy didn't seem to hear.

"Confringo!" cried Sirius again, lashing out with that fiery orange blast. "Reducto!"

Malfoy dove out of the way and, from the ground, pointed his wand at Sirius and shouted, "Electrillius maxima!"

A blinding, jagged white bolt of lightning shot out of Malfoy's wand. The explosion of sound was deafening.

Harry's mind went blank.

He had only ever seen Voldemort harness lightning like that.

That spell could kill. That spell would kill.

Sirius's face, illuminated in the dazzling white light, was wide-eyed and open-mouthed. He was frozen in shock.

Harry's feet moved before his mind caught up. He found himself between Malfoy and Sirius, wand raised and crying, "Protego horribilis!" pouring every ounce of his magic, every fiber of his being into it.

The lightning struck the shield like boiling water crashing into ice. Steam billowed around them, scalding and thick. The force of the blow knocked Harry backwards almost into Sirius, but he ducked his head against the pressure and held his wand in both hands, giving the shield everything he had. Eventually, his feet stopped sliding backwards, and he felt the pressure bearing down on him lessen.

The blinding light fizzled out amidst the cloud of steam.

Harry stood, holding his position and panting, until silence and relative darkness permeated the Great Hall.

Then he slashed his wand in frustration and strode up to Malfoy, rage boiling over. He grabbed Malfoy's collar and jerked him roughly back to his feet.

"How dare you?" Harry demanded, shoving him hard. He was aware of movement around them, professors and the other students getting over their shock and stirring into action, but he could barely see them through the dense, lingering mist. "I supported you because you were doing the right thing for once! Sirius was wrong! But then you go and do something worse! You just tried to kill him, Malfoy! What the fuck! How dare you?"

Malfoy blinked rapidly, his mouth working but no sound coming out. His pale eyes darted around the hall in incomprehension. "I— I don't— I didn't think— My mother taught— and then Aunt Bella said— but it wasn't—"

Harry shoved him again. Fury was giving way to terror, and he hated it.

He had almost lost his godfather again before he'd even had him. He had almost just watched Sirius die a second time because Draco Malfoy had, of course, been trained by Bellatrix Fucking Lestrange, who had been Voldemort's protégé.

The terror mounted, gripping around his throat like Pettigrew's enchanted silver hand. It was choking the life out of him.

He had almost lost Sirius again. Sirius could have died.

"Potter!" hissed Malfoy, coherency flooding back into his face. "Your hair! Fuck! Crinus muto!"

Breathing hard, Harry pulled a lock of his hair into sight and watched it, dazed, as it turned from jet black to straw blond.

It took a moment for the implications to hit him, then he and Malfoy looked up at each other, identical looks of horror on their faces.

"Maybe they didn't see," whispered Malfoy. "All this steam…."

"Yeah," said Harry weakly. "Yeah…."

He'd been pushed right next to Sirius. If he had given all his focus to the shield instead of maintaining his hair-color charm, Sirius would definitely have seen.

Fuck.

"Venus tria!" came Flitwick's voice, and a gust of hard wind whipped the Great Hall, buffeting the steam towards the front doors to dissipate.

"Boys," said Professor Bowie, appearing on the stage next to Harry and Malfoy in a fog not of steam but of cigarette smoke. "Mr. Black, it rather looks like you dropped your wand."

Indeed, Sirius's wand was lying useless on the ground next to him, doubtless slipped through his numb fingers before or after the lightning strike.

"The duel goes to Mr. Mallory. However, our instructions on non-lethal parameters were clear. Whatever that spell was, it was too much for a gentleman's duel, kid. You're out. Thirds and fourths, do you wish to continue?"

"No," said Harry and Remus.

"Ah, no, sir," said James, edging up to Sirius. "I think I should get him to the hospital wing. He's, ah… bleeding. A lot."

James helpfully bent down before reaching Sirius and picked up one of his shoes, which had been blasted off amongst the various explosion curses. He handed it back to a stunned Sirius and gave him a comforting pat on the shoulder.

"Well, I do!" snapped Snape, turning red in the cheeks. "I'm not afraid to face Potter! It looks like he's afraid to face me!"

"Then I forfeit," said James easily, wrapping an arm around Sirius's shoulder and urging him forward. "Congrats, you win. What a glorious occasion. You sure showed me. Et cetera, et cetera. May I be excused now?" He added to Bowie, who nodded. "C'mon, Pads, let's go. One foot in front of the other, there you go…."

As the two Marauders hobbled off to the infirmary, Bowie turned to the rest of the students and said, "Alright, you lot. Since the show's over, now it's your turn. Everyone, pair off. You'll be practicing your Shield Charms tonight, which all of our duelists demonstrated. Here's the wand movement again, and the incantation is 'protego.' Once you feel you've got a grasp on it, have your partner try to jinx you. No more duels to the death tonight, please; I've only got so much whiskey left in this flask. Now, we've got about thirty minutes left, so chop chop! Off you go! Ah— Mr. Mallory, a word first, if you please."

Malfoy swore under his breath but followed Bowie obediently offstage.

Harry looked over at Remus, his name on his tongue, when Snape stepped in his way.

"Parker, I'd like a word," he said.

"Uh, I don't… care?" said Harry. He almost winced, preparing to have House points taken, when he remembered Snape wasn't his professor. Something like elation swept through his chest. He could finally say what he wanted without repercussions— except— Severus Snape is a good man.

Ugh.

"Sorry, fine, alright," muttered Harry, running a hand through his hair. The steam had condensed into droplets of water on him, and he was now soggy and cold. He took off his glasses and did his best to mop off the water with his damp robes.

"Don't be absurd," said Snape, noticing what he was doing. He drew his wand and make a complicated little weaving motion, and warm air blasted Harry. In a matter of heartbeats, he was dry and warm again. Snape tucked his wand away and motioned off stage, toward a more deserted corner of the hall. "Please, come this way."

Harry followed with a sense of resignation. It was going to be hard to hate Snape properly as a teenager, knowing what he would grow up to do. And— no, maybe Snape wasn't perfect; he hadn't exactly started off great, only wanting to save Lily from Voldemort's interpretation of the prophecy and forget Harry and James, but… but he had come around. Even knowing Voldemort would kill him if he ever found out, he'd done what he could to save the people he could.

Much like Harry, Snape had been one of Dumbledore's tools in the war. They might have even been his two best tools.

It was a sobering thought.

Snape finally came to a point, stopped, and turned to face Harry.

Harry held up his wand at the ready position.

"What are you doing?" asked Snape, giving him an incredulous look.

"Uh, practicing the Shield Charm?" said Harry. "Do you want to try to jinx me, or should I jinx you?"

He hoped it was the latter, just for old time's sake.

"Don't be absurd," said Snape again. "Neither of us needs to practice the Shield Charm. We're not idiots, unlike the rest of these mollycoddled children."

"Can I have that in writing?"

"What?"

"Uh— never mind," said Harry. He lowered his wand, struggling not to look as stupid as he felt. "Anyway. You wanted a word?"

Severus flushed, and he looked away briefly before he collected himself. He said, so low Harry had to strain to hear, "I just wanted to say thank you. For that Protego Maxima. I saw that idiot's curse would have hit Evans. Expulso… it would have been terrible."

"Oh," said Harry. He watched the blush creep higher up Snape's cheeks, reconsidered what he knew of Snape's history, and felt instantly mortified. "Oh! Oh, no, don't, uh, don't worry about it. Lily is my friend, too. I mean— just friend! Anyway, uh…. Right. That's that. Nice chat. Bye."

"Parker!" Snape called as Harry turned away, going to find Remus or, hell, even Pettigrew. Harry stopped, took a deep breath, and turned to face his would-be potions professor. Snape didn't smile. He looked serious. "This balancing act you have going on between the Gryffindors and Slytherins… it's not going to last. If you want to maintain a friendship with Mallory, you won't be accepted by them. And if you become friends with them, they won't stand for your alliance with Mallory. You'll have to choose."

"Why does everyone think Mallory is my friend?"

"Why did you volunteer to be his third?"

"Because it was the right thing to do! Because I couldn't do nothing!"

Snape's pale, thin face clouded. He hissed, "If you want to pick a fight with your idiot housemates, don't use me as an excuse. I don't need your help, and I certainly don't need your pity."

"I don't want to start a fight with them!" said Harry, exasperated. "Just like I'm not trying to start a fight with you. Look, I know Lily used to be your friend. Shouldn't you be supporting me and my— my— interhouse camaraderie?"

"No, Parker, that's exactly why I can't," said Snape. "That's why I'm trying to warn you. The political atmosphere outside these walls is extremely volatile. You can't have ties to both sides."

"What are you saying?" asked Harry suddenly, giving Snape a hard look. "You say you're warning me, but what do you get out of it? Why would you help me?"

Snape scowled, but Harry couldn't tell if he was frustrated at being caught or frustrated that Harry couldn't piece it together for himself.

"You are clearly an advanced wizard," Snape bit out. "Leave Mallory to me. You protect Evans where I can't. None of the 'Marauders' can be trusted alone with her except perhaps Pettigrew, but his incompetence makes him useless to me. And then in a few years, when I am in the Dark Lord's inner circle and have ensured her protection myself, I will put in a good word for you, as well. The Dark Lord values competence no matter your blood status. That is why he is interested in me."

Snape lifted his chin in defiant pride, as if he expected Harry to scoff at the idea that Voldemort could be interested in him.

Harry stared at him, speechless.

Oh. Oh, he had forgotten that Snape really wasn't a good man at this point in his life. There was potential for it, his desire to protect Lily almost noble, but… he only expected Harry to give up another friend to do it for "political" reasons, and then he would save Lily and never think twice about any of the other Muggle-borns…

And Harry himself just called Malfoy his friend, dammit.

And then another thought struck Harry, and he swayed where he stood from the blow of it.

Had… had Severus Snape just tried to recruit him? Him, Harry Potter, for Lord Voldemort?

He would put in a good word…. The Dark Lord values competence….

It started as a tiny giggle that he managed to force back down. Then his shoulders were shaking with the effort of holding it back, and his eyes were tearing up, and he was doubling over….

His hysterical laughter burst out, strangled, sounding not unlike a braying donkey. He clapped a hand over his mouth, but then he couldn't breathe because he was laughing too hard, and he needed his hand to prop himself up on his knees because he couldn't stand up straight….

"Oh, what now?" came Malfoy's voice. "Did you tell him a dirty joke? Those are supposed to be for me!"

"What I said was far from amusing," sneered Snape. "This reaction is insulting."

"Oh, yeah, that I believe." Malfoy sounded placated. Then, uncertainly, "What… precisely did you say? He's not stopping. Oh, Merlin, you've broken him. A lightning strike he survives, no problem, why not? But I leave him alone with you for five minutes and—"

"I'd rather keep our discussion between us, thank you."

"He—" gasped Harry, tears streaming down his heated face, "he tried— he tried to recruit me! For Voldemort!"

"That's not—" began Snape, flustered, "I never said—"

Malfoy made a sound somewhere between a whimper and a gag. His face remained impressively straight.

"You would do well not to laugh at the Dark Lord's name," Snape went on imperiously to Malfoy. "Not with the company you—"

The gagging noise became more of a choked whine.

"You dare—?"

Then Malfoy was howling with laughter right beside Harry.

"You didn't!" Malfoy practically shrieked right next to Harry's ear. They were leaning on each other for support. "Se-Severus!"

They howled like a couple of monkeys, grabbing onto each other even as they both sank to the floor.

At some point, Snape must have tired of being laughed at, because he was gone, and it was just Harry and Malfoy on the floor, curled up in a painful amount of hysterical laughter.

"My bladder!" howled Harry, clutching his stomach. "I'm gonna—"

"Me, too!" cried Malfoy, literally crying.

"A couple of Tickling Charms got past you boys, huh?" came Bowie's raspy voice from above them. "Funny, I thought your Shield Charms were better than that. No problem. Finite incantatum!"

That only made Harry laugh harder, and it sounded like it had the same effect on Malfoy next to him. His ribs and abdomen were aching with the effort of continuing to laugh. It hurt.

Bowie was silent for a moment, considering his useless spell. Then he just said, "You Ilvermorny boys are fuckin' weird," and moved on.

"I… can't… breathe…" gasped Malfoy. "You would… have made… a terrible Death Eater!"

Harry pounded his fist on the floor, physically unable to handle any more laughter without dying.

"And you… were any better?"

"I may have been… a disappointment… but at least I never killed… my master!"

"If he were… my master… I bet he would have found that— disappointing!"

They sobbed with laughter.

Through his blurry vision, a pair of scruffy men's uniform loafers appeared, alongside the dainty, gleaming pair of a girl's shoes.

"There's something wrong with them," said Remus musingly.

"But is it magical or mental?" asked Lily pragmatically.

"Why not both?" suggested Wormtail.

Lily crouched down, her brilliant green eyes only inches from Harry's own. "Harry?" she asked. "Is it a Tickling Charm? Those can get pretty ugly. Here. Finite incantatum!"

Harry slapped the ground, wheezing and crying.

"Oh, God!" wheezed Malfoy, laughing harder again.

"No?" murmured Lily. "Okay, let's try: anapneo!"

Miraculously, oxygen rushed into Harry's lungs, and he drew a deep, invigorating breath. He let it out slowly, finally able to breathe without laughing, though a lingering giggle or two escaped. Exhausted, he nudged Malfoy and mumbled, "Him. Do him, too."

"Anapneo!" Lily repeated, and Malfoy drew a deep, gasping breath next to him.

"Oh, Merlin," groaned Malfoy, sitting up. He dragged Harry upright, too, the presumptuous git. "Oh, I am never going to laugh like that again, so long as I live."

"I that a prediction or a threat?" asked Harry.

"Either. Both. Selena Salazar's tits, Po—uh—Parker, don't surprise me like that again."

"Sorry," said Harry, even though he wasn't. He was too busy dealing with his own upturned worldview.

Severus Snape thought he would have made a good Death Eater.

"Must've been some joke," said Lily with raised eyebrows. "Care to share?"

"It's nothing," muttered Harry, at the same time Malfoy said,

"Severus is hilarious."

Lily got a wistful little smile about her face, while Remus looked skeptical.

"He can be," Lily said. "Anyway, Mallory, I actually wanted to congratulate you on the duel."

Malfoy's eyebrows shot up.

Lily continued doggedly, looking painfully earnest, "I figured out what happened, you know, through the rumor mill. I'm glad…. It was very good of you to stand up for Severus like that. So, thank you. And I've already thanked Remus, Harry, but I'm so glad you two forfeited when it was over. I was absolutely dreading any of you getting hurt."

"Oh," said Harry. He looked at Malfoy, who was blushing a bright pink and pretending he wasn't. "Um, it was no problem, Lily. It was just what we've talked about before— about them being so immature. I don't have that problem with Remus, right?"

Remus gave him a bracing smile and nodded, while Lily did the same.

"You know," said Lily, looking between Harry and Malfoy both. "Whenever you need them taken down a peg, you don't have to challenge them to a duel in front of hundreds of witnesses. Just let me and Marlene know. I'm very good at Pilchardo Dispucto, and Marlene is terrifying with a Tentacle Head Curse."

"Pilchardo Dispucto?" asked Malfoy curiously.

"It makes you sneeze out sardines," said Lily matter-of-factly.

Malfoy looked delighted and a bit like he might swoon.

"Thanks," repeated Harry, giving Malfoy a discrete shove. "Could you give us a minute? We haven't gotten any practice in yet…."

"Sure," said Lily. "Just checking on you. We could hear you cackling from across the hall. See you back in the tower."

As the mismatched Gryffindor trio left, Harry turned to Malfoy and said, "You're not allowed to have a crush on my mother. I can barely handle Snape. I might really spring a leak if it were you, too."

"I don't have a— Severus doesn't have a—" Malfoy's sputtering paused. His eyes widened. "Oh… that's why he doesn't shut up about her."

"Ew, gross, no, no more of that," said Harry, pressing his eyes behind his glasses as if that could rid the image of Snape waxing poetic about his teenage mother from them. "Besides that, I'll still pissed at you. What were you thinking, casting that spell at Sirius? I've only ever seen Voldemort use that one. You could have killed him."

Any good humor in Malfoy vanished. He looked away, his expression drawn.

Harry refused to let him off the hook, though. He waited staunchly for an answer.

"I didn't… mean to," said Malfoy eventually.

Rage and disbelief sparked in Harry, but he bit his tongue and forced himself to hear Malfoy out.

They had been on the same side for just a moment there. Neither of them had wanted Snape tormented as Sirius had done.

For God's sake, Malfoy had shown backbone in challenging Sirius to defend a friend's honor. It was… it was downright Gryffindor of him. Even Lily approved.

"My mother was a Black, as I believe I mentioned," continued Malfoy slowly, apparently choosing his words with care. "She taught me how to duel. She was afraid for me when the Dark Lord returned. She taught me how to win. And then Aunt Bella wanted to test me when she came to live at the manor. She… she actually fights a lot like your Sirius. Quick, aggressive…. She's the one who taught me that spell. The Dark Lord taught her, you see. She and Snape were his… pupils, I suppose, in the Dark Arts."

Harry crossed his arms and waited.

"I don't like fighting, Potter," said Malfoy at length, as if it cost him a great deal to admit. He didn't meet Harry's eyes. "Neither did my mother, actually. But, as I said, she did teach me to win. And when Black was casting those curses at me, all I could think about was Aunt Bella, and my mother watching in a panic, and I just knew I had to win at whatever the cost… and so I cast that spell. That's all. That's what happened."

Harry didn't respond.

He understood, unfortunately. He wanted to be angry; anger was familiar, safe. But he knew intimately how one just reacted when a wand was pointed in one's face, how he reacted, even when his loved ones were at the other end of the wand.

After what they had been through, the war and the torture and the desperation…

Harry sighed. He rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Alright," he said heavily. "I get it. Just… just don't do it again, alright? I haven't gone around attacking Snape. I'd appreciate the same courtesy, if you don't mind. Even though they're both unbearable at this point in their lives."

There was a pause, and then they abruptly began sniggering again.

When it was through, and Harry was wiping a tear from his eye, Malfoy asked slowly,

"What was that shield you cast? Against the lightning? Bellatrix assured me it couldn't be shielded against."

"Oh. Protego Horribilis. I heard Professor Flitwick cast it during… you know, the battle… and Voldemort was trying to break through it with that lightning, but it was taking a long time…" Harry shrugged. "I thought it couldn't hurt. It was the best I had."

Malfoy stared at him, pale, with his lips slightly parted. Finally, he shook his head and muttered disbelievingly, "Gryffindors."

…

Sirius reeked of smoke and sweat. His robes were singed, and a few holes had burned through to the skin leaving blisters and trickling blood in their place. A bruise was already beginning to form along his right cheekbone and jaw where he'd knocked his head against either the stage or the ground, James couldn't remember. There were doubtless other bruises on his ass and the back of his head where he'd been tossed back like a ragdoll from the explosions.

James supported him from the Great Hall with an arm around his shoulders, though Sirius could walk just fine.

He mostly seemed to be in shock.

They made it to the first moving staircase that would lead them up to the infirmary, and James prodded him up the steps with quiet encouragement.

Unease curled in James's stomach, even as he kept his voice low and soothing. He hadn't seen Sirius wrecked like this since… well, since that summer after their fifth year, when Sirius had appeared on James's doorstep in the dead of night in the middle of a thunderstorm. Sirius had been ashen, his clothes soaked through, bloody and ripped, and shaking from the aftereffects of the Cruciatus Curse as well as the cold.

It had been the night he had run away from home.

James had never gotten the full story about what had happened, only that he and his mother had gotten into an argument— nothing unusual there— but it had escalated until she had reached for her wand. When the usual Stinging Hexes and other minor curses failed to shut him up, it had gotten… bad.

Sirius had barely said a word to James or his parents for days while he recovered.

He had that same drawn, haunted look now.

So, James was surprised when Sirius murmured, "It was a joke. It was a joke, James. So, why were they acting like… like it was a matter of life or death?"

James squeezed Sirius's shoulder companionably as he considered his answer.

It was hard to pinpoint the exact moment he'd realized the duel was getting out of hand. Part of the problem was Sirius's innate dueling style: He was aggressive and had a huge arsenal of offensive spells at his beck and call. His reaction time and willingness to fight back under pressure were two of the things that made him an excellent duelist and Beater.

But Mallory had been cool and collected under that intense barrage. He had gotten off a few offensive spells of his own, sure, but he'd mainly fought defensively, hiding behind his Shield Charm or reflecting spells back at Sirius.

Sirius had started getting frustrated, James realized, thinking back on it. He hadn't been able to get through Mallory's defense, and Mallory wasn't giving him a good fight in return. Sirius hadn't even been able to make him move from that position Mallory had claimed at the start of the duel like a man planting a flag in the ground or drawing a line in the sand.

Sirius had been getting frustrated… and then Harry had called out that blasted suggestion. That helpful hint. That traitorous, backstabbing observation.

It still irked James that his fellow Gryffindor had not only joined the Slytherin team, but he had also helped Mallory win that first duel. It wasn't even his duel to win!

And when Mallory had finally spotted his target, he'd had a surprisingly good offensive game.

Sirius had gotten the fight he'd wanted, but he must have realized at that point that he also might lose.

Mallory had pressed his advantage, using Sirius's shaken confidence to boost his own, fighting more and more aggressively, fighting to win and damn the cost, fighting…

Fighting like his life depended on it.

Harry's words at breakfast came back to James.

"Fighting for your life… for your friends' lives… isn't the same as a duel."

"I think they've been through something bad, Pads," said James slowly, piecing it together. "I don't know what the war looks like over in America, but it sounds like they… well, they might have been in it. I don't think dueling is fun for them. I think it's serious. And if that Mallory bloke was willing to challenge you to one over Snape… well…." Here was the uncomfortable conclusion James had finally drawn, and he glanced at Sirius in worry. He finished, gently but immovably, "I think you might have gone too far this time. If Mallory and Harry were both willing to fight to what, in their heads, would be to the death, and they hardly know Snape…. Well, Pads… that should probably tell you something."

He clapped Sirius on the shoulder, bracing and sympathetic.

Sirius flinched, and James quickly took his hand away.

"Sorry, sorry…"

Sirius rubbed his injured shoulder and gave James a deeply unhappy look. He couldn't hold James's gaze for long, though, and he huffed out a breath and stared at the floor.

"They barely know Snape," Sirius repeated. "Do you think they'd feel the same if they knew he was a Death Eater? After whatever they've been through?"

"Oh, come on, you don't know he's a—"

"It's not bloody hard to spot, Prongs, of course he's—"

"You can't just say that about every Slytherin now!"

"You heard what Mulciber did to Mary last year, and she said Snape just stood there and watched!"

"Using Dark magic doesn't automatically make you a Death Eater—"

"Oh, it might as well!"

"—just look at your mum—"

"And Regulus!" snapped Sirius, loud enough to startle a Victorian witch out of her portrait.

James stopped in the middle of the corridor. It was deserted except for them and the paintings.

"And Regulus what?" asked James, dread filling his stomach like ice.

Sirius huffed out a deep breath and turned away. He ran a hand through his dark hair. After an unbearable silence, he said quietly, "Regulus took the Mark over the summer."

"You talked to him? When?"

"I was under the Cloak, going to the kitchens for a snack. He was walking by, bragging to his snaky little friends…. He was so proud of himself. Bet Mum's proud, too. Finally got the proper pureblood son she always wanted…."

James let out a slow breath and bowed his head. "Hell," he said eloquently.

"Yeah," muttered Sirius.

They stood like that for a while in silence.

"You know Rosier's one," said Sirius, shoving his hands deep in his pockets and staring at the floor. "You heard your dad complaining about the new policies his dad's enacting at the Ministry, forcing wizards to have a blood status interview before they can immigrate…. And the Rosiers run in the same circles as the Averys, and Avery would pull Mulciber in because he's shown the right attitude and has the right bloodlines…. Be serious, here, James. You think Snape has been their little cling-on for six years and hasn't even thought about joining them?"

"He was friends with Lily for years, though."

"And she kicked him to the curb because he kept calling her a Mu— a you-know-what!"

"Yeah…" muttered James, taking his turn to look at the floor while Sirius glared at him, daring him to argue.

James knew Sirius had brought that up because nothing made him hate Snape more than the reminder of how badly he'd treated Lily, but…. it didn't feel right.

He didn't want to see Sirius fall just as low as Snape to fight him. And Sirius was falling.

"He may be a Death Eater," said James softly. He looked up and caught Sirius's gaze, held it. "He may not be. That's not important. The world's not sorted into good people and Death Eaters. Some people are just bad. And you and me, mate? We can't fight Voldemort and Death Eaters if we're just going to go home and be bad people. We have to be better."

Sirius's brow furrowed, and his eyes were solemn, penetrating, as he held James's gaze.

