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Chapter Text

She was supposed to hate him. It was so much easier when she hated him, because it was easier to ignore everything she liked about him.

James Fleamont Potter was an air-headed jock. He was a bully, and his ego was big enough that Lily was forced to wonder how he fit it inside the Gryffindor common room. He was arrogant, loud, gullible, dense, irresponsible-

Lily sighed one evening thinking about it, knowing she was being unfair. The boy had put in the effort to apologize to her and to Severus , despite how poorly that went, and he had stepped up this year - their sixth year at Hogwarts. He was changing, and it was for the better. He had always been kind when he wanted to be - loyal, extroverted, empathetic -- all things that made him a natural leader - but now he had found humility, too. He unfortunately hadn't given up the pranks, but they were harmless and good-natured. There was more laughing with and less laughing at .

He was so earnest. So unerringly honest.

“Lily, you're drooling.” A teasing voice piped up from beside her. Immediately, Lily's eyes slid off of James, who'd been consoling a crying firstie, coaxing wet laughter from them with an easy, gentle smile on his face. She ran her tongue along the front of her upper teeth, clicked it against the roof of her mouth, and casually eyed her painted nails - a deep navy blue color - before looking up at Alice through her lashes. The girl was smirking with a playful glint in her eyes.

“I don't know what you're talking about.” Lily said.

“As if.” Alice laughed outright. She glanced at James for only a moment before leaning closer to Lily. “If you want anything to happen, you're going to have to be the one to make a move, y'know. He isn't going to try asking you out again.” She whispered.

“Only if he keeps his word.” Lily bemoaned, sagging against her seat. She shed her nonchalant act without a fight. “He's a boy, Alice. Their word is worth less than five sickles.”

“Does that mean you will make a move if he keeps his word?”

“Oh, I don't know, Alice!” Lily said, exasperated, before lowering her voice again, “what if I only want to date him now that he isn't chasing me anymore?”

The question was genuine, but her friend still giggled into her hand. “Oh, Lily. Lily, Lily, Lily.” She sing-songed.

“ What ?”

“That wouldn't be the only reason! I mean - he is rather fit now, isn't he?” Alice said, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively, and Lily rolled her eyes.

“Obviously.” She drawled. Alice laughed and laughed, though not without bemoaning her inability to get Lily to sputter.

Lily didn't blush easily to begin with, but why would she be embarrassed about eyeing the same boy that every girl has their eye on? Ugh, if anything, Lily was disappointed in herself for falling under the same charm.

She really, really missed the simplicity of hating him.

“Hey,” Alice said. Lily's shift in mood hadn't gone unnoticed. “There's no rush. Give it time - maybe try and date another guy, even. That'll give Potter time to screw up again while you figure yourself out.”

“Who would I date? Pettigrew?”

“Godric, no. Why not ask out Lupin? He's sweet, and he likes reading as much as you.” Alice reasoned.

“Alice, I cannot begin to explain to you how that wouldn't be a good idea. I know he seems the most put together of their little group, but Lupin is their mastermind . He's the biggest threat out of them all.” Lily said severely.

“Oh… kay.” Alice acquiesced. She clearly didn't believe her.

“And Black totally has a crush on him.”

Alice choked, and Lily smiled as her friend took the bait, the original topic of conversation forgotten entirely. If only she had a drink to sip at smugly, to match the mood.

Lily took her advice, however. Not dating another guy - she'd never had a crush before realizing she may have feelings for James, and she certainly didn't have any kind of draw to another boy within Hogwarts. No, she's ignoring those feelings, instead focusing more on her studies like she always had. She conducted her duties as Prefect, and if those duties sometimes included reprimanding four specific boys for their antics, then the fact that she found humour in them was known only to her.

She hated the boyish, chastised look James got no matter how many times it happened. The embarrassed yet teasing smile, wrapping one hand around the nape of his neck while he shrugged the opposite shoulder.

(Lily pretended not to notice the other boys resolutely staying out of the conversation, leaving James to sink or swim.)

(She never forgot to assign them detention, though. She also resolutely ignored their knowing smirks. She may or may not have found whatever reason she could to give them extra detentions when she was feeling extra petty about it, however.)

Needless to say, ignoring it didn't work, and James never went back on his word. Not even his friends had said anything mildly suggestive, which had his influence all over it. What were once arguments became banter and teasing, which consisted mostly of Lily insulting James while he smiled as if she read him romantic poetry.

‘It's how you say it. It's the same tone you use with your friends’ , he once said, still smiling, when she tried to tease him about that, too. ‘You've never been the emotional, heart-felt type’ . 

Lily dearly wished she still hated him, but that doesn't stop her from making her move before their sixth year ends.

---

‘Her move’ was kissing him to shut him up, but, semantics.

Regardless, they began dating. You may know what happened next: Lily learning her boyfriend was not only a Dark wizard but a necromancer , learning his family's version of magical history, and learning what his gift allows him to do. Graduating. Joining the war efforts. Learning that one of her dear friends was a werewolf, and that her boyfriend had been an illegal animagus since they were all fifteen years old. Getting pregnant. Going into hiding. Dying.

Lily has many, many wishes - wishes she would actually like to come true. Being dead, she wishes she had lungs to breathe in cold winter air. She wishes she had more time with her son, another chance to tell him that she loves him, to hold him. She wishes she had been strong enough to prevent their deaths.

She wishes she was able to finish mastering her own animagus form, and pursue her mastery in Charms.

She would do everything again, the exact same way, if it meant Harry had his chance to live, though. She'd do it all over again, even with the grief that had plagued her for years. But even after everything , Lily was still forced to watch her son grow under Petunia's watch. Forced to sit back as her brother-in-law hit him for accidental magic, and only James was able to go comfort Harry and soothe his pain.

It makes her soul ache, still.

At least Lily has her own role to play. What she and James hadn't anticipated as they performed the rituals they did was James’ inability to ‘watch over’ or ‘visit’ Remus and Sirius - or anyone other than Harry. Her husband had anchored himself to their son, and he's… stuck . He's had to rely on Lily or other family here in Death's Realm for information.

…informing him why Sirius or Alice hadn't been able to take Harry in was hard, harder than realizing that Dumbledore wasn't doing anything to help Sirius. She never quite understood James’ distrust for the headmaster, but in death she found much needed clarity.

It was too little, too late.

Remus should’ve been able to take Harry in, too - no one outside of the Marauder’s and the Order knew he was a werewolf, but the war had taken its toll. With the traitor, trust between them all had deteriorated, and with Remus’ affliction the man had taken the brunt of the distrust from the Order and even Sirius when the young man wasn’t arguing against accusations against himself. James had tried so hard to keep everyone together, but in the end one of them had betrayed the rest, and it was the one other Marauder that no one ever suspected.

Dumbledore plays her friend like a fiddle. Remus never trusted the wolf inside him, and he’d have never trusted himself around a child without Sirius or James there to fight against those voices. He lost his entire pack in one night, grief stricken. Lily joins Lyall Lupin sometimes during those first few years watching the man drink himself into a stupor.

“Does it get easier?” She whispers some point between rounds with a bottle.

“Watching your kid struggle without you?” Lyall asks. “No.”

More years pass, and eventually, Lily becomes used to being dead. Or, well, the state of being dead. She begins to forget what it’s like to have a physical body, forgets the feel of her wand gripped in her hand, the feel of her heart racing and the feel of her magic coiling comfortably within her. But she knew, even before she asked, that Lyall was right.

She’ll never get used to Harry getting hurt. It breaks her heart every single time.

---

“Now, Lily, Dear, why don’ we leave my son an’ husband to ‘eir fun.” Euphemia invited Lily.

It was before their deaths. Not just Lily’s and James’, but Euphemia and Fleamont - or how they prefer to be referred as, Effie and Monty - were still alive and kicking. They were even healthy. Potter Manor stood, Unplottable and warded to the gills, and it thrived with their life and vitality.

Lily had never admitted it out loud, but she thought Potter Manor would be outlandishly Gryffindor-ish. All reds and golds. In hindsight, the notion is short-sighted at best, but James was the Gryffindor poster boy, and the Malfoys, like many other Slytherin families, shrouded themselves in green. It was a simple logic problem: two plus two equals four. Except in this case, when it equaled fucking nothing.