James knew he was on treacherous ground, implying that Sirius was a bad person for his latest prank. Nothing was more volatile than a Sirius Black being likened to his shitty family. But even if James couldn't say it, Sirius needed to hear it.

Judging by that expression, he had.

James grabbed Sirius's uninjured shoulder and leaned forward until their foreheads were almost touching.

"We're gonna fight the good fight, aren't we?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"Damn straight," said Sirius.

"Damn straight," repeated James. "Not only are we going to fight Death Eaters, we're going to stand up to the regular arseholes, like that wizard Lily was talking about who was experimenting on House Elves, and gits who think werewolves shouldn't be allowed Gringotts accounts or wands. Right?"

"Right," said Sirius, nodding once. His shoulder was relaxing under James's hand.

"Right," said James. He clapped Sirius's shoulder and drew away. "I've got your back, Pads. We can do this. We're going to do this. Together. We'll be okay. You'll be okay."

Sirius nodded, but he looked away and swallowed hard.

"Thanks," he said eventually. "For the talk, and for the save back in the duel."

"What save?" asked James.

They started walking again toward the Hospital Wing.

"You know, the shield," said Sirius, waving a hand with effortless elegance, as if that would help clear up James's confusion. "When Mallory shot that gods-be-damned lightning at me. I would have been toast if you hadn't stepped in."

James stared sideways at his friend. "Uh, I think you might have hit your head harder than we realized. I didn't step in."

Sirius treated him to the same furrowed-brow sidelong look. "'Course you did. You cast Protego Horribilis. I didn't even know that one existed."

"Padfoot, I'm telling you: I didn't step in. I don't even know what Protego Horribilis is. You're probably hallucinating like that time we took that purple potion, remember?"

"Of course, I remember the purple spirit quest potion!" snapped Sirius. "This is different. I'm sure I saw you jump between me and that lightning! Prongs!"

James laughed and held out his hands in surrender. Inwardly, he calculated how much quicker they could get to the Hospital Wing if they took that secret passageway behind the bouquet of sheep portrait.

"Don't whine at me; it's not going to change the truth. Hey, c'mere, mate, let's go this way…."

"Why would—?"

"Don't worry about it. Just move faster."

…

TBC…

Chapter Text

"He felt that he was still groping in the dark; he had chosen his path but kept looking back, wondering whether he had misread the signs, whether he should not have taken the other way."

J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

Chapter 7: Looking back

James plopped onto the bench next to Harry at breakfast the following morning as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He was playing with a Snitch exactly like Harry had seen in Snape's memory from his fifth year.

Harry eyed him and the Snitch warily. He knew James and Sirius were upset over how he'd helped Malfoy win the duel against Sirius. They hadn't exactly been shy with their grumbling the night before. Harry had heard a number of mutterings on the themes of traitors and shame and disappointment.

Mention of revenge had been suspiciously absent.

"Morning!" James said cheerily.

"Morning…?" said Harry.

Remus gave him a sympathetic look and took the seat on Harry's other side.

Well, if Remus was in on it, it couldn't be too bad, Harry reasoned, returning to his breakfast. Remus would at least warn him if it were terrible.

It was either that or Remus was a target, too, for his role in staging the duel under the professors' noses.

"Say, is that the Prophet?" James asked, catching sight of the abandoned paper in front of Harry's plate. "May I?"

Harry nodded. It wasn't his, anyway. He hadn't set up a subscription in this timeline, hoping to be gone before he needed to catch up on "current" events.

That and— and Hedwig brought him the Prophet. He didn't know how he would react, especially sitting in the Great Hall of Hogwarts where he had spent six years watching for Hedwig with the morning owls, if some other owl started bringing him the paper instead.

It made a small part of him angry, and he didn't know why.

He didn't examine the thought too closely.

James took the paper with a thanks and then— impressive even by Harry's standards— started to read with one hand and occasionally swipe the Snitch out of the air with the other.

Harry caught himself staring at the Snitch, a feeling of dread curling in his stomach. He remembered the Snitch Dumbledore had left him in his final will, the one Harry had almost swallowed in his very first Quidditch match. He remembered the simple, yet cryptic, engraving that had haunted him, Ron, and Hermione for months while they were on the run. 

I open at the close.

It was surreal, almost mesmerizing, to watch James toying with it knowing that a Snitch… sometime twenty years in the future, a Snitch holding the Resurrection Stone would bring James back as a ghost.

And the ghost of James Potter would smile at Harry and walk with him to his death.

I open at the close— I am about to die.

That James had loved Harry more than anything in the world. More than his own life.

This James looked entirely suspicious as he tried to feign innocence, a kid out for petty revenge.

"—Harry?"

Harry tore his eyes away from the Snitch flapping in James's fist to find Remus watching him expectantly.

He had missed the question.

"Sorry," he said, "what?"

Remus smiled easily. "I just asked what your plans were for today. Since most of the Houses are holding their Quidditch tryouts, and James and Sirius usually try to spy on the competition…."

"Oi," said James, whacking the Prophet onto the table to better give Remus a look of hurt and betrayal. "You're not going to come watch the Gryffindor tryouts? Moony. It's like I don't even know you anymore."

"You'll still have Peter to cheer for you in the otherwise deserted stands," Remus told him with mock solemnity. "But I, for one, thought this would be my only chance in six years not to watch Sirius chase off his potential fellow Beaters with a bat that gives people wedgies unless they hold it exactly to his standards."

Sirius, across from James and Harry, gave a fond chuckle. "Oh, Wendall the Wedgie Bat. Or should I use Wiggle Whipperpants this year?"

"I'll leave it up to your discretion," James said seriously. "We've got five applicants for the other Beater position. We need to weed out the unworthy. I want that Cup."

"You got it," said Sirius with a flourishing salute, made more eye-catching by the bagel topped with a sheer tower of bacon and eggs that survived the motion. "Screamy McMindfuck it is. You know, the one that—"

"—randomly shouts out your darkest secrets, threatens to kill you in the way you fear most, and then sobs hysterically until you cuddle it?" said James, stroking his chin pensively. "Yeah, mate, good choice. Quidditch can be a high-stress sport. We don't want anyone who cracks under pressure."

"So, Harry," said Remus, looking a little wild around the eyes. "Any… other… plans?"

"Sorry," said Harry again, side-eyeing his future father and godfather with mounting apprehension. "Just studying in the library with Mallory again."

"You two do that a lot," Remus observed. "But you seem to be doing well in classes. Is the curriculum really that different than Ilvermorny's?"

Harry floundered, as he did every time someone expressed interest in Ilvermorny. "Er— yeah— we just…"

"Blimey," James said loudly, saving Harry from further stammering. He was looking at the Prophet with a stormy, pained expression. "The Jarlsbergers were found dead yesterday. Henry and Midge. They were friends with my parents."

"What happened?" asked Remus, setting down his toast.

"It doesn't say," said James, continuing to scan through the article. Harry caught a glimpse of a photo over his shoulder, presumably of Henry and Midge Jarlsberger. They were an older couple, probably well into their seventies or eighties, and were holding a trophy of some sort, laughing and bright-eyed. "There were no signs of a struggle. Their wards didn't register anyone outside of the family…."

Sirius made a grabby motion, and James passed him the paper looking dazed.

Sirius barely glanced at it before he closed it and passed it back. "Imperius Curse. Looks like someone got Midge."

"How can you tell?" asked James. He ran his hands through his hair, though for once, it looked like a genuine reaction to stress rather than an attempt to look good for Lily.

"Said they let their house elf go three weeks ago, and then Midge put in overtime in her volunteer work at the Muggle-born outreach program."

"So?" asked Peter, next to Sirius, while the others attempted to connect those two statements.

Sirius shrugged and went back to his breakfast, though his expression was dark. "Who better to tell when their mistress is acting odd than her faithful house elf? Nobody casting an Imperius can account for every little thing, like whether the victim takes two sugars with their tea or three. Maybe they know they like red wine over white, but do they prefer a Cabernet or a Bordeaux? Goblin-made or French? The best acting in the world can't fool a house elf. She's the first to go. Then the Muggle-born outreach program? Perfect for Death Eaters looking for targets. Midge had a list of names and addresses at her fingertips. Probably took three weeks for her to copy them all down and hand over to the Death Eater cursing her."

"Oh, my God," said James. "We have to warn them!"

"Write to your dad," suggested Sirius. "He deserves to know, if he hasn't figured it out for himself already. And he's got contacts in the outreach program from being friends with Midge so long, right?"

James nodded, already rummaging through his robes for a spare bit of parchment and a quill, Harry thought. Either that, or he was patting himself down very indecently in public. With him, it was usually a toss-up.

Remus passed Harry a square of parchment and quill, and Harry passed it to James silently.

James didn't bother with a thanks, just started writing.

He was still clutching the Snitch in one hand, forgotten.

Harry's chest ached.

"Hey," said Sirius, jutting his chin toward the Slytherin table. "What's your friend talking to Regulus about?"

"He's not my—"

Sirius kicked Harry under the table.

"Ow! Well, he's not—"

Sirius kicked him again.

"Ow!" Harry scowled and moved his knees closer to Remus, hopefully out of Sirius's range. "How should I know what they're talking about? I don't have Extendable Ears."

Sirius gave him an odd look.

Harry abruptly realized the phrase "extendable ears" probably sounded strange to someone who had never met the Weasley twins. However, he rubbed his throbbing shins, scowled, and didn't deign to explain.

Sirius huffed and went back to his food.

Lily, Mary, Marlene, and Gertrude chose that moment to emerge into the hall.

Lily took the spot on Sirius's other side, across from Harry, while the rest of the girls clustered nearby.

She looked at Sirius's plate with an expression of fond exasperation. "Going for the Ultimate Everything Bagel again?"

"The ultimatiest," Sirius confirmed. His bagel, last supporting a tower of bacon and eggs when Harry looked, was now stacked with strawberries, cantaloupe, porridge, potatoes, and cornflakes.

Lily sighed and rolled her eyes. She looked at Harry and said, "First Hogsmeade weekend next week. Have you heard of it?"

"Hogsmeade?" said Harry. "Oh. Yeah. Little wizarding village nearby, isn't it?"

Lily nodded. "Will you be going? They should have sent your parents a permission slip over the summer."

Harry's heart twinged again. He glanced between Lily and James, one bright and hopeful, the other working furiously on his letter, and then at Sirius, who was adding a layer of cheese to his absurdly tall bagel.

Lily and James should have given him permission in his third year. Sirius, despite being on the run, did.

"I don't need a parent's permission," he said. "We're adults at seventeen in the wizarding world, remember?"

Lily flushed but attempted a smile valiantly. "Ah, right. Silly of me. I keep forgetting."

"It still feels weird to me, too, sometimes," Harry admitted. "I grew up with my aunt and uncle, who were Muggles."

"Really?" Lily's tone was pleasantly surprised. "You're Muggle-born, too? Somehow, I don't think you've ever mentioned that before."

"Uh, not really," Harry said with an awkward shrug. Sometimes conversations with Lily took on a bizarre undertone when he remembered this was his mother, but they so rarely talked about their parents it was usually easy to forget. He hadn't had such a mindboggling interaction yet. "I'm a half-blood, but my mum was a Muggle-born. I grew up with her side of the family."

Harry could see it the moment Lily understood the sensitive ground she'd stumbled onto. She had opened her mouth, bright and curious, then stopped as it clicked. If Harry didn't live with his parents, there was probably a good reason. And there was a war on— a war where Muggles and Muggle-borns were prime targets, and Harry had just admitted his mother was Muggle-born. Even if his father was pureblood, he had married a Muggle-born, and that made him a blood traitor, just as bad in some people's eyes.

"Oh," she said. "I'm sorry."

It's okay, was Harry's usual answer, born out of years of not even remembering his parents, but somehow the words stuck in his throat this time.

Lily was looking at him with such earnest pain and sympathy in her green eyes.

His green eyes.

She was so alive. So real.

Harry couldn't tell her it was okay that she was dead.

Tears pricked his eyes, and he looked down at his lap. He managed a short, jerking nod of acknowledgement. He wanted to say me, too, but his throat was too tight.

He was saved from further awkwardness by the arrival of a small brown owl, which landed in front of Marlene and Gertrude as if it had been waiting for them. It stuck out its leg with a letter attached.

Marlene had scarcely gone to untie it before James was throwing himself full-body onto the table.

Plates, serving platters, and food went soaring like twin tidal waves on either side of his body.

One of the girls shrieked. Or it might have been Pettigrew.

"Marlene! I need that owl!"

"James Potter, let go of Gingerweed right now!"

"It's an emergency!"

"What? Don't you point your wand at my owl! You want a tentacle head?"

"Marle— ah!"

"Thanks," said Remus to Harry, turning to ignore the scuffle happening right in front of him. He leaned back to avoid one of James's flailing legs. "You're very good at that shield charm."

"No problem," said Harry, releasing the protego. He and Remus were the only two seventh year Gryffindors not covered in splattered breakfast food. Some of the other years and nearby Houses weren't as lucky, either. "It's— ah— come in handy more than once."

"This school year alone," said Remus appreciatively. He continued their previous conversation as if nothing had interrupted, "Hogsmeade is well worth a visit, if you think you can skip one weekend at the library, of course. There's this wonderful little bookshop, even, if you'd like to look at some additional resources. And we usually have lunch at the local pub, the Three Broomsticks. They make an excellent chocolate cream pie—"

"Speaking of the Three Broomsticks," said Sirius, also ignoring James and Marlene's duel-slash-food-fight, "we need to stock up on booze when we go out. We're about to be rolling in Quidditch wins and afterparties. Let no one say we were caught unprepared."

"No one would dare," said Remus dryly.

"That must be some letter," said Lily, watching the scuffle with her hand inching almost subconsciously toward her wand like she was about to break them up at any moment. She had porridge and bits of egg in her hair, though she had brushed off most of the crumbs from the toast that had hit her square in the nose. "We've mentioned both Hogsmeade and the Three Broomsticks, and he hasn't tried to ask me out once."

"Usually, he'll try asking her out for the whole weekend first," Remus told Harry matter-of-factly. "Then when she turns him down, he'll try wheedling her out for one drink at the Broomsticks."

"Poor sad sod never takes it any easier, either," Sirius added. "Quidditch tryouts or no, he'll be moping the rest of the week."

He gave Lily a dark look, as if blaming her for ruining their first Quidditch event of the year.

Lily glared right back. "How's your everything bagel?" she asked cuttingly.

Sirius looked down at the spot where his plate had been and went slack with shock. "MY BAGEL! PRONGS!"

He leapt up and tackled James on top of the table.

Harry, Remus, and Marlene dove out of the way as the boys went careening off the table on their side.

"HA!" shouted James, holding up a round, feathery mass from the tangle of his and Sirius's limbs. "Go, Gingerweed, go! To Potter Manor!"

He threw the owl into the air and then promptly disappeared under Sirius's bulk with a surprised ack!

"I almost had it this time, Prongs! Everything on my everything bagel! Everything!"

"You say that every time, Padfoot!" James shouted, wrestling him for position on top. "But it's a pipedream! A pipedream! You can never fit it into your mouth! Not once have you—"

Sirius got him in a headlock and toppled him off to the side. "I had it this time! This time, I only put edible things on it! It would have worked!"

James bucked until he managed to flip Sirius off-balance and get free of the headlock. "Then it's not an everything bagel, is it?"

Sirius gasped as if he had been stabbed.

"They'll be at this a while," said Remus. "So, what are you studying in the library now?"

"Uh," said Harry. "Just… you know. Stuff."

Remus stared at him.

"Eloquent as usual, Parker," Malfoy's voice drawled behind them.

Harry turned around to scowl at him. "Well, what would you call it?"

"Independent study of practical applications of theoretical magic," said Malfoy with a smirk.

Harry rolled his eyes. In doing so, he caught a glimpse of gold near the ceiling, close to the head table, and had to stop himself from turning toward it like a hunting dog.

James had released the Snitch, probably the moment he dove onto the table after Marlene and Gertrude's owl.

I open at the close. I open at the close.

Dumbledore's last will and testament. Months in a cold, dingy tent struggling to figure out what those last words meant, if it was a clue that could bring down Voldemort or save their lives.

I open at the close.

"What were you and Regulus talking about?" Harry asked, forcing his mind back to Malfoy instead of a clearing in the Forbidden Forest filled with Death Eaters, Hagrid, and Voldemort.

Filled with Harry and four beloved ghosts.

"He was just congratulating me on the duel," said Malfoy, feigning indifference, but Harry could see the slight flush in his cheeks and the way his chin tilted up. "And asking me if I'd like to try out for the House Quidditch team. He's the new captain."

"Isn't he the Seeker, though?" asked Harry, thinking back to the photograph he had found in Sirius's room at Grimmauld Place. Regulus, he was positive, had been sitting in the Seeker's usual position within the team formation.

"How'd you know that?" asked Sirius sharply.

He and James had bounded back to their feet, grinning and panting, but Sirius's face turned suspicious as he caught Harry's question.

Harry felt his hackles rise, and he looked away from his future godfather. "Dunno," he muttered. "Must have heard it somewhere, mustn't I?"

"He is," Malfoy answered the original question, his tone clipped, and Harry could feel him leveling Sirius a scathing look. "I am considering it, however. I've always made a handy Keeper as well as Seeker, and the spot is open."

"You're a Seeker?" asked James and, as if the Snitch were in on his plan, he caught the flyaway Snitch out of the air, cheeky and effortless.

I open at the close.

I am about to die.

James released the Snitch again, preparing to toy with it some more, but Harry couldn't take it anymore.

As the Snitch darted away from James, almost too quick to see, Harry snatched it out of the air.

He held onto it, knuckles turning white, and said as evenly as he could, "So was I."

He stood up and nodded to Malfoy. "Come on. Library."

James and Sirius stood, gaping, as they walked away.

Harry threw the Snitch in the rubbish bin on his way out.

"Finally," he heard Lily say from behind them. "That is the most annoying habit ever, Potter."

Harry didn't feel like smiling. He didn't know if he'd ever be able to play Quidditch again without thinking about the Resurrection Stone inside the Snitch, of walking to his own death.

Of James and Lily and Sirius and Remus as ghosts.

They had looked more real than ever as he was about to join them.

"You don't think you'll try out for Gryffindor?" asked Malfoy as they headed down the twisting corridors.

"No," said Harry. "I don't think so."

"Potter, you love flying."

"I used to," said Harry, shoulders tensing. "How can you now? After what happened to Crabbe…."

It was Malfoy's turn to tense. His jaw clicked shut as they stopped and waited for a staircase to shift over to them.

After a stony moment of silence, Malfoy said, "The war took too many things I cared about. It won't get flying, too. If you were half the Gryffindor I thought you were, you wouldn't let it take something you loved from you, either."

The staircase arrived, and they climbed up.

Harry didn't know what to say.

The war had taken too many things from him, too, but he hadn't gotten a choice about those. Why would flying be any different?

If losses were choices, he would far rather have given up his Firebolt than his parents, than Sirius or Remus or even Dumbledore. Moody. Fred. Snape. Ron and Hermione.

"You won, Potter," said Malfoy eventually, as they neared the library doors. "Why do you walk around like you were the one defeated?"

Harry didn't know what to say to that either.

How could Draco Malfoy understand the cost of winning? How could he understand the responsibility and the guilt that had been laid at Harry's feet from the moment he turned eleven years old?

They made their way to their usual table in the restricted section. Madam Pince didn't even ask to see their permission slip from Dumbledore every single time anymore.

They selected the books they had been working through lately and took their seats.

Sometimes being in the past still felt like a dream, like he would wake up and find that it had all taken place in his head over a single restless night. Like he would wake up to Hermione or Ron shaking him awake to take his turn watching outside the tent.

It always felt like he would wake back up in the tent.

Defeating Voldemort still didn't feel real most of the time, even when he had been back in his proper timeline. After spending the past seven years agonizing over it, sacrificing for it, fighting tooth and nail with everything he had, with everything at stake…. It was surreal to think it was just… done. After a single night.

A terrible night, yes. God, yes.

But a single night and a single spell and done.

It all still felt like a dream.

But sometimes…

Harry caught a glimpse of frizzy brown hair through the shelf behind Malfoy, and he opened his mouth to ask Hermione to grab that Old English book of translations—

Sometimes the reality of it hit him like he was a bug on a windshield.

He closed his mouth and looked away, eyes burning again.

That wasn't Hermione on the other side of the shelf.

Hermione wasn't there, even though it was the Hogwarts library, and why would Harry be there if Hermione wasn't?

Dolohov had killed her.

Dolohov, who was as free as a bird in this timeline, torturing poor Gertrude before he planned to kill her too. Dolohov, with Voldemort, who was still alive and reigning in terror, despite the fact that Harry had died to defeat him.

Harry's fists clenched around his book. His foot tapped rhythmically against the leg of the table.

He tried to breathe.

His desire to kill Dolohov for what he had done hadn't lessened over the past few weeks.

If anything, it kept him up more at night. Why was he at Hogwarts going to lessons, making friends with Lily, Mary, and the McKinnons, when he could be out there hunting Dolohov down like a dog? Sure, Dumbledore had insisted they not alter the future, but in what possible way could getting rid of Dolohov be bad?

More and more it seemed like a better use of his time than going back to school and spending fruitless hours in the library with Malfoy.

If Dumbledore and Malfoy were right, getting back to the future was already within Harry's power. They wouldn't find what they were looking for in the library.

Until Harry figured it out for himself, they were stuck, and he should be doing something more useful with their rare opportunity than going to school and working on homework and worrying about upcoming N.E.W.T.s.

After a couple of hours, Malfoy set down his book, stretched, and raked a hand through his chestnut hair.

Harry caught himself staring, distracted by the sudden movement, he was sure.

The long, lean lines created by Malfoy's torso, back, and arms as he stretched were far more interesting than the horribly dense Old English tome he had been struggling through. And— Harry just couldn't get used to him being a brunet.

It made him… softer. Something about his pointy face just smoothed out with a frame of darker, loose hair highlighted by gentle waves. It made Harry focus on his eyes, he realized.

His eyes had changed. They were no longer sharp and derisive. There was nothing gleefully mocking in his face anymore. There were bags under his eyes and faint lines of worry and grief.

Harry looked away, suddenly self-conscious. At least his thoughts on Dolohov had been derailed.

"I think that's enough for me," said Malfoy, finishing his stretch. "Slytherin tryouts are in a few minutes."

"I'll come with," said Harry's mouth, before his brain caught up. He didn't know what look he had on his face— hopefully it wasn't as embarrassing as he suspected— but Malfoy stared at him, giving a single blink of surprise. Then he looked Harry up and down calculatingly.

Harry's horror mounted as Malfoy failed to turn him down straightaway.

"Alright," said Malfoy. "Meet me out at the pitch in thirty. I need to change first."

"Right," said Harry, his mouth continuing where his brain stalled. "See you there."

They left their books for Madam Pince to return to the shelves and went their separate ways in the corridor outside.

Harry wondered if Malfoy felt as mortified by their awkward goodbye as he did.

His heart hammered as he wandered up to the Gryffindor tower for his cloak.

Why had he volunteered to watch Malfoy try out for the Slytherin team? Harry wasn't on the Gryffindor team. He didn't need to spy on the competition like James and Sirius. Moreover, just the sight of a Snitch at breakfast had made him break out in a cold sweat. He didn't know…. It was stupid, but…. The last time he had been on a broom, Crabbe had died. He had been screaming, shrill and animalistic, as flames devoured him. Harry would remember that sound for the rest of his life. The last time he had been surrounded by his friends on broomsticks had been when he'd left Privet Drive for the final time. Mad-Eye Moody had died, killed by Voldemort as Harry and Hagrid tried to outrun him on that horrible flying motorbike, and Harry had been terrified Hagrid had died, too, plummeting from the sky after jumping off to attack a flying Death Eater.

He didn't know how he would react to a stupid Quidditch game. He didn't know if he would be able to keep himself grounded, if he'd keep his head and remember it was just a game.

Why the hell had he volunteered to go with Malfoy when he knew he'd just spend the next couple of hours wrestling with memories of everyone around him dying? What part of that had sounded like a good time?

Harry rubbed a hand over his face as he gave the Fat Lady the password and let himself into the common room.

He had liked Quidditch once. Maybe he still did— or could. Maybe it had been Malfoy's comment earlier about not letting the war take anything else from him.

Or maybe Harry's subconscious had thought of Malfoy as Ron: familiar, a friend. And going to Quidditch tryouts with Ron was always a no-brainer.

Malfoy would be horrified by the thought he and Ron could be mistaken for one another in any way, but maybe.

"Oh, Harry," greeted Remus, looking up from his book where he was seated by the fireplace.

There were only a handful of students in the common room, most outside to enjoy the pleasant weather before winter shortened the days and chilled the ground.

"Done with your library work already?" asked Remus, glancing at the stout grandfather clock on the mantle.

"Uh, yeah," said Harry. "We weren't really making much progress, anyway. Thought I'd go watch some Quidditch tryouts after all."

Remus looked at the clock again and raised his eyebrows. "Better hurry if you want to catch the last of Gryffindor's. Ravenclaw went first thing this morning, and Slytherin will be starting anytime now. Hufflepuff is waiting until tomorrow."

"Right," said Harry, ducking his head to hide his expression. Remus was more understanding of his… camaraderie… with Malfoy, but he didn't want to advertise he meant to see the Slytherin tryouts rather than Gryffindor's. "I'll— uh— just grab my cloak and be off, then."

He hurried up the stairs, unable to shake the feeling of Remus looking after him with an amused twist of his lips.

He got to the pitch just in time to see the end of Gryffindor's first new-team scrimmage. He could pick out James effortlessly, and the sight made him pause, breath catching.

James was the star of the team. He flew… not quite like a bird. He was steadier than a bird's sporadic, playful flight, and Harry got the impression he knew his weight and knew exactly how to move it to his advantage. He winded around the other players with speed and grace and intent. There was no wasted movement. It was clear he had a plan, a mental map, and years of experience. He tossed the Quaffle, caught the Quaffle, and threw it for a goal all with the same fluidity, never slowing or hesitating even as he accounted for his teammates' flight patterns.

He was a natural— a natural Chaser, a natural leader.

Harry's chest ached suddenly and powerfully, that deep, dark emotion welling up inside him with interminable force.

He wondered for the first time in his life: What could James Potter have done, who could he have been, if he hadn't died so very young?

Whatever it was, he would have been incredible.

Grief rose in Harry not for himself and the father he'd lost, but for James and the life he could have had. It wasn't just Harry's loss. The wizarding world, Sirius and Remus's generation especially, had lost something truly remarkable with the death of James Potter.

"Ah, Parker," said a voice at once very familiar and oddly foreign. "Not trying out for Gryffindor?"

Harry spun and found himself face-to-face with Sirius in Slytherin robes. Then he blinked, and it wasn't Sirius. His eyes were too pale, though they had that same sharp, intense look Sirius often got, and his face was a little rounder, softer and younger. He might have been about an inch or two shorter, too, but the Quidditch boots made it hard to judge.

"Regulus," said Harry, thinking of his bedroom door at Grimmauld Place, of a fake Horcrux and a note signed R.A.B. Of Kreacher's profound loyalty and grief.

Regulus's dark eyebrows raised, a practiced, elegant motion.

Harry rewound what he'd said in his mind and had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. Regulus was going to stand on propriety when Harry had been in his bedroom, had lived out of his house at times and inherited his house elf. He was going to stand on propriety when Harry knew how he died.

"Sorry," said Harry, dry enough to crumble at a touch. "Black. Just a bit difficult when 'Black' is also my roommate."

"If he had any decency, he'd change his name," said Regulus stiffly. "He's been disowned."

Harry stiffened in response. "Maybe you lot should change your names. He's done a lot more good with the name of Black than anyone else in generations."

Regulus's brows furrowed. It wasn't Sirius's look of stormy anger but more quizzical, puzzled.

"How odd you are, Parker," murmured Regulus. "Yesterday you were ready to duel my brother. And today you talk about him as if he were a hero. How very odd."

"Our relationship is complicated."

"If you managed to weasel your way into a relationship under Potter and Lupin's noses, and despite Mallory, I'd be inclined to agree."

Harry opened his mouth to argue— he had a list of disputes with that single statement— when Malfoy arrived, a trickle of other students in green and silver flying gear behind him.

"Black, Parker," said Malfoy easily, cutting in before Harry got started. "Were you congratulating Parker on the duel, as well, then?"

Regulus cocked his head, studying Harry. On Sirius, it was always an amusingly dog-like movement. On Regulus, it was birdlike, a little more predatory, a little more alien.

"Yes," Regulus said, after a measured pause. He was still looking at Harry as if Harry were a puzzle he meant to solve. "I did mean to congratulate you, Parker. It was impressive the way you analyzed Sirius's fighting style and saw his weaknesses so quickly. A man with your skills would go far… in life."

Harry frowned at the undoubtedly intentional pause in there. It was clear he meant to imply something else, something specific, but seemed to be feeling Harry out before he confided his true thoughts.

"What—?"

"That'd be a no," said Malfoy, his normally composed expression slightly wide-eyed and frantic around the seams. "He's a bit slow, but he would definitely decline, thank you. Now. Don't we have a field to take over from the Gryffindors?"

Regulus cast Malfoy an unreadable look before he nodded and glanced up at the still-playing Gryffindors.

"POTTER!" he bellowed so loudly and so suddenly, Harry almost jumped out of his skin. "GET YOUR RUBBISH TEAM OFF MY PITCH BEFORE WE START USING YOU FOR TARGET PRACTICE!"

Great Merlin, he's got his mother's lungs, Harry thought, taking a step away from Regulus and pressing his hands experimentally against his ears to see if he could still hear over the ringing. His heart was hammering at the sudden adrenaline rush.

"Couldn't have done a Sonorus?" muttered Malfoy irritably, still cringing as he uncovered his own ears.

"Might have shattered the windows back at the castle if I yelled on top of a Sonorus, mightn't it?" Regulus remarked. He sounded droll, and Harry couldn't tell if he was joking or not.

"Keep your hair on!" James called back at a much more reasonable volume. "Lost track of time. C'mon, you lot! Time to celebrate! That Cup is ours for sure this year!"

The Gryffindor team whooped and descended in a flurry of scarlet and gold and breathless laughter. Harry caught the smell of the wind on their robes, fresher than rain and even more exhilarating. They tromped past the Slytherins without even glancing at them, heading back toward the locker rooms.

Regulus ghosted from Harry's side to take charge of his Slytherin team candidates, directing them and the equipment toward the center of the field.

"Ah, Harry!" said James brightly, catching sight of him. "You came, after all! Hey, what did you think of that last play with the Peruvian barrel roll? Spent all summer coming up with it!"

If he was planning a secret revenge prank, he was a damn good actor. He seemed genuinely pleased to see Harry.

"It was great," said Harry, his defenses weakened with honesty. "You're an amazing flyer."

"Ah, well," said James, preening. Harry suspected he was trying to feign modesty with that shrug, but it ended up looking more like he was flexing to show off his well-muscled shoulders, which were a bit broader than Harry's.

Harry found himself smiling despite himself.

"And what were you and Reggie chatting about before he started shrieking like a banshee?" asked Sirius archly, taking off his gloves and wrist braces.

"Can't your brother have a conversation without you sticking your nose in it?" Harry snapped, his pleasure in James's companionship disappearing like a candle being snuffed. "It's no wonder you two can't get along if you never leave him alone. He's his own person, you know, and he's allowed to talk to who he wants about what he wants."

"When I leave him alone," Sirius began heatedly, "he makes stupid decisions that get him in trouble!"

"And you've never done that before." Harry was surprised he didn't choke, he used so much sarcasm.

Sirius's expression was almost funny. He didn't seem to know whether to be shocked, offended, angry, or confused. "You have no idea what I—"

"A complicated relationship indeed," came Regulus's voice, still droll, as he appeared with crossed arms and raised eyebrows. "Sirius, it seems we have a genuine Gryffindor-Slytherin mediator in Mr. Parker. You wanted to know what we were talking about? I insulted you, and he came to your defense saying you were the best person to bear the name 'Black' in generations."

Sirius's face went utterly blank. Even James's eyes widened in surprise.

"And now you've insulted me, he jumps to my defense," finished Regulus. He glanced sidelong at Harry and said to Sirius, "I wonder what he would do if I insulted you to your face? Which of us would he jump to the aid of?"

They were all looking at Harry as if they had never seen anything so fascinating.

Harry crossed his arms defensively and muttered, "Sirius can stand up for himself."

Sirius's face scrunched in consternation, but Regulus's lips tilted, the beginning of a smile.

"Interesting," said Regulus quietly. "Are you complimenting Sirius's ability to defend himself, or are you saying you wouldn't come to his defense if I were to verbally eviscerate him?"

Harry refused to answer, even though they seemed to be waiting for it.

"I wonder where your true loyalties lie," murmured Regulus. Then he looked at James and said, much louder, "Get off my field, Potter. Parker, you may stay and watch if you like."

With that, he swanned off.

The silence he left behind fell heavy and stifling.

Harry heard his blood rushing through his veins. His breath was too fast.

Here he was, yet again at odds with his future father and godfather.

He just— Regulus had died to thwart Voldemort's plans. And instead of making Kreacher drink that potion in the cave a second time, he had done it himself. He had chosen to sacrifice his own life instead of a house elf's, despite everything he must have been raised to believe. And Sirius— Sirius had died rushing to Harry's rescue. Stupid, reckless… wonderful, brilliant, loyal Sirius.

Why couldn't Harry have it both ways? Why shouldn't he defend both Black brothers, even from one another? If they only knew…

"Why would you say that about me?" Sirius's question finally broke the uncomfortable silence. He looked so lost, so confused. "You don't even like me."

Harry's breath was short. He clenched his fists, his nails digging bloody crescents into his palms.

"I don't…" he began but had to stop and catch his breath. He tried again, voice hoarse, "I don't hate you. I just…."

I just want you to be my Sirius.

Something jagged lodged itself in Harry's throat, and he couldn't speak. He could barely breathe.

"Come on, Pads," said James quietly, taking Sirius by the arm even as he gave Harry a concerned look. "They're about to start…. See you, Harry…."

Harry didn't respond. He closed his eyes, clenched his fists, and tried to get air back into his lungs.

"Get it together, Scar-head," said Malfoy, and Harry felt the pressure of a hand grasping his shoulder. He clung to it, trying to ground himself in any way he could. Malfoy continued, "You've never seen me play Keeper before. You've got to watch."

And then he was gone, joining the small crowd gathered around Regulus to hear how tryouts would be held.

By the time Harry could breathe and open his eyes without the world going dark around the edges, the flyers were in the air.

He watched only half-heartedly, his mind on death, as he had known it would be.

It had been great, he thought weakly and with a shade of bitterness, for that one moment he had watched James fly.

Sirius and Remus had always told Harry he flew like his father. Now he had seen it for himself, perhaps for the only time he ever would.

Because Harry and Draco might leave, return to their time, before Malfoy even got to play his first match as a Keeper. And then James would be dead again. Just like all the others.

Harry tried not to think about it. He really, honestly, desperately tried. He couldn't bear thinking about returning to his own timeline, about having to move forward in a place where Ron and Hermione were gone.

He focused on the Slytherin tryouts as hard as he could.

Regulus was a graceful flyer. Not flashy by any means, but a Seeker didn't need to be flashy. They just needed to be observant and fast. By his scrupulous judging of the candidates, he was both.

How long did he have left? Two years, two and a half?

Two and a half years for Regulus Black to go from this epitome of a pureblood heir, a perfect Slytherin, a talented Quidditch player, to a young man disillusioned about his entire life and prepared to die in order to change it.

Two and a half years for Regulus Black to become one of the grasping, decomposing Inferi beneath the surface of a lake in a far-distant cave.

Since Ron and Hermione's…

Well.

Harry was the only wizard alive who ever found out what had happened to him. His family, his friends, Voldemort… they had never learned the truth.

He forced his eyes away from Regulus.

Malfoy was a good Keeper. Better than Ron by a longshot, if only by his consistency.

Even from the stands where Harry sat alone, he could see Malfoy's grin, sharpened by that familiar edge of competitiveness.

He was enjoying himself.

Harry looked away, disquiet prickling, and studied the other players, trying to pick out which ones were regular team members and which were auditioning.

The hour went by in a blur. At some point, the rejects began to join Harry in the stands and watch the rest of the candidates, and then the slapdash practice of the new team playing together for the first time.

Malfoy made Keeper.

Harry only noticed it was over when the audience around him began to get up to leave. He trailed after them. His foot had barely stepped onto the grass at the bottom of the stands before Malfoy was there, cheeks flushed from the bite of the wind and brown hair swept back from his face like spun sugar. The rest of the Slytherin team made for the locker rooms, but Malfoy stopped by Harry and plucked his goggles from his face.

"Well?" he asked, breathless from exertion but still grinning. "Am I as good a Keeper as Seeker, do you think?"

Harry tried for his own competitive grin, but it felt false. "Hard to say, isn't it? You never once beat me as a Seeker."

"Oh, shove off!" Malfoy laughed. He seemed lighter than he had been in weeks. "We can't all be as bloody reckless as the Boy Who Lived. Some of us want to continue living."

"I wasn't reckless… unnecessarily."

"Implying there's a necessary amount of recklessness?"

Harry shrugged. "What's Quidditch without a few broken bones?"

Malfoy let out a startled laugh, and then he said, "Merlin, the sad part is I think you actually believe that. Was there a single year that went by without you ending up in the hospital wing?"

Harry opened his mouth to retort but then stopped. He thought about it.

Malfoy's teasing expression turned thoughtful, too.

"Hm," said Harry. "That's weird. First year, maybe? I ended up in the hospital wing, but I don't think it was Quidditch related…."

He thought about it some more.

"I understand why I can't remember," said Malfoy eventually, "seeing as I wasn't even in your House. But it concerns me that you can't even remember."

Harry shrugged once, still trying to recall. "First year I nearly swallowed the Snitch, but I only ended up in the hospital wing at the end of the year over the philosopher's stone incident. Second year—"

"Ugh, that rogue Bludger to the arm. And then that imbecile removed your bones. Most disgusting thing I've seen in my life."

"Cheers. Third year, those dementors…."

Malfoy shuddered. "I hated you," he assured Harry. "But my stomach still sinks every time I remember you falling. Merlin, you were so high, and it was so stormy we couldn't even see what had happened until you were halfway to the ground."

"Yeah, you arsehole, I still remember you dressing up as dementors the next game trying to get a rise out of me, thanks."

"It would have been hilarious," said Malfoy primly, sticking his nose in the air, "except, for some unfathomable reason, you could produce a Patronus at thirteen, you twat."

"Fourth year was canceled because of the Tournament," Harry continued, feeling vindictive satisfaction in leaving Malfoy hanging when he was clearly hankering for an argument. "Fifth year…. What happened fifth year?"

"You got banned after the first game," said Malfoy, his voice practically crackling from the dryness, "for attacking me like we were in a Muggle pub fight."

"Oh," said Harry, remembering. "Well, you shouldn't have said that about my mother, should you? Or Ron's."

"I have since seen the error of my ways," said Malfoy and, though curt, he sounded sincere. "Though, to be fair, we might have won that game with your friend's worthless efforts as a Keeper if you hadn't just snatched the Snitch right from under me. I was lashing out."

"So was your friend," snapped Harry irritably, coming to Ron's defense in an ingrained habit. "I can't remember which one of them it was, but one of them hit me in the back with a Bludger after I'd already caught the Snitch."

"We were vicious little things, weren't we?"

"Still can be," muttered Harry darkly. "If you ever call my mother a Mudblood again, I'll blast you through those goal posts faster than a Quaffle after a spin-slap."

"Sixth year…" continued Malfoy quickly, visibly frazzled. "Well— I missed a lot of that season, actually. But I do recall laughing when I heard you'd gotten a cracked skull by your own Keeper who had stolen a Beater's bat in the middle of the game. Unbelievable."

"McLaggen," Harry growled, thinking of Cormac McLaggen for the first time in months or more. "I woke up in the hospital wing already planning his murder. Never hated a teammate more than that one. I guess you're a better Keeper than him."

"Gosh, what effusive praise." Malfoy rolled his eyes and said, "As someone who prefers all his limbs intact, I never stood a chance against you, did I?"

"Still trying to remember if I ended up in the hospital wing in fifth year…. I'm sure I must have, but what for…?"

"You are, in fact, the actual worst. Even if you weren't famous for surviving the Killing Curse, you should have died at least a dozen times by now."

Harry's mouth snapped shut. He looked away, the enjoyable atmosphere plummeting again.

It hadn't been common knowledge by the time they had been flung backward in time that Harry had died again.

Malfoy didn't know Voldemort had succeeded in killing him, even if only briefly, or he wouldn't have said that. Would he?

There was a confused but calculating glint in Malfoy's eye as the silence stretched unexpectedly. Harry could see it as he began to piece it together, undoubtedly thinking of when they had first arrived in the past and Harry had assumed they were dead. Again.

Harry shifted, excuses to leave rushing to the forefront of his mind, but he opened his mouth only to have Malfoy shove a broomstick into his hand.

"—What?"

"I brought you a broom," said Malfoy. "The pitch is free now that Slytherin tryouts are over. Let's go for a fly."

Harry shoved the broomstick back at Malfoy, his mind shutting down even harder against the thought of staying. "No. I told you, I don't… I can't play anymore. I'm done with it."

Malfoy pushed the broom back at him. "I'm not asking you to play Quidditch. I'm just saying you should get back in the air for a minute. It'll do you some good, you broody, morose arse."

"That's not— I can't—" Harry struggled to find the words, struggled to contain his irrational panic, but then gave up. He made to push past Malfoy toward the school, gasping for breath.

"Wait just a fucking minute," snarled Malfoy, grabbing the back of Harry's robes and physically shoving him back against the wooden stands.

Harry found his wand in his hand in an instant, aimed at Malfoy's throat. "Don't touch me!"

His world was getting smaller, tunneling. He was nothing but labored breathing, a pounding headache, rushing pulse.

He heard Dolohov laughing— felt the agony of the Cruciatus Curse ripping through him, tearing a scream from an already bloody, aching throat—

"If you want to start another Muggle duel on the Quidditch pitch, you'll get your chance in just a moment," snapped Malfoy, getting right up in Harry's face despite the wand between them. "Look, we just spent the last five minutes going over all the traumatic experiences you've had with Quidditch, and that never stopped you from playing before. You love flying, damn it. If you're going to stop now of all times, it had better not be because of—"

"Of course, it is!" Harry snapped back, pushing Malfoy away from him with a hard, one-handed thrust. He was panting, his vision still blurry, but now it was a blur of red. "The last time I flew— the Fiendfyre was everywhere— and he was screaming—"

"He was my friend!" shouted Malfoy, his face suddenly contorting as he shoved Harry back. Unshed tears glittered in his pale gray eyes. "He was my friend, not yours. You don't get to use him as another cross for you to martyr yourself on. God, I bet you didn't even know his first name."

"Vincent," said Harry. "And he— you don't understand, Draco. I still have nightmares— the shapes coming out of the fire— and I'm not fast enough, my reflexes aren't good enough, and one of the monsters leaps out of the flames and takes us, and he's just screaming the whole time, burning—"

"Harry… you are dumb as a fucking rock," said Malfoy thickly. "He was trying to kill you. He would have killed you; he would have killed all of us if you hadn't found those broomsticks and gotten us out. He was my friend, but he was not a good person. And you? You do not get to blame yourself for that one. Now get your ass on that broom before I beat you with it, you self-aggrandizing prick."

Harry looked away, swallowing hard.

"It was my fault," he insisted quietly. The words he had been keeping to himself for months, even from Ron and Hermione though he suspected they knew, poured out of him in a soft, hoarse rush. "Voldemort was after me. You lot would never have been in that position if I had stayed away. Everyone who died…."

"Listen to me carefully," said Draco. "You do not get to personally decide who lives and who dies. Therefore, it is not your fault when somebody dies. If you want to play the blame game, look at it from my perspective. It was my fault. After the professors evacuated the other students, I'm the one who had the bright idea to circle back around. I'm the one who brought Vince and Greg along. If I had just kept my head down and followed the professors like a good little boy, Vince and Greg never would have thought of doing that. We would have been clear before the fighting started. It was my fault."

Harry glared at the ground, chest heaving, blood pumping in his ears.

He couldn't argue, but he wanted to. It wasn't right. It made sense, but it wasn't right.

"Vince is the one who tried to kill us," said Malfoy firmly, and Harry glanced up to see him looking hard at Harry, like he could tattoo his words onto Harry's brain if he tried hard enough. "You are the one who saved us. And if you couldn't save Vince, too… well, that's war, isn't it?"

Malfoy pushed the broomstick back at Harry, and Harry gripped it tightly, fighting against his body for control.

Malfoy gripped his shoulder, and Harry held onto the sensation like another lifeline, another thing to keep him grounded in reality.

After a few minutes, when his breath evened out and he could see through the blinding headache, Malfoy said, "I know what will make you feel more like yourself. Let's practice Wronski Feints. Whoever gets closest to the ground— without breaking his neck, for Merlin's sake— wins. Come on."

And Harry nodded. He took a deep breath and looked down at the broom in his hands. It was an old model, older than anything he'd seen at his Hogwarts, but it looked to be brand new for this timeline. It was far newer than the usual loaner broomsticks.

"Whose is this?" he asked, inspecting it appreciatively. Whoever owned it obviously loved it and took good care of it. The handle was well-polished and conditioned, the twigs neatly trimmed.

"Regulus's," said Malfoy, throwing a leg over his own broom with a mischievous grin. "Nicked it when he went off to shout at Jones-Kieffer. I'm sure the whole castle will hear when he finds out."

Harry barked out a startled laugh as he mounted the broom. "I've never heard someone scream so loud— except maybe his mother."

"He does only seem to have two volumes," observed Malfoy, smirking. "Even in the common room. He's either the picture of a soft-spoken, well-mannered pureblood heir, or a screaming banshee. There's no in between."

Harry found himself laughing as he and Malfoy kicked off.

The wind whipped his hair and face, made his robes stream as if in a tornado around him. The air grew colder, fresher, and rushed in his ears like a living thing all around him.

He grinned and lifted his face toward the sky, rising higher and higher.

It smelled fresh and free, ozone and wind, the lush evergreens of the Forbidden Forest, the sunbaked grass and the cool-clean water of the lake. The warmth on his face was the warmth of life, not flames. It mixed with the coldness of the wind, flushing his cheeks and the tip of his nose.

Behind and a little below him, Draco called, "Told you, Scar-head!"

…

James wasn't planning a diabolical, elaborate prank on Harry to get revenge. Unless, of course, his plan to get Harry drunk at the Three Broomsticks on their first Hogsmeade weekend counted. It wasn't so much a prank as a curiosity.

First of all, maybe they could get utterly sloshed and have a great time together. Maybe it'd break down Harry's ridiculously high guard and help them become friendlier. One could never have too many friends.

Second, it might end up being hilarious. Peter, for example, was an anxious sort in general, but he became an honest-to-God comedian when he had three or four butterbeers. Best thing ever.

Third, if that was a bust, it might give them some good blackmail material in case they really didn't get along and ended up needing it later.

All in all, James thought it would be a great and necessary test of character.

So, he had been surprised but genuinely pleased to find Harry at the pitch watching the Gryffindor tryouts. That was a good sign his drunkenness would lead to a brilliant, wild night rather than a horrible blackmail night.

The conversation with Regulus had thrown him— and Sirius— for a loop, though.

He came to your defense saying you were the best person to bear the name 'Black' in generations.

"But why would he…?" Sirius began, plaintive, for the millionth time.

"I don't know, Padfoot," sighed James, rubbing the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses for the millionth time, too.

They were huddled at the foot of the stands under the Invisibility Cloak, spying on the Slytherin tryouts.

James was determined to win that Quidditch Cup this year. Determined.

Sirius was proving less than ideal as his second pair of eyes, though, still pacing and demanding answers about Harry Parker's very odd character. Well, pacing as much as the confines of the Cloak would allow, anyway. He kept bumping into James, interrupting his concentration.

Mallory got the Keeper position, James noted, ignoring Sirius. He was pretty good. It made him wonder how good he was as a Seeker if Keeper was only his second choice.

They added two new Chasers— a huge adjustment to any team dynamic, he'd have to keep an eye on that development— and one Beater. Screamy McMindfuck was still going, making James snicker, until Regulus finally put an end to it by burning the bat to cinders and going for a new one.

It could be a strong team, James concluded, rubbing his chin as the impromptu practice came to a close. With over half the team being new, it would come down to how well they worked together. Separately, they each had considerable talent, but James wouldn't worry a bit if it turned out they meshed like a sack full of feral cats.

"Alright," said James, pulling the ends of the Cloak closer. "I think I've got a good idea of what Regulus's strategy is going to be. Let's go—"

"Wait!" hissed Sirius, pulling James to the side. "There's Parker!"

Oh, boy.

James capitulated, allowing Sirius to guide them closer to the pitch, where Mallory and Parker were just meeting.

Together, James and Sirius inched closer and listened.

By the end, they were sitting, their legs having given out from under them. They stared at each other in silence, too stunned to react. And then, almost as one, they looked out over the pitch to see where Harry Parker was flying as wild and free as a bird.

...

TBC...

Chapter Text

"Words are, in my not-so-humble opinion, our most inexhaustible source of magic. Capable of both inflicting injury, and remedying it."

― Albus Dumbledore, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2

Chapter 8: Words

"Just once more, from the top."