Green, green, green. The color is everywhere in the Material Plane. It was the color of her eyes when she was alive, the main color that represents a fourth of the students within her former school, and it’s the color of the stone that sits in James’ Heir ring (Harry’s Heir ring, now). A malachite stone.

Malachite: the stone of transformation. Justus Peverell took that in a rather literal manner, but Lily isn’t one to begrudge a man who had to make these decisions while recreating his entire identity. The stone is beautiful, too.

It’s also the stone of growth and change. Over the years, it’s come to encourage descendents to remain adaptable, as they never know when they may lose their way of life again. Life is in a constant state of impermanence, and to hold onto something might be to their detriment.

Ah, but that isn’t the point. Right, Lily was discussing Potter Manor. She expected gaudy reds and golds, but the brickwork was a warm grey, with basil green window sills and shutters, and the roof tiling had a matching shade. Ivy grew against the walls, climbing higher. The gold, instead of its presumed tastelessness, accented the deep green with its patterned detailing with a graceful subtlety.

The Manor predictably has a garden that stretches until it meets the back fences. It’s a peaceful place, overflowing with hellebores, black and red roses, spider lilies, carnations, and asphodels. On that particular day, Lily and the Potters were sitting at the grey, metal table in an opening, in seats with green cushions. Fleamont had just invited James to come look at some devil’s snare that he was having some trouble with - something that had apparently been a regular thing upon Charlus’ death all those years ago - when Effie beckoned Lily further into the garden rather than towards the greenhouses, where James and Monty would be taking care of Monty’s potion ingredients. It wouldn’t be much ‘fun’ at all, given James’ face.

Still unfamiliar with James’ parents, Lily had been nervous, but she hadn’t let that stop her. She’s still a Gryffindor, despite the House the hat wanted to put her in.

“Alright.” Lily agreed, following Effie. The woman was dressed in a royal purple, bodycon gown, with a boat neckline for modesty. It had lace sleeves, and a sheer skirt that flitted in the slight breeze. The woman had brown hair so dark it could be mistaken as black, like James, and her eyes were just as dark.

In contrast, her skin was pale, as if she’s never stood underneath the sun, soft freckles dusting her nose and cheeks.

The two women walk in silence. Smiling, Effie observes the rustling of the flowers with her hands folded in front of her, and for a moment Lily thinks James’ mother is about to give her a ‘talking to’. She’d have met her, toe-to-toe, but James had told her that his parents believed in living and learning - it’s not their responsibility to make sure he finds someone worthy of him, because only he can make that decision for himself.

“James told us ‘at he told ye about his gifts.” Effie finally said.

“He did.” Lily confirmed.

Effie nodded, “I wanted ta make sure ye knew what yer getting into, Dearie. For them, their way o’ life’s normal, bu’ it can be… startlin’.”

“What do you mean?”

“They can heal themselves within seconds.” Effie said firmly, “They live by the words ‘live now, ‘cause ye won’ forever’. It’s not easy, watchin’ Monty an’ James harm themselves - even knowin’ they be fine.”

“I… I don’t think that’ll bother me, Effie.” Lily said honestly.

James somehow knew that Lily doesn’t feel emotions the same way everyone else does. It’s not like she doesn’t feel them at all, but more like they’re muted. Lily cared about things she chose to care about, and things like love and happiness don’t consume her like they did others.

It wasn’t normal, the way she can box away her emotions until they were useful to her. It wasn’t normal, how much she enjoyed the sight of blood spilling from James’ veins.

(She would go on to never say a word of this to James.)

Effie hummed, eyeing her critically now. “They live violently.” She murmured. She continued as if Lily hadn’t said anything, “They love violently. Lovin’ ‘em means broken bones an’ cuts into flesh. They will hurt an’ heal so ye don’t hafta.” She said.

“I’d like to see James stop me.” Lily challenged, and Effie only raised a lone eyebrow in reply, but her eyes sparkled in approval.

And maybe a little fear, too.

---

They don’t just accept that Harry is stuck at Privet Drive, of course. James encouraged Harry to reach out to a teacher, to a police officer. But, while Lily Evans was considered for Slytherin House, Petunia Evans would’ve never had the chance to be sorted anywhere else. The woman had been obsessed about appearances her entire life, and she’s always been rotten at her very core. Those two things made for a woman that never had a hair out of place, that always smiled politely and knew the right things to say.