"Moony, we've already told you everything five thousand times. Nothing is going to change telling it five thousand and one times!"

"Yeah, you already know the whole conversation as well as we do at this point," Sirius added, sprawled out on his back on the dirt floor of the tunnel.

"Perhaps, but I'm sure you must have missed something or misheard something, and if I can just figure out which part…."

Remus was pacing as well as he could at the mouth of the tunnel, which was the only part large enough to accommodate a seventeen-year-old boy standing. Peter sat closest to him, hugging his knees to his chest as if to make himself as small as possible so the rest of them had enough room. James had attempted to lean against the rounded wall of the tunnel for the first few minutes, but stooping so that his head didn't hit the ceiling had given him muscle spasms, and he'd finally taken to crouching across from Peter.

The tunnel behind the one-eyed witch statue leading into the cellar of Honeydukes was getting too small for them now, but James hadn't been able to think of another place Harry Parker was unlikely to interrupt them— the dorm, the bathroom, the Great Hall, the library….

Sirius was the only one who looked comfortable, lounging behind them like he was at the beach. And he was taking this turn of events much better than James had expected. He seemed pleased, vindicated, to have proof they ought to have been more suspicious of Harry from the start.

James didn't know what to think, and he wished Remus would stop asking questions about every detail because that only gave Sirius more opportunities to cast Harry and Mallory in a negative light.

"The Boy Who Lived," muttered Remus, probably to himself, but sound carried down in the tunnels. "Yes… an odd thing to call someone unless it's something of a title, a moniker. It must be referring to Mallory's remark that Harry survived the Killing Curse. He must have gotten quite a lot of attention for something like that."

"Who do you think cast a Killing Curse at him?" whispered Peter. "He's just a kid."

"Gee, let's think about that one," said Sirius. "It couldn't be related to him mentioning that Voldemort is after him, could it?"

Peter and Remus flinched at the name, but James only clenched his jaw a little tighter.

Of everything, that part threw James off the most.

He couldn't recall mention of Voldemort taking the war to America, to Ilvermorny, but that wasn't surprising. The Dark Lord preferred to operate in the shadows, cultivating an atmosphere of uncertainty and fear. If nobody knew where he was at any given moment, people everywhere would be afraid of him, all the time. Nobody would dare move against him openly for fear of repercussions.

That, and the British and American magical governments had never especially gotten along. James's father had always said it was something about how they treated their Muggles, how they were so strict on enforcing their Statue of Secrecy, it bordered on fanatical. Given a magical government even more secretive than the Ministry, plus their distance and disenfranchisement with the British Ministry after the wide-reaching Grindelwald turmoil, James wasn't shocked the Magical Congress of the USA hadn't released details of an attack to the British.

The part that threw him was: Why would Voldemort care anything about a sixteen- or seventeen-year-old child? The way Harry had phrased it had struck him as very personal. If Ilvermorny had been attacked, as James and Sirius both inferred, Harry hadn't just fought Voldemort for a split second in the midst of a much larger attack. Harry had been targeted.

Why?

Not only that, he had survived a Killing Curse. Which— that was utterly impossible. Impossible. Surely the whole magical world would have heard about that, would have been in an absolute uproar. It would have made the front page of every paper worldwide.

But it hadn't.

Mallory— ostensibly not one of Harry's close friends, though James had his doubts about that— had heard about it, so it must have made some waves in America, but it hadn't traveled any farther than that.

James almost shuddered, wondering exactly how secretive MACUSA had to be in order to hush that up. He was starting to wish he had paid more attention to his father's political bickering at those fancy dinner parties he had always whined about being forced to attend.

"That doesn't make sense!" Remus said, and James had lost count how many times he'd resorted to that argument. "You must have misunderstood—"

"We both heard it, Moony," said James tiredly, raking his fingers through his hair. "He didn't imply anything. He straight out said Voldemort was after him."

Remus resumed pacing. His poor shoes, already worn low in the heel, wouldn't last the school year at this rate.

"And he could cast a Patronus at thirteen?" Remus muttered, definitely to himself. "Unbelievable. And I still can't get it."

"Maybe that's why You-Know-Who attacked their school," Peter spoke up, his voice small and his eyes darting to each of them to gauge their reactions. He must have found something encouraging, because he continued a little stronger, "If they teach powerful magic like the Patronus that young, and maybe even something that helped deflect a Killing Curse, then wouldn't You-Know-Who see them as a… as a threat?"

Silence fell like a rock in their midst.

James and Remus looked at each other. Even Sirius sat up so that he could share in their consternation.

"You think… it was the school itself he attacked?" asked James slowly, tasting the words to see how they felt in his mouth. It didn't sound… totally ridiculous, he supposed.

"They were talking about Fiendfyre," said Sirius suddenly, frowning as his eyes clouded in thought. "That's powerful magic. And a student— that Vincent bloke— cast it. It sounded like he couldn't control it properly and it turned on him, but even being able to make something that powerful work is more than we'll ever be taught at Hogwarts."

"And the lightning Mallory shot at you in the duel," said James quietly. "I swear to Merlin's mother, I felt every cell in my body zap as soon as he cast it. I didn't think anyone aside from Dumbledore and a few Aurors could do something like that."

"I don't know…" said Remus. He chewed on his bottom lip, staring at the ground with an expression of distress. "If V-Voldemort attacked Ilvermorny… do we know if Ilvermorny… survived? Is that why… I mean, it's just the two of them so maybe not, but… what if that's why Mallory and Harry are here?"

Something cold and leaden dropped in James's stomach.

Do we know if Ilvermorny survived?

"It must have," he said automatically, bristling against the idea that the answer could be anything else. "I mean, a whole school, we'd have heard about it if…"

He thought again of the Congress's secrecy, and how Harry and Mallory had clearly lived through something traumatic, even if the news had never made it to British wizards.

But… a whole school.

"Mallory said the students were evacuated, remember?" Sirius cut into James's spiraling thoughts with the precision of a Legilimens. "C'mon, Prongs. It sounded like only a few of them snuck back to fight or whatever they did. The school definitely survived. Although I bet that Fiendfyre was tricky to put out."

"Right," said James, nodding even as he practically gasped to catch his breath.

Everything Voldemort had done in his rise to power was terrible, of course. Scarcely a month ago, they had almost lost Gertrude to his sick followers for no other reason than having Muggle parents. But the idea of an entire school full of children falling under his wand…. James didn't want to believe someone even as twisted as Voldemort could do such a heinous thing.

He thought of the first years, so tiny. He had never been that small, had he?

"You know," said Sirius thoughtfully, even as he took hold of James's shoulder to brace him, "I bet that's where Harry got that scar."

The other three turned identical looks of bewilderment on him.

"What scar?" Remus asked.

Sirius frowned at them. "The scar on his forehead. The one from a Dark curse."

Remus, James, and Peter looked at each other, still lost.

"I never noticed a scar," said Remus.

Sirius threw his free hand in the air, a dismissive twitch. "He hides it with his fringe for the most part, but I've seen it a few times. Shaped like a… zigzag. Kind of a sideways 'M.' It's a scar from a Dark curse. I'd recognize it anywhere."

"You think he got that scar from…?"

"From surviving a Killing Curse, obviously."

James, Remus, and Peter blinked at each other. James tried to convey Do you know what he's talking about? with his eyes to Remus. And, bless him, Remus gave a slight shrug and headshake in response.

"So, you believe it then?" Peter asked Sirius, awed. "That he really did survive a Killing Curse?"

Sirius glanced away, uncomfortable, and removed his hand from James's shoulder so he could cross his arms. "I dunno. I've never heard of anything like that before, but… he's messed up, right? The way he panics at the smallest things. That— that thing he does with his hands, like a nervous tic. How he'll be talking to you one second and then… it's like he's a thousand miles away, and you'd better not startle him out of it, or you'll get a wand pointed in your face. Somebody got in his head and fucked him up. Something fucked him up bad."

"Wouldn't it be the Cruciatus more likely?" James asked, keeping his voice low and even. Sirius didn't like talking about the effects of Dark magic. He was already closing himself off by crossing his arms and looking away, and one wrong word might shut him up completely, but James's curiosity was piqued. "Or even the Imperius?"

Sirius's shoulders were tight, and he still wasn't looking at any of them.

"Possible," he said gruffly. "But the wand movement is wrong."

Again, James checked with Remus, but Remus looked just as bewildered as James felt.

"Wand movement?" James asked carefully. He had no idea how they had gotten on the subject.

"The scar," said Sirius. "On Parker's forehead. The zigzag. That's the wand movement for Avada Kedavra."

The floor dropped out from under James's feet. He swayed, dizzy, like someone had hit him with a Confundus.

He didn't— he had never even thought about it. Who actually knew the wand movement for the Killing Curse? Even learning the incantation in their fourth year had given James that heady adrenaline rush of the forbidden. Their teacher had mentioned the words Avada Kedavra once, for their information, and had never spoken of the Killing Curse again. Nobody had even considered pressing for more information such as, Hey, Professor, what wand movement do you use to get it to work?

But of course Sirius Black would know.

James pulled himself together with a grimace of sympathy.

"Pads, that's… I didn't know that."

"Why would you?" Sirius scoffed, still not meeting his gaze. "What I want to know is why Voldemort would try to kill him. It was Mallory's friend that cast Fiendfyre, so they're obviously not afraid to use Dark magic. And…." He trailed off.

"And what?" asked James softly.

Sirius glanced at him for a split second, that confused, helpless expression back before he closed himself off again. He stared at the entrance of the tunnel and said, almost dull, "What if that's how he knows my mother? My family?"

"…How do you mean?" asked Remus.

Sirius looked like he wanted to fly apart, that restless energy barely contained beneath his skin, but he clenched his fists and continued, "It's no secret my family is as Dark as they come. And they've always held social functions for the other pureblood elite. People with sympathetic ideology. You don't have to be a Death Eater to support Voldemort. And if Mallory and Parker and their lot have no issue learning Dark spells… maybe they've met my mother at one of those gatherings. Maybe they're Voldemort supporters."

"Oh, come off it," scoffed James. "Mallory, I could see, but Harry?"

"You don't have to be pureblood," said Sirius. "And you'd be surprised how convincing they can be when they want. Listen… what if Parker and Mallory were Death Eaters? Probably got cold feet when he saw what Voldemort was doing to his country and tried to get out. But you don't just quit the Death Eaters. And Voldemort always has to make an example out of disloyalty."

"That's absurd," said Remus sharply, standing up straighter. "Harry's not that kind of person, Sirius. He would never support Voldemort. His mother was a Muggle-born, and he loves Lily and the girls."

"Just think about it!" Sirius snapped, finally looking up to glare at Remus. He squared his shoulders and leaned forward in the claustrophobic tunnel as if to get in Remus's face. "Parker and Mallory keep talking about how they hate each other, and Mallory said he and his friends snuck back into their school, probably to find Parker for Voldemort. They were all Death Eaters, and Mallory went after Parker himself for betraying them! That's why they don't get along. And then Parker saw he wasn't safe after that attack and ran to the one place everyone says Voldemort is afraid to enter. Hogwarts, the school where Albus Dumbledore is headmaster— the one man everyone knows Voldemort fears. Parker is in hiding."

"And what, Mallory followed him under Voldemort's orders?" James asked, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice and really consider it. "I don't know about this, Pads…."

"You just don't want to believe anything bad of him so you can recruit him for the Quidditch team!"

"Did you see those Wronski Feints? It was amazing. I haven't seen a Seeker that good since the Puddlemire United team back in '71!"

"Focus, Prongs! What are we going to do about this?"

"How about we talk to Harry?" asked Remus, mild as a summer breeze.

James instantly sensed there was a right and a wrong answer, and he tensed, because Sirius would definitely—

"We can't talk to a Death Eater and expect to get the truth! We have to lay a trap, probably dig through his stuff, and if you have any friends or relatives in the States you could write to—"

James covered his face with his hands. He couldn't see Remus's expression that way, but he already knew the dangerous, animalistic glint that would be in his eyes.

"No, we won't," said Remus, deceptively calm. "Harry has already been through enough. Harry is struggling. And Harry doesn't need any more of your shit, Sirius!"

He was yelling by the end, leaning forward to get in Sirius's space.

Sirius leaned back on his hands, eyes wide.

"Moony—" he began weakly.

"No," said Remus, straightening. He paused, and something in his posture shifted, softening. He sighed. "Listen… I love you guys, you know? You were my first and only friends for a long time. But Sirius, Harry isn't a Death Eater. He's been hurt, and he's obviously grieving. And I doubt Mallory is a Death Eater, either. Haven't you noticed how protective he is of Harry? And even when they're arguing, he's always giving Harry this look, like… like he's looking for Harry's approval or something, I don't know. But that's not how real enemies act.

"And I've given this some thought, and I noticed Mallory and Harry's families both moved to the States some seven or eight years ago; that's about the same time Voldemort returned to Britain and announced himself to the public.

"What if their families were enemies of Voldemort from the very beginning? They ran when he first publicly opposed the Ministry… Voldemort found them in America… and so they ran back here to Dumbledore. For all we know, Voldemort is hunting Harry, and maybe Mallory, for something their parents did, or something their parents know."

James, Sirius, and Peter thought about that in silence.

Remus breathed steadily, the only sound in the tunnel. His voice had softened, yes, but nothing about it had weakened. He was sure of himself in a way that he rarely ever was, and James took that as seriously as it deserved.

After a moment, he said, "I don't know what happened between Voldemort and Harry, but I agree with Moony that we'll have to wait for him to tell us. Whatever it was, if Voldemort was the one who cast the Killing Curse on him, that means he's Voldemort's enemy, and that makes him our friend. Let's give him a chance, alright?" he added in Sirius's direction.

Sirius's lips twisted disapprovingly, but he bowed his head once.

James wondered if he was remembering their conversation from the previous night on their walk to the hospital wing— about the world not being separated into good people and Death Eaters. About how they needed to make sure they stayed good even as they fought evil.

James wasn't a Legilimens, but he got the impression he and Sirius were on the same page.

"Right," said James, clapping his hands and straightening up briskly. "Next items on the agenda: recruiting Harry to the Quidditch team, and convincing Lily to join me in Hogsmeade. Who has ide—"

"Lily's already asked Harry to Hogsmeade for the weekend," said Peter blithely.

"Oh, no," said Remus.

"Oh, shit," said Sirius.

It took a second for the words to compute. And then James saw red.

"SHE DID WHAT?" And then, "I'm going to kill him!"

"Wormtail, the trapdoor!" said Sirius, right before transforming into a shaggy black dog and tackling James from behind.

"He's off the Quidditch team! He's expelled!" James was shouting, writhing underneath Padfoot's bulk while Remus hastily pulled out his wand.

"Prongs, I'm sure they're going just as friends," Remus attempted, holding his wand uncertainly. "She probably just wants to show him around for his first visit—"

"He's dead to me! Dead! Padfoot, gerroff! I've gotta kill—"

Remus sighed. He flicked his wand in that particularly effective way Harry did when casting Expelliarmus and caught James's wand in his free hand.

"If he thinks he can just waltz into MY HOUSE and steal MY GIRL—"

Remus and dog-Sirius shared a longsuffering look. Then Sirius gave him that tongue-lolling grin.

Remus clearly understood it without any further explanation. He rolled his eyes and huffed another sigh. "Fine."

He sat down on James's back, too.

…

"You're looking chipper," Lily observed as she joined Harry beside the fireplace in the common room. "Good study session?"

"Hm?" Harry glanced up from where he was supposedly working on his Potions essay, though he hadn't written more than a sentence in the hour he'd been there. Her question registered, and he caught himself grinning. "Oh. No, I just… I went for a fly after the Quidditch tryouts. It was… nice."

"Oh, good!" said Lily, brightening. "I'm glad. You've been far too gloomy since you got here."

"Sorry," said Harry sheepishly. "I haven't meant to be."

Lily waved it off. She pulled out her own Potions textbook and a roll of parchment. "It's not your fault. I know it must be difficult moving to a new place without all your old friends and teachers and such. I'm just glad you're finally settling in, even if it does mean flying around with Potter and Black."

"It wasn't with them," Harry assured her quickly. "It was, uh, Mallory's idea actually. He was trying out for the Slytherin team…."

Lily's easy smile took on a knowing twist. "Mallory, huh. Did he make it?"

"Yeah," said Harry. "Keeper."

"Good for him. Well, either way, I'm glad you had fun."

"I did," said Harry, and he surprised himself with how earnest it came out. He found himself grinning as he leaned back and told Lily about it, even though he knew Lily wasn't much of a flyer and equally didn't care about Quidditch. But she listened fondly, her Potions text ignored, as he finished, "…and then Regulus came back out looking for his broom and chased us off. Threatened to tear my spine out through my ar— ah, throat, if I ever touched his possessions again. And Draco, the utter prat, was just laughing the whole time like he wasn't the one who nicked it…."

"Draco."

"Huh?"

"Nothing," said Lily, smiling. "You know, there's a Quidditch shop in Hogsmeade. Not as big as the one in Diagon Alley, but we might be able to find you a broom if you'd like."

Hope and giddiness bubbled within him, and Harry found himself smiling back helplessly. "Yeah, I think I—"

The portrait hole banged open, and James, Sirius, Remus, and Peter staggered through. They looked like they had been rolling around in the Forbidden Forest by the dirt and general disarray of their clothes.

James spotted them immediately and his face turned thunderous and scarlet.

Harry could only stare in open-mouthed astonishment as James started toward them, and Sirius and Remus dove to grab him.

"We talked about this, Prongs!" Sirius said, clinging to one of James's arms while Remus braced himself bodily against the other. "Stick to the plan!"

"Merlin help us," muttered Lily. "What have they come up with now?"

She was eyeing James like he might be rabid.

Harry shrugged, secretly just as concerned.

James fought them for a few tense moments, but then he pulled himself together with a visible effort. He took a deep, overdramatic breath, closing his eyes, and slowly his color began to fade back to normal. He shook Sirius and Remus off with a quiet, "Alright, it's alright. I'm fine. I'm fine."

Sirius and Remus shared a speaking glance before they released him.

If Sirius and Remus were worried, Harry didn't like where this was heading.

James marched up to Lily and Harry, his bearing straight and proud. He jabbed a finger at Harry and said, "I have decided to spare your life on three conditions! First, you give up your despicable, underhanded, woman-stealing ways—"

"What."

"—Second, you are now Gryffindor's new Seeker—"

"What."

"—And third, Lily goes to Hogsmeade with me. ME, Parker!"

He was turning red again.

Harry and Lily stared at each other, wide-eyed and speechless.

"Prongs," said Sirius wearily, resting his face in his hands. "There was only one condition. The Quidditch one. We've talked about going off-script where the Lily-flower is concerned."

Lily started to turn red, too, and not in an embarrassed way.

But something had just clicked for Harry.

He stood, blood going cold and roaring at the same time. "You watched me flying? You were spying on me?"

"No, we were spying on Slytherin," said Sirius. "And if we just happened to catch a glimpse of you and your best mate Mallory trying to break your necks doing Wronski Feints right after, well, the pitch is a public place."

Sirius grinned, just a few teeth shy of a snarl.

"I already told you I don't want to play!"

Harry didn't know why he was shouting, why he suddenly wanted to fight Sirius, wipe that ugly look off his face—

It was that look. Something had changed.

It wasn't that dark, wild look of a prankster with a chip on his shoulder. Something in it had shifted, edging deeper into the darkness and away from the wildness. It was more calculating, watchful… suspicious.

It was the look the adult Sirius gave Snape at Order meetings. It was the look that meant he didn't trust him, that meant he thought Snape was still loyal to Voldemort.

It was hatred.

And it was directed at Harry.

Harry's chest went cold, an invisible pressure squeezing his lungs.

He couldn't think, couldn't remember where he was or which Sirius he was talking to.

"You don't trust me," he said, his voice sounding far away and very, very angry. "That's fine. I don't need your trust. I don't need anything from you! And you—!" He whirled on James, fastening his eyes on his dead father, because even that was less painful than looking at Sirius right now. "I don't need to agree to your conditions! Whatever you're sparing my life for? Fucking go for it! I've faced far more powerful wizards than you, and guess what? I'm still standing and they're not!"

He was panting by the end, right in James's pale, startled face.

It took him a moment to realize that, aside from the blood roaring in his ears, the common room was dead silent.

Dread slid like ice down his spine. His shoulders slumped as the weight of what he had just said fell on them.

Harry took a step back from James, unable to look at him, and took an unsteady breath. The adrenaline rush was already ebbing, and his hands were shaking.

He clenched his fists. Short nails dug viciously into his palms.

"I didn't—" he began weakly, the trembling migrating into his voice. He stopped, closed his eyes, and said, helpless against his own devastation, "You were supposed to be… different."

More silence.

Harry blinked furiously and looked at the ceiling, trying to hold back the well of emotions that raged in his suddenly empty, cavernous chest.

He turned on his heel and headed back to the boys' dormitory.

…

The rest of the week passed with a stony tension among the Gryffindor seventh years. A line had been drawn yet again with the Marauders on one side and Harry and the girls on the other.

The only bright moment had been when James received a response from his father, letting him know that he had alerted the Aurors and the outreach program alike with their theory, and that it was being taken seriously.

"The DMLE is setting up wards around each of the Muggle houses on the list, and they'll have around-the-clock guards for as long as the department can afford it," James reported at breakfast a few days after the Quidditch tryouts. He was summarizing sections of the letter to an attentive audience. "Dad says they interviewed the Jarlsbergers' house elf, and she was convinced something had been wrong with Midge just before they fired her, so it gives credence to the idea Midge was under the Imperius. They're still searching for who could have cast it, though. Not much to go on there."

"My mum's worried," said Mary, clutching her own letter, which was on a sheet of composition notebook paper. "She says the Aurors have been training her and Dad what to look for to know if a wizard is stalking them, and they have to come up with passwords and such to know if the other is under an Imperius Curse."

"Sad, what the world is coming to," said Gertrude quietly. She rubbed her ribcage absently, a habit she had picked up since her attack.

Sirius slung an arm around Gertrude and said, "That's why you ladies need a full gentlemanly escort to the village. The Marauders would like to offer our humble services for the weekend."

He bowed extravagantly to Gertrude's flat, unimpressed stare.

"We have a gentlemanly escort," said Marlene sweetly, leaning forward to leer at Sirius even as she wrapped her own arm around Harry. "Harry's already saved my sister's life once. We'll take him, thank you."

Gertrude flashed Harry a small smile, which helped brace him against the desire to melt into the floor to get out of the conversation.

"So, you're going as a group with Harry," said James, eyes brightening as they landed unerringly on Lily. "You didn't invite him as a…."

"As a date? I don't think that's any of your business, Potter," said Lily, tossing her hair back loftily. "Is it, Harry?"

Never mind, Harry absolutely wanted to melt into the floor. His eyes were wide, mortified, as James and Lily both turned expectant looks on him, one filled with dire warning and the other hidden mischief.

Harry slid down in his seat and wished for either an escape or a quick, painless death.

Something fluid, silky, and familiar materialized in his lap, and Harry jolted in surprise.

He glanced down and saw the Invisibility Cloak draped across his lap, as innocent and inevitable as if it had always been there, as if he hadn't left it behind in the future.

But no, that wasn't quite right, was it? There was a version of the Cloak in this timeline. It just belonged to James still.

"Er—" he said, shoving the Cloak up his robes as surreptitiously as he could under the stares of the entire Gryffindor graduating class. "I— uh— what was the question? No, never mind. I really need to, uh, go. Bye."

He stumbled to his feet, finished tucking in the Cloak under his robes, and half-ran from the Great Hall.

"Honestly, what do you see in him, Evans?" James's voice carried behind him. "He's weird."

"Don't talk about my friend like that, Potter!" said Lily hotly.

Harry made it through the doors out into the entrance hall and took the first corridor he came across. From there, he slammed his way into the first broom cupboard and shut the door behind himself.

"Lumos."

He pulled out the Invisibility Cloak and stared at it. He trailed his fingers across the familiar, woven-water fabric.

Was it his Cloak or James's?

He couldn't tell. The Cloak seemed ageless, always perfect despite being handed down through countless generations all the way back from the Peverell line.

He swore to himself, took a deep breath, and let his head fall back against a shelf filled with mop buckets.

What was going on? He hadn't used accio or any other summoning charm that he knew of. He hadn't even thought of—

Harry paused.

He had been wishing desperately to sink into the floor, to disappear.

And the Cloak had responded.

Just like the Elder Wand had appeared in his hand in their first moments in the past, back in Diagon Alley when Gertrude had been attacked.

Two of the three Hallows had come to him in a moment of need, even though… even though they didn't belong to him. Not in the here and now. The Elder Wand was still Dumbledore's, just like the Cloak was James's.

Why would…?

Harry took another deep breath and let it out.

He was sure it had something to do with the objects being Hallows, but he didn't understand why or how.