Time and time again they debated having Harry seek out the goblins, but the idea was dead the moment it was formed and they knew it. A bus driver may buy whatever excuse they could’ve come up with to get Harry a ride to London, but a kid alone in the city wouldn’t have gone unnoticed. There was a chance a well-meaning adult would watch out for him, sure. But the chance of that or Harry being left alone were outweighed by the risk of a predator, or even a cop, catching him unaware.

Lily doesn’t want to think of the implications of a monster getting their hands on her kid, and if a cop found him and brought him back to Privet Drive, or worse - calling Petunia and forcing them to drive to the city - then it’d be a different kind of hell.

Her son was forced to endure so much already. And he will have to endure so much more.

Even knowing the danger at Hogwarts, it was a relief when Harry finally boarded the Express. She was completely unsurprised at his sorting, but she found herself gawping at Severus, who was sitting at the staff table and staring at her son.

And, no, she had no idea that her former best friend was a professor now. She hadn't wanted to see just how far he had fallen, and didn't want to confront the true possibility that the Severus she knew was gone forever.

She had no choice now that he was Harry's Head of House.

She waited for James to return before leaving, and her husband just seemed to know without being told. He only assured her that Harry will be okay, and urged her to go. And so she did.

The end of Harry’s first year comes, and Lily and James watch as Harry plays Exploding Snap with his friends, anxious to see what comes next.

“Are you sure Snape will handle it?” James asks for the nth time.

“ Yes , James. I told you, hadn't I? He's already contacted a friend in the DMLE.” Lily says.

“Well, I'm still convinced it's only to hurt Dumbledore's reputation within the department. Harry has had his scheming face on, Lily. He's cooking up something.”

Lily opens her mouth to retort, but she doesn't get the chance. Behind her, she hears footsteps, and turning around reveals someone approaching through the fog that blankets the edge of Death's Realm. Unworried, James and Lily wait for them to peer past the mist.

“Sorry, Dearies.” They say, and Lily smiles at Effie when she steps out into the white expanse of Limbo. Fleamont follows in behind her. “I came wit sum news. S’about ‘Arry.”

“Nothing bad!” Fleamont rushes to assure, smiling wide. “But during our visit to Effie's family we've found out that they've been contacted by the British Ministry!”

“ What ?” James asks, swiveling away from the sight of Harry. “ how is that not bad? Don’t they have some serious prejudices? Harry won’t be able to hide his gift forever, and not to mention that you said that Uncle Carbry is still bitter about you cutting them off-”

“We’ve told you about Dermot, yes?” Fleamont asks.

“Uh, yeah. He’s constantly fighting with the family, right? He doesn’t…” He says slowly, but he perks up, “He doesn’t agree with what they teach!” James says excitedly.

“But what are the chances that Carbry and Aoife will allow him to take Harry in if he’s a traditionalist?” Lily asks. It takes the wind right out of her husband’s sails.

“‘e was the one ‘o answered the floo call. Carbry and Aoife ’ave no idea.” Euphemia says, smiling.

“Indeed!” Monty says jovially, “And apparently young Amelia took it upon herself to contact them herself. Dermot only knows that Harry’s home life is being investigated, and his involvement in rehoming him has to be kept on the down-low to avoid unwanted attention. He’s headed to the British Ministry as we speak!”

“Oh.” James says dumbly, and Lily smacks his chest.

“I told you that Severus was handling it.” She says. She ignores his petulant ‘ow!’. “Though I’m surprised that they’ve chosen this route.”

“Ye may as well visit yer friend, Lily. They ain’t gonna explain everythin’ ta the eleven year-old.” Effie says knowingly.

“You’re right,” Lily agrees. “I’ll be back.” She tells James, and the man nods, now urging her to leave. Rather than give him a hard time about it, she jogs into the Mist, disappearing into it.

Here in Limbo, there isn’t really a ‘map’ of places to go when you want to visit someone. The Mist is the barrier between Limbo and the Resting Place here in Death’s Realm, but to travel within it, you merely think of where you wish to go. It’s not cold or wet, warm or dry, because they're dead and don’t feel such sensations any more. Lily doesn’t stray - doesn’t turn left or right. It doesn’t even take more than a minute of travel. She only exits the mist again, and in front of her is Eileen, Severus’ mother.