He considered going to Malfoy about it but discarded that idea instantly. Malfoy didn't know about the Hallows or the role they had played in the war. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Dumbledore were the only ones who had chased that particular fairy tale. Even Voldemort had only been interested in the Elder Wand; he might not have ever heard Beetle the Bard's stories, growing up in a Muggle orphanage as he had. He wouldn't have spoken to his Death Eaters about anything other than a particularly powerful wand, the Deathstick.

Malfoy had probably heard Beetle the Bard's stories.

Then again, it took someone as strange as Xenophilius Lovegood to believe such things.

Harry shook himself. It didn't make sense, but there was no one he could turn to. Ron and Hermione were gone— weren't even born yet but also just forever gone; he'd never be able to turn to them for help again— and Harry was leery of how Dumbledore would react to Harry's knowledge of the Hallows. Power, Dumbledore had said, had always been his own temptation. Harry couldn't blindly trust Dumbledore as he once had. Not when he knew exactly where the Elder Wand, Resurrection Stone, and Invisibility Cloak were in this timeline. Not when Dumbledore might ask.

Harry thunked his head against the shelf behind him, squeezing his eyes shut.

He had wished for Ron and Hermione to be by his side in this timeline almost constantly, but now he felt truly adrift without them. This was… this was what they did, the three of them. Mysteries like this were their bread and butter. He'd never had a problem like this before without having Ron standing right beside him, a staunch supporter, and Hermione running several steps ahead spouting information at them as fast as she physically could.

They were gone.

And he was alone. He was alone for the first time since he'd stumbled into the wizarding world.

He took a gasping breath.

He didn't know if he could do it. He didn't know how he had survived as long as he had without them by his side.

Harry didn't know how long he stood in the broom cupboard, but a sense of time passing abruptly seemed important.

He had classes coming up soon, if he hadn't already missed his first period.

And Dumbledore's wand had been missing that day Harry had accidentally summoned the Elder Wand. It stood to reason the Cloak had come from James's trunk, not the future timeline.

Harry threw the Cloak over himself and headed to Gryffindor tower to return it before his absence became suspicious.

…

On Saturday morning, Draco fell into step beside Harry and the Gryffindor girls as they lined up to head into Hogsmeade. Filch was, inevitably, checking permission forms from all the younger years.

He glanced over his shoulder to where Rosier, Wilkes, Severus, and Regulus were waiting coolly, matching expressions of feigned disinterest on their faces even as they stood unusually close together, even as they spoke so that no one else could hear, not looking at one another, hardly even moving their lips.

Just behind them, Avery, Mulciber, and a few of the notable Slytherin sixth years were grouped together in much the same way. And though they attempted subtlety, they were overwhelmingly more obvious as they pointed— got their hand slapped down— and exclaimed a word or two of surprise only to be immediately shushed by the rest of the group, who then cast twitchy glances around to see if anybody was watching them.

They were hiding something, and it had something to do with the Death Eater families, with the Death Eater hopefuls.

Draco had first noticed it the night before when he'd found the large group huddled together in the common room when they should have been at dinner. Their heads had been bent forward, and they were talking lowly with unusually serious expressions for a group of mostly teenaged boys.

Draco had recognized that look. He had recognized the equal parts fear and anticipation on their faces. He had recognized that tone of voice, furtive, gleeful, proud.

"What was that about?" he had asked Severus, who had been sent from the group to chase him off. They had watched Severus escort him down the corridor to the boys' dorms, the light from the evening sun filtering through the lake to cast their cold, stony faces an eerie, alien blue-green. They hardly looked human.

"It's none of your concern," had been Severus's cold response. "You made your position quite clear after your little duel with Black."

It was only confirmation of what Draco had already known.

The baby Death Eaters had their first mission from the Dark Lord.

Rosier caught Draco staring, that Saturday morning in line to Hogsmeade, and held his gaze. He smiled, a chilly, portentous thing that emphasized the maniac glint in his dark eyes.

"Good morning, Draco," said Lily Evans, interrupting the staring match.

Draco started and swung to look at her.

Draco? When had he become Draco to her?

"Good morning, Evans," he said, only partially sounding suspicious.

She smiled at him, a cheery, knowing look in her eyes and something fond underneath.

Ah, well.

Draco fought a blush and looked away, keeping his head held high.

If she absolutely must call him by his given name, he supposed he could allow it. His family— and the rest of the Slytherin House, honestly— would have been horrified to hear a Mudbl— a Muggle-born call a pureblood by their first name, but his family didn't need to know. And the Slytherin House could get crushed under the lake for all he cared.

He had only ever cared about Severus among the Slytherins, and Severus was currently a dark-hearted, ambitious, grudge-holding brat. He had been giving Draco the cold shoulder ever since Harry and Draco had almost died laughing over his offer to join the Dark Lord.

Maybe that hadn't been Draco's best idea, but really, he had tried to fight it. The irony and the mental image had simply been too much.

"Please, call me Lily," said Lily easily, still giving him that smile and that fond, knowing look. "Will you be joining us in Hogsmeade today? We were going to give Harry the grand tour."

"Oh," said Draco. It hadn't occurred to him that Potter might already have made plans for the day. Plans that hadn't included him. He glanced at Harry, who was unusually twitchy, shoulders tense, hand hovering near his wand-pocket, head on a swivel. He didn't even seem to notice Draco's presence. Draco stopped himself from rolling his eyes. He returned his attention to Lily and said politely, "If it's not too much trouble. I would hate to be an inconvenience."

"Oh, not at all! Any friend of Harry's is a friend of ours."

And before Draco had time to cast aspersions on the idea of him and Harry— Potter— being friends, Lily Evans, the Muggle-born, took his hand and gave it a squeeze.

And Merlin, how could anyone's eyes be so bright and beautiful all the time? It just didn't make sense.

Draco stuttered something, possibly a polite thank you, possibly just a bizarre unintelligible croaking noise, and pulled his hand away. He stuffed it in his pocket.

"Parker," he said sharply, to change the subject. "What's got your knickers in a twist this time?"

Harry's— ugh, Potter's— gaze snapped onto Draco. And, holy Hungarian Horntail, he had heard people say Potter had his mother's eyes, but it was just startling how true that was, seeing both Harry and Lily together.

Draco forgot his question. Fortunately, Harry didn't seem inclined to answer it, anyway.

"You've noticed?" Harry asked, and it wasn't about his own emotional state or how alike his and his mother's eyes looked. There was a directness, an intensity to his gaze that Draco understood immediately.

Draco didn't look back at his Housemates, but he nodded once and affected his own disinterested look. "Of course. Couldn't be more obvious, could they?"

"Do you know what it is?"

"No," said Draco, and the word was bitter on his tongue. "It hasn't escaped their notice that… well, my ideals don't align with theirs."

"Anymore," said Harry.

And ow.

Harry didn't even seem to notice Draco's reaction, didn't seem to think it was anything more than an obvious, automatic response. His gaze was already darting through the courtyard again.

Draco gritted his teeth.

Lily was watching them curiously.

"What are you talking about?"

"Nothing," said Harry shortly, and Draco shook his head.

Lily leveled Harry a truly incredible look of blanket disbelief.

Harry shuffled awkwardly under it and rubbed the back of his head, the picture of a chastised child.

"I, uh… just have a bad feeling, is all," said Harry. "Something's going on, and… ah… well, trouble has a knack of finding me."

Draco snorted once. "Now you've done it, Parker. I know a jinx when I hear one."

"Oh, I'm sure it can't be that bad," said Lily. "It's a lovely day, and Hogsmeade is really just this cutest little village…."

Yes, Draco knew a jinx when he heard it.

He stuffed both hands into his pockets, wrapping one around the handle of his wand, and cast another glance back at the Slytherins.

He'd just have to keep an eye on them. He was sure a group of sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds couldn't get into too much trouble in Hogsmeade, even if they were Death Eater initiates. He replayed that sentence in his mind, remembered his own sixth year at Hogwarts, and then winced. Well… surely they would be no match for the Savior of the Wizarding World if they did decide to cause trouble.

Surely.

Draco had a bad feeling, too.

...

TBC...

Chapter Text

"Books! And cleverness! There are more important things―friendship and bravery."

– Hermione Granger, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone

Chapter 9: Friendship and Bravery

Watching Draco Malfoy in a secondhand bookshop was about as distracting as the scheming Slytherins outside, Harry found. He watched in bemusement as Draco's expression went from utter disdain, hanging back near the door as if to avoid breathing the same air as people who shopped secondhand, to comical delight as he caught sight of books that had been out of print for decades or more. Within seconds of his first discovery, he was flitting from shelf to shelf like an over-caffeinated bowtruckle, reading the best titles aloud in an excited frenzy that Harry had only ever heard from Hermione.

"And here's Concise Derivations of Nordic Runes!" Draco told Harry, grabbing a third shabby book off a shelf as if it would sprint away if he weren't fast enough. He added it to the stack in his arms. "It's recommended in every Ancient Runes textbook, but it hasn't been printed since 1770. And— Merlin's beard, that can't be the stage script of The Witch of West Abbey, can it? Mother used to read it to me every night when I was a child. She was devastated when I accidentally turned it into a biting cactus during a tantrum. We couldn't find another copy anywhere…. Oh, and—!"

He darted off to another shelf before he could finish his sentence.

Harry stared after him, dumbstruck, with his lips twitching as he struggled not to laugh aloud.

"Now I see why it takes you so long to get any work done in the library," said Lily, appearing at Harry's side with mirth in her eyes. She, too, was looking at Draco, who was now babbling about his discoveries to thin air. "I admit, I thought the reason would be rather more risqué."

"Risqué?" repeated Harry, whirling around to face Lily with what must have been a truly hilarious expression, because she burst into laughter and didn't stop for so long that Harry started to get both annoyed and flustered. His face felt hot, but he refused to think about what Lily must have been implying.

After a while, she grasped Harry's shoulder and hauled herself upright, wiping tears from her eyes. "Oh," she gasped, strangling another bout of laughter. "Oh, your face, Harry. Honestly, haven't you ever had a romance before? Haven't you ever been caught kissing somewhere you shouldn't have been?"

At first, Harry's mind snapped back to Ginny, to those wonderful stolen moments at the end of their sixth year, to the lazy afternoons kissing by the lake and the evenings in the common room with her sitting in front of his armchair, his fingers stroking her long, silky hair.

Then he realized who he was speaking to, and his brain jarred to a halt.

"Why?" he demanded, aghast. "Have you? With who?"

"Of course, I have," said Lily, still grinning even as she waved the question aside dismissively. "I've had to learn a lot of good hiding places to keep out of sight of James. The moment he sees me with another boy, they seem to run away. The cowards." She scoffed, still lighthearted, and didn't seem to notice Harry's horror. She continued, "Anyway, the point is, I can give you and Draco some excellent recommendations if you need it."

She winked.

Harry's horror summited a new, great height.

"Aren't you meant to be looking for a book for your independent research?" came Marlene's voice as she rounded the nearest bookcase and threw an arm onto Harry's free shoulder. "Hurry up, I want to go to Honeydukes!"

"And the dust is making Mary sneeze," said Gertrude ominously, appearing on her sister's other side.

The three girls exchanged dark, wary looks.

"What?" asked Harry. He did, in fact, hear another muffled ah-choo! from a few shelves over.

"Wizarding allergies," said Lily lowly. "When she starts sneezing, the gnomes come."

The girls exchanged that look of foreboding again.

Harry decided he didn't want to know.

"HARRY, LOOK! THERE'S A WHOLE QUIDDITCH SECTION!"

Lily looked like she might start laughing again, and Harry scowled.

"Don't," he said, holding up a finger threateningly. Then he hurried over to Draco, wondering what kind of Quidditch books had been lost to the ages.

He barely had time to glance at the top row, however, before Draco started pulling out books and handing them to him, hardly waiting for Harry to get his hands out before dropping them expectantly and reaching for the next.

"What—?" he began, spotting the tower of books sitting on the floor next to Draco. He looked at Malfoy in exasperation. "You know we can't get all these, right? We're on a school budget."

Draco froze in the act of stacking a fourth book in Harry's arms. "Budget?" he repeated, as if he had never heard such a filthy word before. Perhaps he hadn't. "But these are secondhand! Aren't they practically free? The owner should be glad someone is willing to take them off their hands at all!"

Harry raised his eyebrows at him.

Draco glared back, looking like he was going to start ranting anew, but then he looked upward. He sighed, and his whole body seemed to deflate with it.

"Budget," he repeated scathingly under his breath. He turned to examine the tower of books next to him, which he had apparently been levitating to follow him around the shop, because there was no way he had been carrying that many. "Alright, then. How many Galleons have we got, and how much does a book cost?"

Harry resisted the urge to sigh. He set his stack of books down instead. He picked up the top one, flipped it over to the back cover, and showed Draco the price tag in the bottom corner. "This one's five Sickles. That is really cheap compared to our school books. But we only get five Galleons a month for pocket money, and I'm guessing you'll want some Honeydukes and a drink from the Broomsticks."

"Five Galleons?" echoed Draco, his pale face flushing with outrage. "That's what the Accidental Magic Fairy leaves in your underpants as an infant!"

Harry snorted so suddenly, he choked on his spit and nearly suffocated. Draco slammed a fist on his back absently, and a good deal too hard to be friendly.

"The— the Accidental Magic Fairy?" he gasped, now both choking and laughing. "In your pants?"

"What? Of course, where else would she—? Oh, right. Raised by Muggles, weren't you? Well, see here: This budget is absurd! We're of age, and Dumbledore's given us a child's purse!"

Harry didn't know whether to keep laughing or berate Draco for his arrogance and spoiled upbringing. He still remembered seeing inside the Weasley's Gringotts vault in his second year, and there had only been a single Galleon and a pile of Sickles to get all the Weasley children their school supplies for the year. Five Galleons a month was generous, in Harry's opinion.

But then Harry noticed the genuine panic and despair on Draco's face underneath the bravado, and he found himself softening. Draco was looking back at his books as if he had been asked to not just leave them but Incendio them behind him. And Harry understood— whatever they couldn't make time to read in the present timeline, they would likely lose the chance forever. These books didn't exist, or were rare and coveted, in their own time. Maybe Draco would be able to find a copy of his mother's favorite play from another old family, but he'd likely have to pay hundreds of Galleons for that one book, and that was if he could convince them to part with it.

Harry wondered how so many valuable books had been lost in such a relatively short period of time, but then he remembered the war. Priceless treasures, little pieces of history, were always lost in wars, weren't they? Bombings and fires and raids. He supposed the Death Eaters had been as careless with books as they had been with lives in the first war.

"Tell you what," said Harry, coming back to himself. "Pick out your top ten. You pay for five, and I'll use my allowance to get the other five. I don't spend much money on myself, anyway."

Draco's face flooded with a series of different expressions. Harry thought he was able to discern confusion, anger, and something defenseless in them.

Finally, Draco swallowed once and nodded. He turned to his tower of books, which was almost as tall as he was, and started sorting through them. He chose his first five easily and handed them to Harry, but the last five proved more difficult. After deliberating for several minutes over the Nordic Runes book and an ancient-looking, little book on alchemy, Draco finally added them both to his pile, making six books total. He picked them up and told Harry, chin high and stiff,

"I don't want much from Honeydukes, anyway. Hogwarts' puddings have always been more than adequate." And then, as they left the shop, "Thank you."

Lily helpfully shrank their purchases so they could carry them in their pockets, and the group headed back toward the center of the village where Honeydukes lay. The bookshop had taken them to the outskirts near the Hog's Head, though none were interested in visiting that particular pub.

Harry was giving Draco fleeting sidelong glances as they walked. Something about him had changed in the two months they had been in the past, and it wasn't just his dark, copper-highlighted hair.

Draco walked with Lily so close to his side that their arms kept bumping, and he laughed at something Marlene said. It wasn't his usual sneering, disdainful laugh, but the genuine sound Harry had only heard once, that previous week when they had gone flying.

He seemed comfortable, Harry realized. The weight and strain of playing host to Voldemort and the Death Eaters had started to lessen. He wasn't as tense and tired as he had been only two months ago when Harry, Ron, and Hermione had shown up at his house demanding information on Dolohov.

And he was comfortable with Muggle-borns. He was comfortable with the secondhand books in his pocket. He was comfortable giving up his own stash of Honeydukes chocolates so that he would have enough money left over to share drinks with his Muggle-born friends.

It was astonishing.

But then Harry thought about that horrible night on top of the Astronomy Tower, where Draco had cornered Dumbledore; he thought of how Draco had unmistakably begun to lower his wand when Dumbledore offered him a way out.

He thought of Draco saying, "Then why didn't you stop me?" when Dumbledore had admitted to knowing Draco was behind the attempted murders all semester. Draco hadn't said it in that sneering, disdainful voice then, either. He had said it as if hurt. He had said it as if begging Dumbledore to stop him now.

Maybe it wasn't so astonishing that Draco could befriend Muggle-borns….

"G'day, ladies!" said James, bounding down the mostly deserted road toward them. He added as an afterthought, "Parker. Mallory."

"Potter," said Lily, mild as milk. "Looking to get hexed? I already told you I was going to Hogsmeade with Harry, not you."

"No, no, nothing like that!" said James, waving his hand airily and laughing a too-deep, extremely forced laugh. "I was just looking through the adjustable binoculars in Zonko's and happened to see your beautiful visages sauntering down this lonely stretch…."

"Aw, you think Draco's cute, too?" asked Lily sweetly.

At the same time Marlene's face went cold and dangerous and she asked, "Those weren't the clothes canceling binoculars, were they?"

And Draco perked up, looking around at Lily. "Too?"

James reminded Harry of a Boggart confronted with too many people; he didn't know which shape to take and might make an entirely disappointing mess trying to address them all at once.

Then Sirius's voice came shouting down the lane, "Prongs, you idiot, we told you not to initiate contact!"

Remus said, catching up breathlessly, "You didn't tell them about the binoculars, did you?"

Pettigrew was bringing up the rear, his short legs and chubby frame working against him as he attempted to chase the others.

"'Course, I did," said James to Remus, puffing up indignantly. "I'm not a liar. And it's an excellent conversation starter! I was just about to tell Parker and Mallory they're far too skinny under those robes, and I can give them directions to the kitchens back at the school. You, too, Mary," he added offhand to Mary, who went pink to the roots of her hair.

Lily gasped, and even as her eyes widened with outrage, her hand struck out and slapped James for the thirty-fourth time, fourth time in seventh year. (James had treated the boys' dormitory to a monologue on Lily's Greatest Slaps a week ago, to Sirius's loud groans and Remus's pointed silence from behind a book. Only Harry and Peter had listened avidly.)

"YOU DO NOT," she shrieked, "COMMENT ON A LADY'S WEIGHT, JAMES POTTER! AND IF I EVER CATCH YOU UNDRESSING ME WITH YOUR EYES AGAIN, BINOCULARS OR NOT, I'LL—"

Harry caught Rosier's eye as the Slytherin walked past them in the street, watching Lily verbally castrating James with a smirk, and Harry realized too late what he had been forgetting. He whirled on the spot, looking for the other Slytherins who had been stalking them from the castle, but they had all disappeared, and—

The BH-WOOM of explosions from the shops ahead almost knocked them off their feet. The bookshop behind them became a solid wall of noise and heat and shattered glass like bullets.

Harry didn't think, just grabbed the person next to him and threw them both to the ground, pointing his wand upward and shouting, "PROTEGO!"

He heard his shout echoed from nearby— James, he thought, or Sirius.

Flaming debris ricocheted off Harry's shield, sending sparks, gouts of fire, and blue-white ripples across his field of vision. The heat was searing, unending. He thought wildly of Fiendfyre, of being cooked alive underneath the shield—

"Draco!" he shouted over the roar of the inferno. "Is it Fiendfyre?"

The body Harry had shoved to the ground half-underneath him struggled, got their wand in their pale hand, and cried, "Finite Horribilis!" But there was no effect. Draco said, panting under Harry's weight and shoving him as far away as the shield would allow, "No! They must have used Greek Fire!"

Harry spat a curse. Professor Bowie had told them about Greek Fire: It was unextinguishable except by the original spellcaster. It would just keep burning and burning until there was nothing left to fuel it—

Fuel.

Fire needed oxygen, and Flitwick had mentioned, only briefly, a spell opposite of harnessing the wind, which they had been working on for the past week. What had the incantation been?

As the heat blistered him from seemingly the inside out, as the oxygen under the shield grew thinner and he struggled to breathe, Harry desperately wished Hermione were there. She would have been paying attention in Charms. Hell, she would probably have looked up the spell Flitwick had mentioned only once in passing, like she had looked up Professor McGonagall's registration card when they had covered animagi. Always going the extra mile…

Then he remembered Hermione wasn't the only Charms prodigy, not in the '70s. She wasn't the only overachiever, wasn't Head Girl.

"Lily!" he shouted, praying she was alright and had found shelter from the fire. His voice came out weaker than he expected, suffocating under the flames. "The opposite of Ventus Maxima!"

She must have found shelter, must have understood immediately what he meant, because the next moment, she called, "Everyone, hold your breath! Ventus Evacta!"

The roar of the fire met the rush of wind. What little air remained under Harry's shield was ripped away with the whipping of his and Draco's robes. Harry's skin pimpled with goosebumps, freezing in the abrupt absence of being cooked alive, and an inexplicable pressure bore down on him. He struggled to move under it, struggled to keep holding his breath, as Lily drove the wind and fire away with her wand.

Red-faced and sweating, still holding her own breath, she didn't let up until the last of the flames in a twenty-foot radius had petered out and vanished.

Then she lowered her wand and gasped for breath. A gentle breeze was already slinking among them again.

It bore the scent of ashes and heat.

Harry and the others clambered to their feet.

Harry found he had not just been sprawled on top of Draco, but Mary, too. Draco must have grabbed her and pulled her down exactly as Harry had done to him. A few feet away, Lily, Marlene, Gertrude, and James were huddled together, and on the ground a little ways from them, Sirius was on top of Remus and Peter, still holding his shield and looking pale and stricken.

"James," said Sirius, dropping his shield at once and springing to his feet. There was a painfully familiar haunted look in his eyes, and Harry looked away, feeling as if he had been punched in the gut. Sirius continued, "Merlin, when I couldn't find you under the shield with us, I thought…."

"'m alright, Padfoot," said James, clapping him firmly on the shoulder. "Knew you'd take care of the boys. I just had to make sure…"

James shot not only Lily, but the McKinnons a look still weighed with panic and anxiety. His knuckles were white around his wand.

"Mary!" cried Lily, catching sight of her with Harry and Draco. She shot forward and flung her arms around her, and Mary hugged her back just as fiercely. Lily's face wasn't just wet with perspiration. Tears were streaming silently down her cheeks. "Oh, God, Mary! You were beside me one second and then you were just gone! And Harry, that was such quick thinking! I thought the world was ending; I didn't know what to do—"

"Come on," said Harry, starting toward the village proper. "More people could be hurt or trapped. We have to help. Come on!"

It didn't take more than that to mobilize the Gryffindors. With those few words, they had straightened up and were right on Harry's heels.

Harry didn't look back at the ruined bones of the bookshop. They had been the only students inside, thank Merlin. The shop was on the outskirts, and not many students ventured that far off the high street, but the shopkeeper…. There was no way she had survived. Not when she had been right in the center of the explosion.

James caught up with Harry and sprinted alongside him.

"We should send someone ahead to the castle," James said. "Have them bring help."

Harry didn't respond, expecting James to start calling out names and barking orders as he had done at Quidditch tryouts, but there was silence. Harry glanced at him and found James looking at him expectantly, waiting and worried.

He was asking Harry what to do. Instead of taking charge, he was deferring to Harry for some reason.

"Uh, yeah," said Harry. He thought fast. "Peter, Marlene, you run straight back to the school. Don't stop for anything. Get Dumbledore."

"Aye, aye, Captain!" shouted Marlene.

"This way's a shortcut!" said Peter, pulling Marlene aside as soon as they reached the high street, and they darted around a shop Harry didn't recognize.

The high street was utter chaos. It seemed every other shop had been blown up. People were screaming— some in pain, others calling for friends they couldn't find, or for friends who wouldn't wake up. Huge swathes of Greek Fire were still burning, eating craters out of the pavement and billowing high upon the skeletons of the shops. Once again, heat and smoke assaulted them, and they slowed as they approached, trying to see what was happening and where to help.

"Lily, start putting out the fires!" Harry shouted over the chaos. "Does anybody know any healing spells?"

"We do!" said James and Sirius.

"Teach Remus, Gertrude, and Mary and get going!"

"What about me?" asked Draco, looking around at the wreckage and human misery with an expression like he was about to be sick.

"Think you can do that wind spell Lily is using?"

Draco hesitated but then nodded. "Ventus Evacta," he said, as if reminding himself.

"Good," said Harry grimly, turning to the first burning building to their left. It radiated heat like a furnace, blanketed in lurid green flames. Even as they watched, the awning over the front door clattered to the ground, smoldering and twisted. A rafter joined it with a screech of splintering wood. Harry said, "Then follow me. If anyone's alive, we're getting them out."

He took off straight toward the front door, casting an Impervious Charm on his robes as he went. Behind him, Draco started cursing a blue streak, and Harry caught phrases like, "bloody fucking Gryffindors," and, "can't believe the Sorting Hat even considered," and, "sodding hero complex!" But then he was shouting, "Ventus Evacta!" and the heat ahead of Harry lessened.

Harry dove through the shop door. It might have once been an apothecary, judging by the shattered jars and charbroiled animal body parts littering the floor. He didn't know if anything would survive by the time they got the fire out.

"Is anybody in here?" Harry bellowed, and covered his nose and mouth as smoke made him choke.

"Back here!" shrieked a tiny, feminine voice. "We're trapped! Oh, God, help us! Help us!"

"Make sure we'll still have a way out," Harry shouted to Draco, motioning him to stay by the entrance while Harry skidded ahead over the debris toward the voices. He found them only a second later.

Three third years were huddled together, crying and coughing, as Greek Fire surrounded them on all sides. Harry didn't know how they had survived the initial blast— the only adult, the shopkeeper, was dead only a few feet away, his remains hardly recognizable as human under the flames— but whatever they had done to protect themselves, they had found their limit.

"Hold your breath!" Harry said, and then, "Ventus Evacta!"

He swooped his wand like a lasso and sucked the oxygen out of the shop around them. Concentrating hard as his lungs contracted like vises, he gave his wand a hard jerk, and the spell seemed to physically wrench the fire out of existence. He released it and gasped for breath. "Come on! Follow me!"

The third years hurried after him, terrified and sobbing. Harry ushered them toward Gertrude, who was triaging the injured out on the street. She was mending what she could with a few hastily learned healing spells and sending the more seriously injured in James's direction.

Harry grabbed Draco's shoulder and sprinted to the next burning building.

They had barely cleared it— formerly a secondhand robe shop— when Draco gasped and bent double in pain. He was clutching his left forearm as if it were on fire, though Harry didn't see any of the green flames near him.

"Death Eaters!" gasped Draco, straightening through his pain just long enough to give Harry a terrified look. "They're coming!"

They were there. The screams had redoubled out on the street. Now there were added jets of colored light and deafening bangs and crashes.

Harry felt blindsided.

Hadn't the Slytherins set their bombs and left? Why had they come back? To finish off the survivors? Considering everyone in Hogsmeade was magical, that seemed unlikely. Death Eaters valued magical blood too highly… and all of this right in Albus Dumbledore's backyard….

It was unbelievable, and Harry couldn't fathom their intentions.

A scream from just outside the shop door mobilized him. He barreled past Draco and into the street, shouting, "Expelliarmus!" and then "Stupefy!" at the first masked, cloaked figure he saw.

The Death Eater's wand soared high and landed out of sight in the chaos. He himself crumpled to the ground and did not stir.

Harry barely had the chance to take in what was happening before he had to defend himself.

Through the blur of action— attack, defense, quicker than his conscious mind could keep up with—

There were at least a dozen robed, masked figures in black.

The Gryffindors' attempts to create a healing station had gathered the students in one large mass, most of them either hurt, in shock, or worse.

The figures in black robes were trying to surround them, coming from the direction of the castle. The way farther into Hogsmeade was still open, but it wouldn't be for long.

Harry finished off his opponent with a Stupefy and shouted at the congregation of students, "TO THE HOG'S HEAD! GET TO THE HOG'S HEAD! GO!"

The students who had turned at his bellow looked bewildered. They were terrified, unthinking. Just waiting to be slaughtered.

But Draco had heard him, and even as he cast Harry an incredulous look, he grabbed the student nearest him and shoved her down the street toward the Hog's Head.

"The Hog's Head, at the end of the lane that way!" Draco snapped. "Go! Go!"

The momentum of Draco's shove kept her moving. She caught her friend's hand and then started running in the direction Draco had indicated, hauling her friend along.

It seemed to click, then, for the other students. They started running from the Death Eaters between them and the castle and toward the Hog's Head in a disordered, frantic mob.

Harry kept dueling, defending Draco as Draco herded the students along.

It was chaotic, too fast, and Harry relied entirely on instinct, Expelliarmus and Protego coming to his wand as reflexively as breathing. He threw in a few curses as he could, but his attention was on the students caught in the melee.

There were some who couldn't move.

A few yards away, sweat poured down James's face as he bent over an unconscious fourth year girl, whose Ravenclaw robes were singed away from a horrible, charred blister on her whole left side. James's wand glowed pale green, and he was muttering under his breath as he focused on her. The only sign he noticed the battle raging over his head lay in his tense shoulders and taut jaw. There were at least four other unconscious, badly bleeding students lying in wait next to him.

A few yards past him, Sirius was in a similar dilemma. He was crouching over a fellow seventh year boy, wand tip lit seafoam green, his gray eyes as sharp as razors and they catalogued the boy's wounds and formulated the best plan to save his life. He, too, had a line of patients waiting, unmoving and maimed.

Harry started to call for Marlene, the fiercest and most militant of the Gryffindors, but remembered belatedly that she was gone with Peter for that exact reason. Peter knew the shortcuts. Marlene could protect him.

"Lily!" he shouted instead. "Gertrude! Mary!" The girls whirled to face him, crowded over their own less fatally injured patients. "Guard James and Sirius! Buy them time to heal! Remus, get the injured moving to the Hog's Head!"

Harry deflected a curse and kept dueling. He forced his way deeper into the Death Eaters' ranks, trying to push them back from the impromptu hospital wing.

He only needed to last until Dumbledore arrived or the injured were healed enough to run.

…

James leaned over his latest patient, praying as fervently to an invisible Poppy Pomfrey as he might have prayed to Jesus Christ himself.

His patient was horribly burned, not even losing blood because of the cauterization, and James didn't know how to deal with burns.

He, Sirius, and Peter had learned a variety of healing spells to help when Moony got out of control during the full moon. They'd even had occasion to learn a few more when their pranks took a turn for the worst.

They'd never dealt with burns. Or smoke inhalation.

The most James could do was a general healing spell to speed up the body's natural healing process, plus a little charm to ward off shock. He knew a spell to seal an open wound, usually a cut in his experience, but he didn't dare seal the skin on a burn victim when he didn't know what internal damage could be underneath. He could set a bone, stave off infection… but flesh grilled like a prime steak?

He needed Pomfrey. They needed Pomfrey. He knew he and Sirius were doing a hack job at best.

Lily was at James's back. She was dueling two Death Eaters at once, and everything in James screamed to stop mucking about with healing and do something he was good at―fight, protect.

He forced himself to keep his eyes on his patient and trust her. Lily was Head Girl for a reason. No one else was better protected in that moment than James Potter. He wished she had learned some healing charms. She would have been better at this mess than he was, and he could have stuck to guard duty.

James finished with his patient. She wasn't fully healed by any means, but James had done the best he could, and he was confident she would survive if she could get to a safe location.

He turned toward the next body in his queue, a gasping, barely conscious fifth year in Hufflepuff robes, when he saw it.

Lily was dueling with a Death Eater to their left. There was another man coming up behind her on their right. And dead ahead, a third year girl ran into a black robed, masked man and froze like a mouse in front of a snake.

James and Lily saw the girl at the same time. Their eyes turned and met. James looked behind Lily to the Death Eater sneaking up on her. His heart sank and stuttered.

He had to intervene. Only….

He could rescue Lily, or he could rescue the little third year.

There was no time for both.

For a moment, all he knew was blind panic. He needed to be in two places at once. He had to save everyone. Why couldn't he—?

The Death Eaters raised their wands. James made his decision.

Lily was an incredible witch. She could protect herself. The third year girl was in serious danger.

He raised his wand and screamed, "Stupefy!" at the Death Eater who had raised his wand at the third year. The man crumpled, unconscious. The third year screamed and fled. Mallory caught sight of her and ushered her deeper into Hogsmeade, toward the Hog's Head.

Behind James came several loud bangs and flashes of light.

James whirled and found Lily standing over two downed Death Eaters. She was staring at him, wide-eyed, panting. Her hair was a wild, messy wreath around her head and shoulders. Bits of the auburn hair stuck to her face and throat in sweaty clumps.

In a feat of pure athleticism and magical skill, she had downed her original opponent and met the Death Eater sneaking up on her with a split second to act. She had used it wisely and without hesitation, stunning him mid-death stroke.

James had never wanted to kiss her more.

There was something in Lily's vibrant green eyes he didn't recognize. She was alive with the glow of battle, but she was staring straight back at him as if she had never truly seen him before.

There wasn't time to contemplate it.

Another Death Eater stepped up to meet Lily, and the half-comatose patient at James's side let out a wracking cough.

James lurched forward with a healing spell. Lily sank again into battle.

The battled raged fierce and deafening around them. Out of the corner of his eye, James saw Harry ploughing through the Death Eaters like a tidal wave. Anyone else would have called the Ilvermorny kid reckless, suicidal, but James only saw determination, precision, and power. Harry dodged spells, cast his own, and advanced forward like a force of nature. No Death Eater could stand against him on equal footing. It was like watching an entire Auror task force driving their opponents back, except it was condensed into a single skinny seventh year boy.

James tried to return his focus to the injured Hufflepuff under his wand. His own heartbeat was frantic. His mind was a tornado of panic, worry, doubt, and fear.

Harry, Lily, Gertrude, and Mary were doing well against the Death Eaters, but he didn't know how long that would last. They were only students. They hadn't even finished their last year at school yet. How much longer could they hold off an invading force of fully trained dark wizards?

James's wand trembled as he cast, and he forced his hand and mind alike to steady.

They could last. They had to last.

He was just finishing up the Hufflepuff and wiping sweat from his brow when Lily let out a sharp yelp. He whirled just in time to see her go down in a heap.

"LILY!" he shouted, leaping to his feet.

The Death Eater who had attacked—killed?—stunned?—her crossed the short distance to James in a few strides.

The man grabbed James and called over his shoulder, "Is this him? Is this the boy?"

Ice flooded James's veins. The boy? What boy?

They're looking for someone specific.

James struggled, trying to wrench his wand arm free from the man's hold, but there wasn't even the slightest budge. The man holding him must have been built like a troll under those robes.

Another Death Eater hurried through the gap left by Lily's downfall. James couldn't see his face under the mask, but he gave the impression of studying James intently. He was panting from the exertions of the battle.

"I… I don't know," said the Death Eater. His voice was younger than the first's and vaguely familiar. "The other boy… I'm not sure…."

The second Death Eater cast his shadowy hood in Harry's direction, where the fiercest of the fight raged.

"Damn it, Dolohov!" snarled the Death Eater holding James, who was kicking and struggling like a rabid dog. "This whole thing was your idea! If you can't even recognize—!"

Speaking of rabid dogs.

Sirius tackled both James and the Death Eater holding him. All three of them crashed into the pavement. James writhed desperately, adrenaline surging through his muscles like a magical power he had never felt before, not even during the Marauders' wildest pranks. He managed to elbow the Death Eater in his sternum, kick his instep, and roll free. He had dropped his wand in the fall, and he saw it rolling away into the melee.

"Take him!" roared the Death Eater who had grabbed James. He and Sirius were grappling, the sounds of flesh on flesh vicious and meaty as they fought without restraint.

James lunged and snatched his wand off the street. He whirled to Sirius and the Death Eater, another Stupefy on his lips, when an arm caught him across the chest and hauled him backward. The arm snared him like a vise and clamped him against the Death Eater's torso.

The Death Eater Apparated, and James was dragged along with him.

...

TBC...

Chapter Text

"Because, sometimes you've got to think about more than your own safety! Sometimes you've got to think about the greater good! This is war!"

― Harry to Aberforth, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

Chapter 10: This is War

The high street of Hogsmeade was nearly unrecognizable. Half the shops were rubble while the other half crumbled under sky-high lurid green flames. Dark, noxious smoke churned heavy in the air, denser than a cloud and torturous to breathe.

Harry found his opponents by the flash of green fire off their silver masks, by the jets of light from their wand tips. Only minutes ago, he hadn't needed to search for them― he'd thrown himself into their midst, carving out a wake like a torpedo, Death Eaters on all sides and closing in as if he might drown in them.

Harry had since culled the herd.

Instead of dueling multiple Death Eaters from every angle, he now dueled one-on-one as he spotted them, doing his best to keep himself placed between danger and the impromptu healing station in the middle of the road.

Harry was aware that some Death Eaters got past him. He could hear the girls― Lily, Gertrude, and Mary― dueling, could see the flashes and sparks of their fights out of the corner of his eye, and the cacophony of battle was only dimly muffled by the smoke and his own pounding heartbeat.

Sirius and James were quiet for once in their lives, working hard on healing their classmates who were lying unconscious in the street.

Remus and Draco rushed between the battle and the Hog's Head, levitating patients to safety as James and Sirius finished working on them.

Harry himself was panting and sweating as he dueled the latest Death Eater, yet another man he didn't recognize. Whoever it was, he was a decent duelist. He might have hung back from the initial clash out of fear, but he was holding his own now that Harry was exhausted and struggling to breathe.

Harry's throat burned from the smoke, his lungs and chest ached, and no matter how hard he panted, he couldn't seem to pull enough air for a full breath.

He was no stranger to adrenaline in a fight, but this felt different.

The smoke, he realized, as the Death Eater cast a type of wind charm to blow Harry off balance, and Harry finally got a breath of fresh air in its wake. He gulped it down, taking as many deep breaths as he could before the smoke settled back in. The Death Eater didn't let him rest, striking out with a Killing Curse that Harry barrel rolled in the dirt to avoid.

After a few more strikes and counters, Harry managed to cast a nonverbal Wingardium Leviosa at a burning fencepost behind the Death Eater and struck him over the head with it. The Death Eater, who had conjured a shield between himself and Harry the moment he saw Harry's wand move, went down in a heap.

Harry, still on the ground, waved his wand as they had only recently learned in Charms class and coughed, "Ventus tria!"

It wasn't his best attempt. Manipulating the four natural elements required more power than regular, everyday charms, which was why it was saved until the seventh-year curriculum, and Harry was drained. It was enough to blow the smoke away for a few precious seconds, though, and Harry took deep, choking breaths.

Then he forced himself back to his feet.

He was lightheaded, shaking, and still coughing, but the battle wasn't over. His friends needed him. He had to protect them. He couldn't fail. Not again.

Ron. Hermione. I'll do better this time, I swear. I will protect them.

Harry backed up towards the healing station, wand up, eyes peeled for any sign of a threat.

He couldn't see any more dark, cloaked shapes from the direction of the castle. Had he finished off the last of their attack force? That seemed… improbable. There had been so many.

He was about to turn around and help the girls finish their duels when he saw his mistake.

He had backed up between two relatively intact shops, one on either side of the road of him. He was just about to turn his back when movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention.

Several dark, masked figures poured out of the shops, wands already slashing in his direction.

Harry dropped to the ground and rolled beneath the first volley, but there was nothing to hide behind. He raised his wand to cast a shield, but a coughing fit seized him, making his arm jerk and ruined the movement.

He couldn't stop coughing. He tasted blood on the back of his tongue, and his eyes were stinging and watering. He braced himself to feel the Death Eaters' curses any moment, unable to breathe, let alone defend himself.

Fuck, he thought, surprisingly calmly, as time seemed to slow down. Guess this is it.

Briefly, he sent a mental apology to Draco― for not being able to protect him any longer, for possibly trapping him in the past. He apologized to his young parents, and Sirius and Remus, and hoped history hadn't been altered too much, hoped they would survive this.

And then the thought of seeing Ron and Hermione again, of being together, made his heart swell with anticipation. Quicker and easier than falling asleep, and then he could be with them again.

He wasn't sure if his eyes were watering from the smoke or if they were tears of relief.

It was almost over.

Ron. Hermione.

There were bangs, crashes, and startled cries all around him.

Nothing hit Harry.

Harry had, at some point, curled into a ball to ease his coughing fit, but his fingers had never released their grip on his wand. He held it up as his coughs finally subsided, unable to see clearly through the smoke and his watering eyes, but ready to react to anything.

There were figures between Harry and the Death Eaters, fighting them back.

Nearest, Harry recognized Professor Bowie's messy blond bun and the glimmer of too much jewelry.

"What, Madam Pomfrey write you another sick note, Parker?" Bowie called over his shoulder as he slashed and flicked his wand at two Death Eaters. "I said if you can breathe, you can fight! Now get up and fight, damn it!"

On Harry's other side was Dumbledore. Even through the smoke and distance, he could see the look of terrible fury on Dumbledore's face as he lassoed one Death Eater in translucent silver ropes, whipped another Death Eater through the smoldering wall behind him, and turned to the final two. Harry had only seen him that angry once― back at the Department of Mysteries when Sirius had died.

Even knowing they were on the same side, Harry's heart quaked at the sight.

Harry got to his feet, wheezing and occasionally coughing, but able to breathe again. He deflected a Death Eater's curse that went wide of Professor Bowie and returned it with a vengeance.

"Atta boy!" cried Bowie. He had that wide, wolfish grin that reminded Harry of Mad-Eye Moody.

Harry and Bowie dueled side-by-side for a few seconds until Harry got a clean Expelliarmus through on his opponent and immediately followed it with a Stunning charm. He turned to gang up on Bowie's opponent but caught sight of another figure racing toward them.

Harry raised his wand, ready, but stopped at the sight of Sirius Black.

Sirius was ashen-faced and wild-eyed, but he sprinted straight toward Harry and grabbed him by the shoulders. His breathing was ragged― not as bad as Harry's, but getting close― and his hands were smeared in blood. Harry assumed it was from handling the injured students until he realized Sirius's knuckles were busted, too, and he had a fat lip and black eye forming.

"Parker! Parker, they took him! They took James!"

Harry stared at Sirius uncomprehending. It was like Sirius was speaking another language. They sounded like words, but they didn't make sense.

They took James.

What…? Who…? Why would…?

Harry shook his head, unable to understand. "Huh?"

Sirius shook him and repeated, "They took James, Parker! They were looking for someone! That's why they attacked! And they took him! We have to go after them! We have to get him back!"

"Why would they want James?" Harry's voice sounded foreign to his own ears, as if someone else were speaking.

"I don't know!" Sirius threw his hands in the air in frustration. "Does it matter? They have him, and we have to get him back!"

"We need… we need…"

I need Ron and Hermione, Harry thought, and couldn't think of anything else.

Getting through a battle like this without them watching his back had been bad enough. So many times, he had found himself checking for their positions before moving on to make sure they stayed together. After so many years and so many adrenaline-flooded fights, when Harry's mind sank into that calm, smooth space that allowed him to continue on despite the odds, he just assumed Ron and Hermione were right there with him. He had almost called out to them once or twice, to shout warnings or when he recognized a particular Death Eater by a signature spell.

They weren't there.

Harry was alone.

Now, James had been kidnapped by Death Eaters and was possibly facing Voldemort himself, and Harry didn't have the first clue what to do.

What if they were torturing him? What if this was where Dolohov began learning?

Harry shivered and didn't stop. He couldn't look at Sirius, could only let his eyes wander blankly and take quick, gasping breaths as his whole body trembled.

The fight was over. Bowie had Stunned his opponent and had rushed off to sweep the perimeter, looking for any other Death Eaters laying in wait. Dumbledore had collected his four opponents and tied them with Anti-Disapparation ropes and was rushing forward to where Mary, the last of the Gryffindor girls standing, was frantically trying to help the injured students Sirius and James had abandoned.

Lily was down, sprawled unconscious in the street.

Hermione. A flare of purple flames, and Harry's best friend was on the ground, unmoving. Unbreathing. Harry had left her there on the sidewalk.

James was gone. Just… gone.

There were bodies everywhere, some Death Eaters, some children, some wizards and witches who lived and worked in the village. The buildings were still burning. Smoke billowed in the air.

Harry's throat was bleeding, from screaming himself hoarse as Dolohov― no. No. His throat was bleeding from the coughing, from the smoke and ash and heat.

There was no Dolohov here. Not every Death Eater was Dolohov.

"I recognized one of them," Sirius was saying, hands fluttering with frantic energy, like birds trying to escape his wrists. "Antonin Dolohov. He was a year above us in school. Some older guy was asking Dolohov, 'Is this the boy?' And the fucker didn't know, but the other guy was angry, said it was all Dolohov's idea. But James and Dolohov barely had anything to do with each other in school! They'd recognize each other, but there's no reason Dolohov would attack Hogsmeade for James!"

The world spun. Harry didn't know which way was up, and he stumbled, grabbing onto Sirius for support. It didn't help. Another coughing fit wracked him, and this time Harry felt like he might vomit, too.

"Harry?" Sirius lowered him carefully to the ground. "Gods, you're coughing blood. Let me―"

Sirius pulled out his wand and pointed it at Harry.

"No!" Harry screamed, or tried to. His voice came out a hoarse rasp, but his wand hand reacted instinctively. Without conscious thought, he disarmed Sirius and blasted him back.

Harry curled in on himself, dizzy, coughing, trembling from head to toe, as the world spun and rocked, tossing him about like a ship on the ocean.

He closed his eyes and tried to breathe, but the images waiting behind his closed eyelids were even worse.

Hermione dead on the ground, left outside in the dirt, alone. She wasn't petrified by a basilisk this time. She had needed Harry, but he hadn't been fast enough, hadn't been good enough. And Harry had left her lying there in the street.

Ron was screaming obscenities at Dolohov and the laughing, jeering Death Eaters who surrounded Harry, who was bound to a table in the supply room of a Knockturn Alley sex shop. Ron screamed at them to stop, called them names that would have given Mrs. Weasley a heart attack if she'd heard him. He kept screaming at them until Dolohov turned his wand on him, until he, too had screamed his throat bloody and hoarse. And when he was quiet, he wasn't fun anymore. Dolohov had killed him, just like that.

Harry felt that moment when he had broken. When he hadn't even cared that Dolohov had killed Remus. When he just wanted Ron and Hermione back. It didn't matter that Harry was bleeding and broken and torn apart in every way Dolohov could make him hurt. He just wanted Ron and Hermione back. He regretted ever going after Dolohov. But Ron and Hermione were both dead, and Harry was about to be next, and something in him had simply broken.

Harry wanted Ron and Hermione back. Sitting curled up on the street in Hogsmeade decades in the past, Harry just wanted his friends.

As he struggled to breathe through the smoke and panic, something small and round and hard fell into his lap.

Harry jerked, startled, and a black stone with a jagged crack down the center slid from his lap onto the street beside him.

Harry stared at it, his breath catching on a gasp.

The Resurrection Stone lay there as innocuously as any other stone on the street.

Harry picked it up, transfixed. His hands were covered in ash and flecks of blood, his fingers rough and calloused. The stone fit easily in his palm, clean and smooth as if it had come straight out of a river. The juxtaposition fascinated him.

Sirius was speaking.

"-sorry, I forgot. It's okay. Just breathe…."

Harry ignored him. He didn't think.

He turned the stone over three times in his hand.

Ron and Hermione. Ron and Hermione. Ron and Hermione. Please, come back. I need you.

An older Sirius Black stepped in front of Harry as if he had been waiting off to the side, just out of sight. He crouched down between Harry and his younger counterpart, his expression soft and sad.

"Hey, Harry," he said quietly.

"Sirius!" Harry said, uncurling and getting to his knees. His heart stuttered in his chest. This Sirius was as Harry had seen him in the Forbidden Forest the night he, Harry, had died. Older than the student Harry had gotten to know over the last month, but younger and heartier than Harry had known him in his own time. As always, Harry's heart leapt to see him, but it was tempered by disappointment. "Why are you―? Where are Ron and Hermione? I wanted to see them!"

"What the…" the younger, living Sirius edged around to see better. His eyes were as wide as saucers. "What the bloody fuck is going on?"

Harry and his Sirius both ignored him.

"It's too soon, Harry," Sirius responded gently. "You're not ready."

"Too soon?" Harry snapped, temper flaring. "I saw Remus just hours after he… after he…."

Harry took a deep, shuddering breath before dissolving into another coughing fit.

"We were your welcoming committee then," said Sirius with a small, wry smile. "There was no harm seeing us when you were about to join us. But this time, we hope we can convince you to stay alive a bit longer. The Stone's power is subtle but dangerous, Harry. You must remember the story of the Three Brothers."

"I'm not… I'm not trying to bring them back," said Harry weakly. "I just want to see them. Talk to them. I need them, Sirius. I can't… I can't do this without them!"

"Yes, you can," said Sirius firmly. He made as if to touch Harry's shoulder but paused. Slowly, he let his hand drop. He said, "You're so strong, Harry. So brave. You can do this. I believe in you."