“Lily.” The woman greets warmly. “Here to find out what plan my son has been cooking up?”

Lily only smiles, caught. She walks up, and beyond the Veil she can see Severus standing in Platform 3¾, observing the parents with a sneer on his dour face.

“He’s disillusioned and silenced himself.” Eileen tells her.

Lily idly nods to let her know she heard her, but otherwise doesn’t say another word. The train arrives as she watches, and students pour out, one after another, with Severus’ gaze darting between them all. Finally, Harry steps out, and the boy must’ve already said goodbye to his friends, because he doesn’t stop or slow down, darting towards the barrier. Hedwig is nowhere to be seen.

Severus follows after him, quickly catching up, but not before he notices Harry slipping past Vernon, who’s tapping his foot impatiently with a severe scowl on his red face. Lily smiles, because, while they never had the chance to tell Harry their plan to get him out from under the Dursleys’ thumbs, her boy managed to come up with his own plan. It’s most definitely something foolhardy and potentially dangerous, but even with Dumbledore telling him he needs to be there for his ‘protection’ - somehow, some way, James had managed to properly drill into Harry that he deserves better .

They gave him the confidence to take his safety into his own hands, and Lily’s so proud of her son.

Thankfully, Severus stops him. “Potter.” His voice echoes in Limbo, and Harry’s steps stutter before he turns around in surprise, adopting a defensive posture before relaxing upon realizing it’s Severus. “Potter.” Severus says again, “I apologize for not reaching out again sooner, but I have an acquaintance within the DMLE that’s hoping to speak with you.”

“...To talk about what happened with Quirrell?” Harry asks unsurely.

“And to discuss your living conditions at your place of residence.”

“Really?”

Severus merely raises an eyebrow, and Lily’s son blushes. Harry rubs at his chest - his tattoo - like he does when he’s nervous, his eyes falling to the pavement. “Dumbledore wants me to stay there, though.” Harry murmurs.

“Fortunately, he doesn’t have the authority to determine your place of residence, despite what his actions might tell you. In fact, there’s no department within the Ministry to handle the matter - we only need an Auror, your testimony, and someone willing to take you in.” Severus informs him, and Lily huffs a giddy laugh. “Now, while I believe that you had a fool-proof plan considering the man that had been waiting for you-” Harry tenses like a bow string, “-is still foolishly standing in the station none-the-wiser, I cannot allow you to execute it.”

“Yes, sir. Will we be apparating to the Ministry, then?”

“Indeed.”

Lily's nerves ease some. Severus apparates them upon hiding away from muggle eyes, and within the DMLE the man has Harry walk at his side with a steady hand on his shoulder. Lily smiles at the sight, thankful the man isn’t allowing him to walk behind him again, out of his sight. Aurors are dressed in their imposing robes, with straight backs and tension in their clenched jaws. Few are leading wixen in cuffs to the holding cells, though most are sitting at their desks with paperwork in front of them.

One such Auror is Severus’ age, and was in the year above Lily and the others during their time in Hogwarts. She’s a deceptively small woman, and her pin-straight blonde hair, despite being pulled back into a high ponytail, is still long enough to drape down the expanse of her back to brush against the seat of her chair.

“Auror Higgs.” Severus greets.

“I see you’ve finally arrived, Severus.” Isadora Higgs teases, not looking up. “Brilliant. Head Auror Scrimgeour hasn’t been angry enough to breathe fire, but he’s definitely been huffing smoke ever since Dumbledore denied us entry into Hogwarts.”

“Yes, well, the boy’s testimony will have to suffice.” Severus says.

“Of course.” Isadora places her quill in her ink pot, standing, and she finally looks up to nod at Severus before letting her eyes fall onto Harry. Lily tenses, but she gives him her friendliest smile, which is close-lipped and lasts five seconds at most, but the soft look in her eyes counters the strain in her forced expression. “Good evening, Mr Potter; my name’s Isadora Higgs. I’ve heard that you’re on the Slytherin quidditch team with my nephew, Terence.”

“Er, yes, I am. It’s nice to meet you, ma’am.” Harry says.