Harry's temper was a storm inside him. He felt like he was drowning and all he could do was lash out at the one person throwing him a lifeline. "What if I'm tired of being strong, of being brave? Because I am! Haven't I been through enough? And even then, they were always beside me! I want them back! I need them back!"

Harry's godfather leaned back and rested more comfortably on the ground. He made it look like he was lounging elegantly on a ballroom chaise instead of in ash-covered dirt and rocks.

"Hermione adamantly refuses," he said. "She says it's a slippery slope, the Stone is your weakness, and she's forbidden all of us from visiting you."

"Then why are you here?" Harry snapped.

Sirius gave him a quick, mischievous smirk. "She's not the boss of me."

Harry let out a helpless laugh, surprised. If it sounded more like a sob, Sirius didn't mention it.

Harry ducked his head and tried to steady himself. He was spiraling and he didn't know how to stop it.

"This is unreal," the young Sirius breathed. "You are me. But what is this? How is it happening?"

"Magic," said his ghostly counterpart.

"Sirius," said Harry, and both looked up. Harry looked to his Sirius. "The Death Eaters took James. They have him."

Sirius's expression was grim. "I know."

"You know? You know?" said Harry, baffled by Sirius's lack of emotion. His voice rose, and he said as loudly as he was able, though still very hoarsely, "They have Prongs, Padfoot! What do we do? How do we fix this?"

"The same way you fix everything. Like you said, you've been through a lot. How have you always gotten through it?"

"With my friends," said Harry cuttingly, glaring at him.

"So, do that." Sirius shrugged.

Harry could have strangled him. It was his Sirius, that was for sure, but Harry was able to see more of the teenaged Sirius in him, now that he knew what to look for. Harry tried to take a deep breath and ended up coughing again.

It definitely tasted of blood. Harry wiped his mouth and ignored it, just like he ignored the younger Sirius's look of concern and his godfather's look of sympathy.

"Don't you remember what happened the first time?" rasped Harry, throwing caution to the wind. There was no way the younger Sirius hadn't figured out time travel was involved. Harry might as well dig for whatever advantage he could now that his secret was blown. "How did you get him back?"

His godfather looked pensive and vaguely troubled. His gaze darted to his younger self before resting on Harry. He said slowly, thoughtfully, "Hogsmeade was attacked in my seventh year… but this is too soon. And, from what I can tell… different. Voldemort used it as an opportunity to try to recruit some of us. He came, stirred up some panic, got his supporters feeling confident for attacking so close to Dumbledore, and made offers to the students who showed potential. He didn't kidnap anyone. Something has changed."

Me, Harry thought, his stomach sinking. He had no idea what he had done to change Voldemort's plans, but it had gotten his father kidnapped.

Puzzle pieces started fitting themselves together in his mind. Harry jabbed a thumb at the younger Sirius and said, "He said the Death Eaters were looking for someone specific, someone who… matched James's description. And Voldemort didn't come himself. Like he's afraid this time."

Harry and his godfather locked gazes.

It was obvious once they knew something had altered the timeline. Voldemort was looking for Harry. Not only did he know about Harry, he knew enough not to come in person. He knew enough to be afraid.

Someone had told Voldemort, years too early, that Harry would be his downfall and that he would be in Hogsmeade that day.

The only people who knew that were Harry and Draco. They hadn't even confided in Dumbledore that Harry was the so-called Savior of the Wizarding World.

And Harry hadn't told anybody in this timeline anything.

He couldn't bring himself to feel betrayed― not yet, anyway. He felt like his chest had been hollowed out, leaving a cavernous emptiness where his heart should have been.

He gripped the Stone tighter.

The ghostly Sirius glanced over his shoulder, where Flitwick and Madam Pomfrey were arriving on the scene.

"I need to go now, Harry," he said quietly. "You don't want to look like a lunatic talking to yourself once the Healer arrives."

"Can't they see you?" asked the younger Sirius, frowning.

Harry's godfather shook his head. "I didn't know you'd be able to, but I suppose since you're me… time travel and souls are tricky, both apart and mixed together."

"I don't… I don't want you to go," Harry said. The desperation that had made him turn the Stone three times had faded, and in crept the familiar misery. Sirius was dead. He was lucky he had gotten to speak to him twice now. Most people never got that much. But there was no guarantee there would be a third time.

Sirius was dead.

"It was my fault," Harry said, the words falling out before he could even think them. He couldn't bear to look at his godfather as tears began to slip from his eyes, hot and stinging. He stared down at the Resurrection Stone, blurry now, only darkness against his white-knuckled grip. "I'm so sorry, Sirius. It was my fault. I was stupid, and reckless, and I got you killed. It was my fault. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Hey," said Sirius gently. He made a small movement, but Harry couldn't tell what it was, because he couldn't look at him, couldn't face him through the guilt and the shame and the weight of the death resting on his shoulders. Sirius said, "Harry, no. Look at me. Please, look at me."

Harry shook his head as more tears fell. "It was all my fault. I was young and stupid, and I thought I knew everything when I knew nothing. I fucked up, Sirius. I fucked up, and you had to save me, and you died for me. You died for me, just like everybody else. It was all my fault."

Harry was crying hard now, shoulders shaking, head bowed.

Again, Sirius made a motion, and Harry only reacted to something coming toward his face. He flinched back, breath shuddering on a sob. But it was only Sirius's hand, moving slowly and calmly to hover just over the skin of Harry's cheek.

Harry finally looked at him.

There was nothing but love on Sirius's face. It was almost as hard to look at as anger or hate might have been. It shone like the sun, and Harry wished he could hide from it. He felt seen, caught in its light, and unworthy.

"Listen to me very closely, Harry," said Sirius, hand still hovering over Harry's cheek. "My death was not your fault. You were the most important thing in my life, and you were in trouble. I made a choice. I would make that same choice every time, even knowing what it would cost. It's who I am. And I don't regret it. There is no blame to be had, Harry. People live, and people die. And, if you're very lucky, like I was, the things worth living for are also worth dying for."

Harry closed his eyes and nodded. He wanted to lean into Sirius's touch, to draw comfort from his presence, but when he closed his eyes, he felt nothing. Even though Sirius was so near, all it took was for Harry to close his eyes for him to disappear entirely.

"We all love you very much, Harry," said Sirius. "Ron and Hermione want you to know they don't blame you for what happened. They only wish they could have stayed by your side longer. And your parents and Remus and I… I can't even tell you how proud we are. What you sacrificed for the ones you love, and going back to fight again even after your part should have been finished…. We are so proud. That's how I know you'll get through this. You will rescue James, and you will find a way home."

Harry's shoulders hunched. He looked down at the Stone again, a war waging deep inside.

He could keep Sirius there. He felt it. The Stone had the power, and it was in Harry's hand.

He didn't have to let Sirius go.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, and hot tears slid down his cheeks.

"Goodbye, Sirius."

Harry almost felt the hand on his shoulder, like a brush of clothes as two people passed in a crowded hallway.

"Goodbye, Harry."

When Harry opened his eyes, his godfather was gone, and he immediately shut them again. A part of him wanted to curl up in the fetal position, and another wanted to throw himself on the street and cry until there was nothing left. And another part saw a seventeen-year-old Sirius Black looking at him as if he'd never seen him before and was rather afraid of what he was finding.

Harry finally opened his eyes and looked back. He looked at Sirius, who was seventeen and stupid and got into slap fights with transfigured duck-head-hands and tried to put every food in the Great Hall onto a single bagel which he could never fit into his mouth and who composed love sonnets on the spot to Professor McGonagall to get out of detention.

Sirius Black. Alive. Breathing. Heart beating. A seventeen-year-old who was scared for his kidnapped best friend, a boy called Prongs.

"That makes sense now," said Sirius, in a quiet voice Harry had never heard from him. He was looking at Harry openly, unguarded. Just genuinely looking perhaps for the first time. Harry felt just as vulnerable as Sirius appeared. "The way you look at us sometimes. Like you have these expectations I could never figure out, and somehow I was always disappointing you. I didn't… I could never figure out what you wanted from me."

Harry blinked rapidly to forestall more tears and looked away. "Sorry," he said, rasping.

He didn't say it was the same, if not worse, how Sirius looked at him.

I love you. You were the closest thing I had to a father. And you look at me like you don't know me.

"Can I heal your throat now? You've got a convincing vampire look going on right now, what, with the blood all over your mouth."

Harry was a raw, exposed nerve, and just the thought of someone raising their wand at him sent shudders down his spine.

He closed his eyes and put his hand over them. "Just do it."

Sirius stayed silent as he worked, as if he understood how much trust Harry was placing in him, as if he knew how few people Harry could ever close his eyes around while wands were drawn.

He worked quickly and then took several steps away and hid his wand before clearing his throat. "Ah, all done. Healing's not my specialty, mind, but it's better than one of Remus's ridiculous soothing teas. Ha."

Harry dropped his hand and blinked a few times. He, too, cleared his throat. It was sore but not distracting. Good enough.

"Thanks," he said, and his voice came out stronger.

Sirius shrugged it off, looking uncomfortable.

They both knew a long conversation between them was inevitable, but Harry was glad Sirius appeared to be on the same page. Neither of them had the time or energy for it now.

"Filius, do something about this smoke, if you please!" came Madam Pomfrey's brusque voice from only a few yards away. She already had most of the unconscious students lined up on conjured stretchers awaiting transportation and was only securing some of the worst wounds. "Smoke inhalation is extremely damaging!"

Flitwick squeaked something from down the street, where he was extinguishing the last of the Greek Fire from a building. A moment later, a gust like the single swipe of a hurricane wind flew down the street and out into the mountains, taking the acrid smoke with it.

"Gods," murmured Sirius, hair and robes askew from the wind, as they surveyed the damage fully for the first time.

Harry, Sirius, Mary, Dumbledore, Flitwick, Bowie, and Pomfrey looked around in stunned silence.

Harry felt sick.

Ash covered everything in a pale gray blanket as if it had snowed. Only, instead of the picturesque village at wintertime, it covered a ruined wasteland.

Hardly any shops on the high street had more than a bare skeleton structure. A firestorm had passed through and left everything blackened and crumbling. They would need to rebuild everything.

But it was the bodies littering the street that Harry fixated on.

Lily and Gertrude had been laid on stretchers with the other injured students, but Madam Pomfrey had separated a few of the prone students and conjured blankets to lay over them, covering their faces.

That was their healing station, Harry thought numbly. Those were Hogwarts students dead.

Around their healing station were half a dozen crumpled Death Eaters, no doubt felled by Lily, Gertrude, and Mary as they defended James, Sirius, and the injured students.

And down the street in the direction of the castle were… dozens. Maybe thirty, Harry estimated, though he was too nauseated to count.

He remembered throwing himself down the street in that direction, wading into the flashes of light and mass of black cloaked bodies. He remembered casting Stun after Stun while Draco pulled students out of the madness and ushered them toward the Hog's Head.

The students hadn't been fighting back. They'd been terrified and running away.

Harry had… Harry had done that. Maybe not every one. Maybe some of the shopkeepers or other patrons had defended themselves before fleeing.

Maybe not.

Harry was glad he was sitting down.

"Gerald, get those Death Eaters secured," said Dumbledore, his voice like a whip crack in the sudden silence and stillness. "Filius, assist Poppy in getting those students back to the Hospital Wing. Minerva and Horace are awaiting aid from the Ministry as well as St. Mungo's. Have the Ministry send the Aurors straight here. And have Hagrid send the carriages here for the students, as well."

The teachers― Gerald must have been Bowie's first name― sprang back into action.

Dumbledore approached Harry and Sirius. He knelt before them in the layer of ash, his powder blue robes a stark contrast to their soot-covered robes and faces.

"Mr. Parker, Mr. Black, where are the rest of the students?" His voice was gentle but intent. His blue gaze bore into them, and Harry had no doubt that if he told Dumbledore they'd sent the students up the mountains, Dumbledore would hitch up his robes and start hiking in that direction.

"The Hog's Head," said Harry, only a little hoarse. He looked down, embarrassed, before muttering, "I didn't know who else to trust… and I've seen Aberforth duel. I thought…."

"You thought wisely, Harry," said Dumbledore, and his shoulders relaxed. He gave Harry a small, curious smile. "My brother and I may not always have a kind word for one another, but he would defend those students to his dying breath. I'm glad you trusted him."

Harry nodded but didn't meet the headmaster's gaze. This Dumbledore was not young by any stretch of the imagination, but he had chosen to go to his grave before revealing what had happened between him, Grindelwald, and his sister Ariana. Harry didn't think he'd take kindly knowing that Harry knew everything, everything that hovered like poison in the air between him and his brother.

"Professor," said Sirius quickly. "The Death Eaters took James. One of them― Dolohov, I think― grabbed him and Disapparated. They've still got him."

Just like that, Dumbledore's frame went rigid with tension again. His blue gaze pierced Sirius. "You saw this? How long has it been?"

"It was, I don't know, less than ten minutes ago. They didn't say much, but they were looking for someone, and they grabbed James. I tried to stop them, but they Disapparated―"

"I understand, Mr. Black. Mr. Parker, do you have anything to add that might be of assistance?"

Harry opened his mouth and closed it. They were after me, and they heard I looked like my dad, he wanted to say. They were after me because they heard I defeated the Dark Lord, and now Voldemort's scared.

They were after me because Draco sold me out.

And, as if on cue, Remus and Malfoy came sprinting around the bend in the road that led to the Hog's Head, undoubtedly to recover more injured students. They slowed at the sight of a battle finished and looked around with stunned expressions.

"I think we need to talk in your office, sir," said Harry coldly.

...

TBC...

Chapter Text

"The truth. It is a beautiful and terrible thing, and should therefore be treated with great caution."
– Albus Dumbledore, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone

Chapter 11: A Beautiful and Terrible Thing

James woke with a sore throat, a splitting headache, and no idea when he had been knocked unconscious.

He coughed, a weak, raspy sound that made his throat feel as if he had swallowed razorblades. He was lying on something hard and with a sharp ledge, and he tried to sit up, only to find his wrists bound behind him, strapping him to an oddly shaped… something. He blinked, eyesight blurry with his glasses gone, and squinted at his surroundings.

He was outdoors, the breeze chilly but not unpleasant, and the sky was overcast and gray. The sun still seemed high, though, and James didn't think he had lost much time to unconsciousness. He, Sirius, Remus, and Peter had been readying to go for lunch at the Three Broomsticks when….

The attack.

It all came flooding back to James, and he looked around wildly for his friends, to see if they were alright, if they were even alive—but he was alone. Mostly.

He was in some kind of garden, but instead of being shaped by and designed for plants, everything was barren, and the ground was covered in gravel. Statues dotted the gray, manicured clearing, little islands of art amid a desolate space.

It was a statue garden, and James was manacled to one such statue, a sad-looking woman with robes draped suggestively over her body as a timeless wind billowed the bulk of the fabric behind her. The loop of James's manacles encircled her ankle, a gap in the stone just between her ankle and the top of her calf before the robe resumed the solid figure.

The gravel garden was large, almost as big as a Quidditch pitch. Beyond it, James couldn't make out any signs of civilization. There were fields in the distance, and a dark smudge on the horizon that was probably a tree line. Nothing gave James any clue where he was. And, he realized with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, if he managed to escape somehow, where would he run? There were wide open acres between him and the tree line. Whoever had taken him—the Death Eaters—would have clear shots at him with a Killing Curse for hundreds of feet.

It took him longer than it should have to distinguish the living people amidst the life-sized statues, especially without his glasses, but the sound of voices on the breeze gave them away.

There was a small group of black-robed men in silver masks near the edge of the garden. To their side was a walkway that led up a hill and out of sight, likely to whatever manor the garden belonged to. The men were whispering furtively and making small, sharp gestures with their hands as if they were arguing.

James wished he could see the manor beyond the hill. If it was a wealthy wizarding estate, he might recognize it and know where he was. If he could see it, he would know how far he'd have to run to find someplace to hide or if there was any chance of aid.

Somehow, he doubted there would be.

That was when the reality of his situation hit him. Panic started to rise in his chest.

This was really happening.

Hogsmeade had been attacked and James had been kidnapped.

Those were Death Eaters right over there. They were real-life murderers and rapists and sadistic lunatics, and they were right there, and James didn't have his wand.

James was tied up, outnumbered, and he didn't have his wand.

Escape? Why had he been thinking about escape? There was no way. He didn't have a wand, didn't have Sirius or Remus or even Peter, didn't even know where he was. He was going to die.

They were going to kill him, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

James didn't know if it was his earlier cough or his sharp, panicked breathing that alerted the Death Eaters to his consciousness, but they stopped arguing and strode toward him.

Without a word of warning, one of the Death Eaters jabbed his wand at James and snapped, "Revelio!"

James flinched, prepared for the worst, only to recognize the general revealing charm a second later.

Nothing happened… because James wasn't concealing anything.

He blinked rapidly a few times, bewildered and struggling to make his brain work through the spiraling panic.

They used a revealing charm. They thought he was hiding something with magic. They were looking for something.

"Nothing," said another voice, just as snappish and a shade more frantic. "I told you, it's not him! By the gods, we got the wrong one." His voice had gone low with dread at the end.

It sounded familiar, that voice, but James's brain was still staggering under the weight of his terror.

"If he used a potion or transfiguration, it might not be affected by a basic revealing charm," said the third of the four Death Eaters, sounding nasally and superior. "It's likely he's disguised himself with transfiguration. The basics of his appearance are correct. It would be easy to make daily minor adjustments and more difficult to detect through magical means."

"But the scar on his forehead!" said the familiar one. "Do you know how difficult Curse scars are to hide? He doesn't have it! It's not him!"

"Difficult to hide, but not impossible," retorted the nasal-sounding man. "If Dumbledore is helping him, it is not outside the realm of possibility. We must make certain, Antonin. The Dark Lord will be here soon. We must know."

A Curse scar on the forehead.

The Dark Lord will be here soon.

Antonin.

The pieces in James's brain finally began clicking into place.

The Death Eaters were looking for Harry Parker. Lord Voldemort was looking for Harry Parker.

The Marauders had known that, hadn't they? At least, Sirius had suspected. What had seemed so far-fetched at the time was hitting a lot closer to home now.

And Antonin Dolohov, the Slytherin asshole who had been a year ahead of James at Hogwarts, was inexplicably tasked with distinguishing the difference between James and Harry.

What the fuck?

"You… know me, you bastard," James rasped, and he was surprised at how bad his voice sounded, like he'd been a pack-a-day smoker for decades. He swallowed thickly and glared at Dolohov with everything he had. "We went to school together for six years. I saw you at graduation five fucking months ago. How can you act like you don't recognize me? Like you can't tell the difference between me and—"

James had been winding up for a good long rant but stopped suddenly, eyes going wide.

Harry was hiding. He was apparently wearing a disguise, if the Death Eaters couldn't tell the difference between him and James. What if he had changed his name, too? It would make sense, an additional layer of protection.

And James sure as hell wasn't going to tell these dirtbags what name Harry was using now if they didn't already know.

If Voldemort was after Harry, Harry needed all the layers of protection he could get.

Dolohov dropped down so that he was eye-level with James. His dark eyes had gone intent, focused on James's face like a predator that had spotted prey. His voice was quiet, dangerous, when he asked, "The difference between you and… who?"

James's hands clenched into fists behind his back. The bulge of muscles made the ropes press into skin harder, painfully, but he didn't even notice.

He cursed himself and his thoughtlessness. This wasn't Hogwarts, where the worst outcome was detention or being stuck with antlers for a week due to a self-transfiguration error. This was the real world, and the real world was at war. This bastard and Lord Voldemort were after Harry, and they would kill him if they found him. And because of James and his fat mouth, they knew there was somebody to hide. They knew there was a "he" worth investigating.

James straightened up as much as he could in his bindings and spat into Dolohov's face.

The silver mask caught it, of course, but James felt vindictive satisfaction all the same.

Maybe James had slipped up, but he wouldn't again. He and Harry weren't the best of friends, but James knew right from wrong. No matter the consequences, he knew when to plant his feet and refuse to budge. This was the real world, and he knew what side he was on.

There was silence as a spark of something intense and disturbing passed through Dolohov's eyes, and then Dolohov stood up.

"You have no idea what I'm capable of, Mr. Potter," Dolohov said, putting an odd, mocking emphasis on James's name. "But I suspect you'll find out."

"Go fuck yourself."

Dolohov didn't bother responding to James. He told the other three Death Eaters, "That blond boy in Gryffindor robes. I knew the way he fought seemed familiar. There should still be time to get back to Hogsmeade and grab him before the Aurors arrive."

Fuck, James thought. If he had just kept his mouth shut, Dolohov might not have made that leap in logic.

"You said the Boy Who Lived had black hair, green eyes, and glasses," said one of the others, and hope sparked in James that this man could mitigate his blunder. "And now you're sure he's blond?"

"We just discussed all the ways he could magically disguise himself!" snarled Dolohov. "You saw the way that boy cut through our brothers! What other school-age boy do you think capable of that?"

"You're guessing," said the nasally man. "I'm not risking running into the Aurors on another guess. If you think this one knows something, I'd get it out of him before the Dark Lord arrives, if I were you. He won't be happy with you squandering so many resources on a guess."

The other two murmured what sounded like agreement, and all of them glanced up at the hill, tension tight in their silhouettes.

Dolohov turned back to James, who clenched his jaw and tried not to look as terrified as he felt.

"Well, Mr. Potter. I believe the Dark Lord wanted to make you an offer, as well. Before your audience with him, however, I have some questions about that… classmate… of yours." Dolohov raised his wand. "Starting with his name."

James's resolve quavered with a wand pointing at him, but he clenched his teeth and reminded himself, I am James Potter. I am a Gryffindor, not a coward. And Harry has been through enough shit. He won't go through more because of me.

This was the real world, and the real world was at war. James would not get his friends and allies killed because of a moment of carelessness, a stupid slip of the tongue.

James planted his feet and refused to budge.

…

Dumbledore had to perform crowd control at the castle before he could spare time alone for Harry.

He first directed the Aurors to Hogsmeade, and a platoon of about twenty hard-faced wizards and witches sprinted out the entrance hall toward the path that would lead to the village, with instructions on where to find the bound Death Eaters. Next, he directed Madam Pomfrey and Flitwick to levitate the injured students into the Great Hall, where he sent the Healers from St. Mungo's after them. He had Filch and Slughorn running to and from the Hospital Wing to fetch supplies. It was inconvenient, but the Hospital Wing couldn't accommodate so many unconscious bodies, let alone bustling ones.

Next, he sent a white-faced Hagrid to ready the carriages and thestrals with directions to the Hog's Head. When they arrived back at the castle, he instructed Hagrid to send the students straight to their House common rooms, where their Heads of House would be waiting. McGonagall, in the interim, had already corralled the younger students to their common rooms to await further instructions, using the ghosts and portraits as both sentries and messengers.

And then the Minister for Magic, Harold Minchum, could no longer tolerate being ignored. He, his aide, and his personal escort of Aurors surrounded Dumbledore, Minchum demanding in a harsh, booming voice to be read into the situation at once.

Didn't Dumbledore know who he was? How dare Dumbledore take command in a wartime crisis? Did Dumbledore not know Minchum could have him under charges of conspiracy and in an Azkaban cell right alongside the Death Eaters?

Harry barely listened as the minister railed. Minchum seemed an improvement from Fudge and his willfully blind cowardice, but Harry could easily imagine Scrimgeour giving the same furious speech. Some things never changed. The minister, it seemed, would always fear Dumbledore's power and influence.

Dumbledore murmured what looked to Harry like half-hearted assurances and extracted himself from the minister and his posse. He strode directly to where Harry, Sirius, Remus, Mary, and Malfoy stood huddled just inside the entrance hall.

"For now," said Dumbledore quietly, looking each of them in the eye, "I would like you to return to your common rooms. I will call for you if I require any further information. You may visit Madam Pomfrey or Professor Slughorn for Dreamless Sleep potions tonight, but I ask that you not take anything until then, in case it clouds your memory. These first few hours in the search for Mr. Potter are the most vital. If you think of anything that may help, the password to my office is 'cockroach clusters.'"

"You can't expect us to just sit around doing nothing!" said Sirius, balling his fists. He looked like he would fly apart at any moment. "James is still out there!"

"I am not asking you to do nothing, Mr. Black," said Dumbledore. "In fact, I am asking you to do one of the most difficult things a man such as yourself can do. I am asking you to trust me to take care of this. I will be sure the minister knows recovering Mr. Potter is our only priority at present. If all goes well, the entire DMLE will be out in force searching for him. Meanwhile, you must trust me."

Harry's insides clenched, and he looked away. He felt Dumbledore's piercing stare turn to him, but he didn't acknowledge it.

Dumbledore had known what kind of man Sirius Black had been since he'd been seventeen years old. He knew Sirius wasn't the kind of person who could sit back and let others handle the hard work and dangers while doing nothing.

He had known it since Sirius was seventeen.

How had he justified locking Sirius away in Grimmauld Place for so long? How had Harry not seen how much it was slowly killing Sirius?

His godfather may have sworn his death was no one's fault, but, in moments like this, Harry just saw so much fault to go around.

They should have seen it coming, all of them.

Just like Harry saw it coming now.

Just like before, one of the few people Sirius Black loved was in danger, and Dumbledore was asking him to stay out of it.

Sirius was going to get himself killed.

Sirius was arguing― "I'm of age! You can't keep me against my will! I can do what I―"

And Remus was murmuring on Sirius' other side, "Sirius, calm down. The entire DMLE…."

Dumbledore said, "Just like Mr. Potter, you are my responsibility, Mr. Black. I cannot risk…."

The words were jumbled noise, white static in the back of Harry's mind. His chest felt cold and tight, even as another part of him felt nothing but resignation. Without conscious thought, Harry reached out and grabbed Sirius' sleeve.

"Don't leave me," he mumbled, staring somewhere past the arguing wizards. He felt numb. "Please, Sirius."

Sirius tensed, his whole body going rigid under Harry's touch.

The argument fell silent.

Sirius turned to look at him, brow furrowed, lips a tight, thin line. There was something dark and unreadable in his gaze but… familiar, too. More familiar than Harry had yet seen from the seventeen-year-old. He didn't know exactly what it meant, but it made something in him relax a little.

Sirius was listening. He was willing to wait― for now. But Harry sensed their conversation about his ghost and time travel was not going to be put off much longer.

On Sirius' other side, Remus was giving them a look of such astonished bafflement, Harry almost wanted to laugh.

"Thank you," murmured Dumbledore. Behind him, the minister was tapping his foot with an expression of barely controlled rage. "Please, go to your common rooms. Mr. Parker, I will send for you as soon as the minister leaves."

That got Harry a few curious glances from his classmates, but Harry only nodded.

He turned to lead the way to the staircase toward Gryffindor tower, but Malfoy called,

"Harry, wait!"

Harry froze. He didn't realize he was still holding onto Sirius's sleeve, now in a white-knuckled death grip, until Sirius hesitantly reached out and laid a hand on Harry's forearm. He was watching Harry out of the corner of his eye like Harry was some kind of wild animal, liable to snap at any moment.

Harry didn't blame him. Even he was scared of what he would do if Malfoy came any closer.

The trek back from Hogsmeade had been made with a frigid silence between them, and Harry had gone to extra trouble to keep at least a couple of people between them so the chance of private conversation was impossible.

Of course, Malfoy noticed.

Harry didn't move, even to look at him.

Malfoy's voice went cool. "Parker. You know as well as I do how my dormmates were involved. By now, they'll know that I helped you lot, not them. What the bloody fuck am I supposed to do?"

"Do what you always do," Harry said. "Run and hide."

Remus snapped Harry a sharp look. Even Sirius's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

Harry still didn't turn around to see Malfoy's response. He let go of Sirius's sleeve and resumed the hike to Gryffindor tower.

Marlene and Peter ambushed them as soon as they stepped through the portrait hole.

"McGonagall wouldn't let us go back!" Marlene cried, pulling Mary into a crushing embrace. "I swear, we tried! Where are Trudy and Lily? Are they alright? Where's James?"

Harry slipped through the small crowd and headed for his dorm.

The first and second years, along with the scant few older years who had decided against going into the village, eyed his sooty, torn, and bloody robes with wide eyes and hastened to get out of his way.

Harry banged open the door to the seventh-year boys' dorm and headed straight for the trunk at the foot of James's bed. It was locked, and Harry slashed his wand irritably. The lock didn't click open so much as pop off and land in a broken heap of metal a few feet away.

Harry tore through the contents of James's trunk, tossing aside clothes, books, Quidditch supplies, sweets, and oddball trinkets with hardly a second glance. The letters and scrap bits of parchment, however, he paused to examine carefully before discarding.

Nothing. It wasn't there.

Harry moved onto Sirius's trunk. It, unsurprisingly, was warded as well as locked, but Harry had the counterspells figured out and cast within a scant few blinks.

He was halfway through Sirius's trunk when the three remaining Marauders entered.

"Excuse the fuck out of me?" demanded Sirius, storming over.

Harry stood up abruptly, cutting Sirius off. "Where is it? Where's the map?"

The boys gaped.

"Who… told you…?" Remus began with the earmarkings of suspicion.

"It doesn't matter," said Harry. "How much of Hogsmeade have you mapped? If they didn't take James far, or if he managed to get away―"

Understanding lit like a Lumos Maxima in Remus's face. He rushed to his own trunk, opened it, and gave a deliberate rap with his wand to open a secret compartment in the lid. He spread the map on his bed, and the boys crowded around him to see.

"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good," said Remus, and lines of ink unfurled across its surface.

Harry tried not to be disappointed as he studied it. The map was skeletal compared to the map he remembered from the future. The main floors, towers, and dungeons were well represented, but it lacked at least three secret passageways, and Hogsmeade village was a simple line sketch around the periphery. Still, he scanned it dutifully with the others, until Remus finally shook his head and sat back on his haunches.

"He's not here. How did you know―?"

"How far can you expand it into Hogsmeade?" asked Harry. "Or― or the spell you use to track people. Can you use it without the map to track James?"

Sirius shook his head. "The spell is location-based. If we want to add new locations, we have to physically take the map there and forge a connection. And then we have all the information available about the space, like who is in it. It's not a tracking spell; it's genius loci magic."

"Like wards," Harry muttered, understanding. He started to pace. "I don't know much tracking magic. Just point me to find north, and a spell to tell whether I'm alone in a room, and Hermione figured out something to help us hunt food when we were on the run, but it's not specific…."

"On the run?" repeated Remus, beginning to look alarmed.

"Hermione?" said Sirius, musingly. "The bossy one who didn't want future-me to come see you?"

"Future you?"

"Breathe, mate," said Sirius, giving Remus a hearty slap on the back. Remus looked like he was choking on something. "Our secretive friend Harry here is a time traveler. He knows me in the future. And you. I'm fairly certain I heard your name, too."

"Time…?" Remus began, and then visibly took a deep breath. He let it out in a miserable moan. "Merlin's bollocks. Time travel. What."

"Did you get hit in the head?" Peter asked Sirius tentatively. "We can go find Madam Pomfrey. And the healers from St. Mungo's are probably still here, too."

Harry and Sirius looked at each other.

Harry's blood thrummed through his veins, tensing his muscles, heartrate fast. He eyed Sirius, guarded and on edge.

Sirius met his gaze with his chin tilted up, challenging, gray eyes penetrating.

Harry looked away first and resumed pacing. "I can't say much," he muttered, as good as a surrender. "Apparently, changing the past can cause world-ending consequences in the future."

"You're serious?" said Remus.

"No, he's Sirius," said Harry, at the same time Sirius said, "No, I'm Sirius."

"Oh, fuck both of you," said Remus, raking his hands roughly through his hair. "So, you're from the future? Not the past?"

Harry gave a nod.

"How far in the future?"

"I… don't think I should say."

"Mallory too?"

Harry gave another nod, grimacing.

Remus appeared thoughtful. "You're not from Illvermorny at all, are you? You're Hogwarts students from another time."

Harry didn't respond. The reminder of Malfoy made his stomach churn with fury.

How could he have been so stupid? How could he have trusted Malfoy given everything he knew?

Malfoy was a Death Eater, no matter the year.

Had it been a ploy from the very start? The moment Malfoy had sent Harry, Ron, and Hermione to be ambushed at Everest Wands? Had he intentionally gotten Hermione and Ron killed? Had he planned to somehow go to the past to… to what? Live in Voldemort's peak of terror, and rise to power himself as his right hand? Or was it something more?

Dread slid like ice down Harry's spine. He stopped pacing.

Malfoy had told Voldemort about Harry. Was he trying to end Harry before he was even born? For the love of everything holy, was Malfoy trying to kill Harry? Was he setting him up for Voldemort to kill him?

Was he setting James and Lily up to die before Harry could even be born?

"Harry?" came Remus's voice, and Harry realized he had lost time somewhere.

He was on his knees, and Remus was on his knees right across from him, and his vision was obscured with dark spots.

"Breathe, Harry, it's okay," said Remus, and that was the problem, he wasn't breathing.

Why wasn't he breathing? What had he been doing? What were they talking about?

He felt panic, and betrayal, and grief. Such grief he was drowning in it.

Malfoy. Malfoy had gotten Ron and Hermione killed. They were dead and he had set them up.

They were dead.

They were dead.

"Breathe, Harry." That was Remus's voice, but Harry couldn't see him.

James had been taken, but what if the Death Eaters hadn't been looking for Harry? What if they were after James himself? If Voldemort killed James, there would be no Harry, no prophecy, no Boy Who Lived, and no Savior.

If Voldemort killed James, his reign wouldn't be interrupted for more than a decade. He would continue to rise and slaughter and rule through terror.

Without Harry… could the Order of the Phoenix win? Could Dumbledore? Could anyone?

What had Malfoy done?

"Oh, God," Harry gasped, finally taking a breath. The world swam back into focus, Remus crouching in front of him looking distraught, Sirius and Peter watching from Remus's bed with expression of utmost concern. The Marauders' Map lay open and useless.

Oh, God.

What if Malfoy was trying to win the war?

It was unthinkable.

Harry had given it all he'd had. He'd given it everyone and everything he'd loved. He'd given it his own life. He couldn't go through it again. He couldn't do it again. He had nothing left.

He would lose.

"Oh, God, no," he gasped, rocking.

No, he couldn't give up. Maybe he didn't have Ron and Hermione, but he wasn't alone.

There was Remus Lupin right across from him, alive and whole and healthy. There was Sirius Fucking Black, unmarred by Azkaban and ready to fight a war all by himself. And there was Peter Pettigrew… who hadn't betrayed his friends. Not yet. And if Voldemort already knew about the prophecy and Harry, and Malfoy had betrayed them all first… maybe Peter wouldn't. Not this time.

Harry could save James and therefore himself. He could leave school and join the Order of the Phoenix to help combat whatever future knowledge Malfoy gave Voldemort. It would be a different kind of war, Harry versus Malfoy, with Voldemort and the Order as pawns… but it would be the same war in every way that mattered. Innocent people would die. Muggle-borns and Muggles would suffer. Werewolves like Remus and half giants like Hagrid and anyone else with something other than human blood would be considered animals, would have their wands snapped, would be hunted.

People like Umbridge and Bellatrix Lestrange and the Carrow siblings would rule.

Good people like McGonagall and Neville and Ginny would run themselves ragged, would be bloodied and beaten just trying to hold the line.

The war was over, Harry thought desperately. How could this be happening again?

He felt like he was losing his mind.

Clothes rustled against his own, and then a solid line of heat pressed against his right side. There was a moment, and then another warm, reassuring weight rested against his left side.

Sirius and Remus were silent, just leaning their shoulders against his, and Peter joined on Remus's far side, making a huddle.

Heat pricked behind Harry's eyes. He shut them and took a deep, shaky breath.

He wasn't alone. He could do this.

He didn't want to. He'd give almost anything not to have to. But he could fight this war again. For them.

"Is it really so bad?" Remus asked, after the silence had settled comfortably around them like another old friend. "The future, I mean."

"Of course, it is," said Sirius, and the bravado in his voice didn't match the brittle look on his face. "I'm dead. And I didn't look very old, maybe ten years older at the most."

Harry tensed and heard Remus's sharp inhale to his left.

"You… the future you came back as a ghost?" Peter whispered.

"Yep," said Sirius, popping the 'p.' "And he and Harry seemed awfully close. Is that why you don't seem interested in any of the girls? You already know you're going to get some of this?" He made a grand gesture to his body, stretching out a bit as if to pose for a centerfold.

Harry choked on something that tried to be a cross between a laugh and a gag.

Sirius frowned at him, suspicious.

"Oh, Merlin, I don't want to know," groaned Remus.

"He said he looooved Harry," said Sirius, grinning. "I guess I can see it. You are pretty cute, even though I usually go for brunettes. And ten years isn't that much of an age gap. So, what are you, like seven right now, in this timeline?"

"Oh, my God," said Harry. "Stop. I will hex your legs off, I swear to Godric."

Harry was struggling to hold himself together, though if he wanted to laugh or cry, he couldn't tell which.

Sirius grinned rakishly. "Don't worry, pet. I can't wait to meet you."

"You sound so creepy right now," said Remus solemnly, "that I want to shove you out the window. That's enough."

"Seconded," said Harry, and even Peter nodded seriously.

Sirius pouted.

Remus gave Harry a considering look.

"You don't know what happened to James? Where he is?"

Harry shook his head. "Sirius… my Sirius… said this didn't happen the first time."

"First time?" asked Peter.

"Yeah," said Harry slowly. "Mallory and I coming back… we've already changed things. So the past we remember and read about, it's not guaranteed anymore. One small change can cause another change, and another, and another, until the future is completely different from the one I left behind."

"What'd you change?" Remus asked cautiously. "If it's already happened, then there's no harm in telling us now, is there?"

Harry thought about it. In some ways, having a logic problem to solve helped calm him in a way confronting the emotional challenges couldn't. It was like his heart had returned to its normal rhythm, and now his brain was relaxing into the situation at hand.

"Gertrude McKinnon died doing her school shopping before her seventh year," Harry said at last.

Dead silence met this pronouncement.

Harry continued, "That was the day Mallory and I got knocked into the past. We… I… didn't know where― or when― we were. I just heard fighting, and I went to look, and there were these men I recognized as Death Eaters attacking this girl in Muggle clothes, and I stepped in."

"I've seen the way you 'step in,'" muttered Sirius with a wry grin. "Those poor fuckers didn't stand a chance, did they?"

Harry shrugged. "It wasn't much of a fight. They ran. Mallory and I helped Gertrude to the Hospital Wing. For days, I thought I was dead and all the little differences were because I was in the afterlife. Mallory and Dumbledore finally convinced me it was the past, though. And Gertrude was alive."

"Holy Helena," muttered Remus. He rubbed a hand over his face. "Gertrude. I can't even imagine what that would have done to Marlene and the girls…."

Harry shrugged and shook his head. He could tell them that it inspired Marlene to join the Order of the Phoenix after she graduated and become such a thorn in the Dark Lord's side that he had her and the rest of her family slaughtered, but 'future consequences.' He doubted the Marauders would have even heard of the Order yet, anyway.

"You said you got knocked back in time, and you thought you were dead," Remus continued. "How did it happen? Was it an accident?"

Harry flattened his lips. Even a day ago, he would have said yes. But knowing now that Malfoy had betrayed him? Was it an accident?

"I thought it was," said Harry darkly. "Now, I'm not so sure."

Remus and Sirius exchanged glances over Harry's head.

"Mallory," guessed Sirius. "You two were pretty buddy-buddy there recently. And now you can't stand to look at him."

"He was a Slytherin in my time, too," said Harry. "I made the mistake of thinking I could trust him. More fool me."

"You think he had something to do with the attack?" asked Remus sharply, his eyes glinting an unnatural amber. "Even though he helped us with the wounded?"

Harry sighed and buried his face in his drawn knees, covering his head with his arms. "I think he's a lot more involved in the war than I realized. I should have known better. But I've seen good Slytherins, you know? Ones that, when the time came, fought against Voldemort. I guess I was just hoping…. But with James taken, and the attack not happening the first time around…. Fuck. It wasn't me. Who else does that leave?"

There was another beat of silence.

Finally, Sirius sighed and all but draped himself over Harry. Remus pressed firmly against his other side, helping prop him up against Sirius's bulk.

"Look," said Sirius. "Forget that slimy weasel right now. Forget what may happen in the future. What's important right now is getting James back. And future-me seemed to have faith that, out of everyone, you could do it. Sounded kind of like something you have experience with. And he seemed to think you'd be able to manage it with your friends."

For a moment that made a swell of grief rise as he thought of Ron and Hermione once more, but then robes rustled as Sirius made some large gesture, and Harry peeked up from his knees to see what he was doing.

"Behold," said Sirius, gesturing expansively to himself, Remus, and Peter, "your friends. So tell us, kid. What do we do?"

"I'm technically older than you now," said Harry, bristling at the term.

"Yeah, and the House-Elf Revolution kicks off on Tuesday," said Sirius dismissively.

"Don't talk about House-elves like that!" Harry snarled, his rage and fear spiking as if he'd been struck by lightning. His one and only thought was Kreacher. Sirius sounded so dismissive of House-elves, and didn't he know that would get him killed?

Sirius flinched away from him, startled and uncertain.

"I just want to strangle you!" Harry continued. His heart was still hammering from the surge of fear and fury, but he distantly registered that he was probably coming across as a crazy person. Some part of him realized he needed to lighten the mood, maybe play it off as a joke, but another part of him didn't care. He felt like he was a crazy person. "Can I strangle you? No. Remus, come on, let's push him out the window. It's time for him to go. Right out the window. I'm done with him."

"Erm," said Remus, also leaning away slightly. "This does actually sound rather like a, erm, lover's quarrel. I'm just going to go Scourgify my brain now. Ta." He started to get up.

Peter tittered nervously.

Sirius was eyeing Harry with profound misgiving.

Harry sighed and leaned his head back against the bed behind him. Peter's.

He closed his eyes and tried to think of an answer to Sirius's question. What do we do?

They didn't know where James was. They didn't know tracking magic or have intel on Death Eater hideouts. Harry didn't even know the current members of Voldemort's inner circle. He had nothing more than a desperate wish to go off of.

He let his eyes wander as he thought, grasping at anything that flickered into his mind. His eyes settled briefly on the pilot version of the Marauders' Map. So many things were missing― the tunnels, the path into the Hogsmeade village, even that tunnel that went into Honeydukes' cellar. He stood and went to it, almost unconsciously searching for Malfoy, as he had done so often in his sixth year.

When he couldn't find it in the dungeons, he studied the third floor, where Malfoy had so often disappeared from the map into the Room of Requirement. Of course, this map didn't have the Room either. The Marauders must have never found it and added it. It didn't exist on the map in any time.

Harry's mind stalled. Hiccupped. Rewound.

Malfoy's name wasn't on the map, but neither was Harry's. He scoured the Gryffindor dorms, but it wasn't there. It was like he didn't exist, according to the genius loci magic that powered the map.

It was a small mercy, he supposed. He hadn't thought of it before, but what if the magic had revealed his real name, Harry Potter, to anyone who looked?

But Harry Potter didn't exist yet, hadn't been born, and neither had Draco Malfoy.

But something else about that missing Room of Requirement niggled at Harry's mind.

Distantly, he thought of Aberforth Dumbledore in his living space above the Hog's Head, and Ariana Dumbledore's portrait. He thought of Neville Longbottom walking into view from an unknown distance and emerging, battered and bloody, from a hidden tunnel leading from the Room of Requirement.

It hadn't existed, Neville had said, until they had need of it. Starving and unable to leave for fear of discovery, the Room had created the tunnel to a place offering both food and safety.

What if…?

Harry traced the space between two classrooms where the Room of Requirement was hidden.

"Hey, guys," he said, slow and measured as the thought took hold. "I think I have an idea."

…

McGonagall came to get Harry not long after he'd explained the Room of Requirement and its abilities to the Marauders. He hastily whispered directions on how to access it to Remus and then followed McGonagall out of the tower and toward Dumbledore's office.

He hoped they'd find a way to sneak out of the tower and get started in the Room of Requirement without him. There was no telling what was happening to James as they wasted time, but, with Dolohov there, Harry had a sour-acid feeling of dread deep in his stomach. If Harry could take comfort in anything, it was only that Harry hadn't ceased to exist. Disappeared. He had to assume that was what would happen if either James or Lily died.

From his and Mallory's research, they had learned the timeline didn't like paradoxes. It was more likely they would instantly vanish once the possibility of their conception disappeared rather than live on without a possible mother or father.

"Come in," said Dumbledore when Harry knocked on his office door.

Harry entered the otherwise empty office and took a seat across from the headmaster.

Dumbledore looked exhausted, his shoulders stooped, robes wrinkled, and the lines in his face deep. But there was an almost manic light shining behind his pale gaze, like he would get no sleep until James was recovered, no matter how long it took.

Harry understood the feeling. He still hadn't changed out of his burnt and bloody robes, and the exhaustion of the battle weighed heavily in his limbs, but his mind wouldn't rest until they found James. He knew that even if he tried, he wouldn't be able to sleep. Even though his body had been through the wringer, some things were simply more important than rest.

"Thank you," said Dumbledore, "for protecting my students. Many of the injured have woken up, and the students evacuated to the Hog's Head have returned. They are crediting you and the other Gryffindor seventh years, plus Mr. Mallory, for their lives. I cannot convey the true depth of my gratitude, Harry. Thank you."

Harry nodded once and swallowed hard. Mallory. Malfoy. He couldn't stomach him getting credit as well. But that was a whole tangled web of future consequences that Harry couldn't begin to explain. He had to try to make Dumbledore understand, though. He had to make him see that the timeline was different, and Malfoy couldn't be trusted.

"Tell me," said Dumbledore, "from the beginning. When did you first suspect something was wrong with the outing?"

And Harry did. He told him about the other Slytherin seventh years and their cocky, secretive looks. He told him his suspicions that they had planted the first attack, the wave of Greek Fire bombs, how they had vanished just before the bombs went off. If they had returned at all, it had been under the disguise of silver Death Eater masks.

He told Dumbledore everything he could remember from first the rescue efforts to the later battle. There wasn't, all things considered, a whole lot to say. Harry hadn't recognized ninety percent of the Death Eaters, so he had no new names to give. They didn't seem to have an objective other than terrorizing the village and finding either Harry or James.

On that point, Harry and Dumbledore bent their heads together to speculate.

"There's a prophecy about me," Harry admitted, jaded. "The one who defeats the Dark Lord. I never told anyone. Malfoy is the only other one in this timeline who could know about it. The seer who makes the prophecy won't do so for another… two years? Four years? I don't know. Not yet. It's too soon. Far too soon. But the Death Eaters were definitely looking for someone."

"And you did greatly resemble James when you first arrived," Dumbledore mused. "Dark hair, greenish eyes, glasses, similar height, build, and facial features. Both now seventh year Gryffindors and powerful wizards in your own rights."

Harry noticed he didn't ask whether Harry had in fact defeated the Dark Lord.

"So, who were the Death Eaters looking for?" Harry asked miserably. "Me, or the one who fathered me? Is it preventative or revenge?"

"That is difficult to say," said Dumbledore. "You, your mother, and your father are all likely in danger, if the Dark Lord knows about this prophecy."

Harry sighed and hugged his arms to his chest. Having his fears validated made them that much more terrifying.

"If I know Lord Voldemort as I suspect I do, he will not risk killing James until he has spoken to you," Dumbledore continued. "With the dangers of time travel, if he kills James or your mother now, you would disappear and take whatever valuable future intelligence you possess with you. If someone has indeed told him about a prophecy involving his downfall, he will want to find out as much information as possible to avoid that outcome. He will undoubtedly want to talk to you before he destroys you."

"Yeah," said Harry wearily. "That sounds about right. He's arrogant but not stupid."

"Indeed."

They sat in silence a long moment as the energy seemed to drain out of both of them.

The afternoon sun painted the office in hues of pale gold and warm bronze. It was a lovely day outside, probably one of the last they would get before the cold weather sank its teeth in. It was mindboggling how it could look so beautiful and serene when so many terrible things had happened just down the road only hours before. It always disconcerted Harry how the world moved forward no matter the things it was leaving behind.

"On a more… selfish… note," began Dumbledore, gazing thoughtfully down at his laced fingers, "I think it necessary now to discover just how much future information Voldemort has been given before you and Mr. Malfoy return to your own time. He has been given an advantage he did not have in your original timeline. Therefore, the ones fighting him are at an even greater disadvantage. If he has vital knowledge that we do not… I fear it puts our efforts at stopping him in extreme jeopardy."

"You want to even the playing field," Harry translated. It was the same thing he had thought of, when he'd imagined playing against Draco, using the Death Eaters and the Order of the Phoenix as pawns in a game of exploiting their knowledge of the future.

"To some extent, yes," said Dumbledore. "At the moment, I am hoping whatever Lord Voldemort knows is vague enough that you need not divulge any secrets that may alter major future events. For example, if he is told that he succeeds or loses, neither is specific enough to give him the upper hand. He must continue onwards as best he is able, which I assume he would do anyway. However, if he is aware of specific events or circumstances, I must confess I would want my own people to be aware as well, so that we may have just as much warning to alter our course as he does."

"That makes sense," said Harry slowly. "So, how do we find out exactly what he knows?"

"If the only one who could have told him is Mr. Malfoy," said Dumbledore, a grim set to his deeply lined face, "then we ask Mr. Malfoy."

TBC...