In Limbo, Lily bites her lip, “he must be especially worried if he’s being this polite.” She murmurs, making Eileen look away from the Veil.

“What do you mean? The boy is always polite to Severus.”

“I love my son, but he doesn’t know the meaning of a brain-to-mouth filter.” Lily says in lieu of an explanation, not looking away from him.

“Likewise. Please, follow me.” The auror’s voice echoes as Lily speaks.

Isadora steps out from behind her desk, and Severus waits for Harry to start trailing behind her before following behind them. He scans his surroundings, but it appears that none of the other Aurors are paying attention to their little group. The dour man sneers in derision, and Lily can’t help but to agree.

They are led to the other side of the building, entering a brightly lit corridor before Higgs opens a door to their right, revealing a conference room that houses a long table and chairs circling it. She holds it open as Harry walks inside. Severus follows him only to be stopped by a hand falling on his shoulder. “Mr. Potter, I need to speak with your professor for a moment. Can I trust that you’ll refrain from touching anything?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Brilliant. Take a seat - we won’t be long.” Higgs says cordially, nodding, and she doesn’t shut the door until Harry sits down. Lily is sure that Severus and his acquaintance also notice his choice - a chair in the opposite corner, facing the room’s only exit with his back to the wall.

Higgs takes a deep breath. “I’ve looked into families that could take the boy in, as you’ve asked.” She says, and Lily perks up, knowing that this is what she was waiting for.

“And?”

“As you well know, we prefer to make sure that children are placed with blood family, as long as they are other wix.” Higgs starts, “Potters are known for only bearing sons, so the only option is looking into the maiden names of their wives.

“Euphemia Potter was born as Euphemia O’Shaughnessy - born to a well-respected Irish family, who had been sending inquiries for their orphaned descendent ever since James and Lily passed.”

“I sense that there’s something amiss regarding the family?”

“The Minister and Scrimgeour would get their wands in a twist if the boy were to live outside the UK. They live in Ireland, not Northern Ireland - meaning that he would no longer be under their jurisdiction.” She says, rolling her eyes. Lily scoffs. “However, my other options might be worse. His Great Grandmother, Briar Potter, was the halfblood daughter of a disowned Lestrange, and his Great Aunt Dorea was a Black.”

“All of the Lestranges and Blacks are imprisoned or dead.” Severus deadpans. His expression gives nothing away, but Lily knows the man is thinking about Sirius and Bellatrix as he says it.

“Not quite. Narcissa was a Black, but Lucius Malfoy cannot be allowed to have the boy. On the other hand, Andromeda Tonks was disowned, and is married to her muggleborn husband.” Higgs says.

“I assume you contacted her?”

“Indeed. She proceeded to tell me that, while she is disowned and was never a Death Eater, she is still a Dark witch that had sorted into Slytherin and the Ministry would never leave her alone if she took the boy in. She was rather firm - told me that she needed to be our last resort.”

“But didn’t outright say no?”

“She did not.”

Lily does not blame the witch. Severus was worse off, being Marked as he is, forgetting how Dumbledore would force Severus to give the boy up if he even dared. She wouldn’t even put it past the man to have Severus arrested for kidnapping if he believed that Severus was trying to crawl out from under his thumb. Not that the man would see it that way.

Regardless, the man has an agenda that involves her son, and that hasn’t changed completely despite his sorting.

“So? What was your decision?”

“Well, Healer Tonks said she needed to be the last resort, and that left me only one option, yes? I just so happened to accidently to tell Scrimgeour that Mr Potter wouldn’t be here until tomorrow evening. I may have informed Madam Bones, and she’s most likely speaking with Lord and Lady O’Shaughnessy of the Ireland Magisterial Cabinet as we speak.”

Dumbledore will not like this , Lily thinks with a growing smirk on her face, which mirrors Severus. Forget Fudge and Scrimgeour, the headmaster will not only no longer have the boy in arms’ reach, he’ll have to contend with Dermot, who never attended Hogwarts. He’ll be furious.

“We still need to find out who his guardians are and arrest them, if the boy wants to press charges against them.” Higgs admits.

“Then shall we head inside?” Severus asks, still smirking nearly imperceptively.

Higgs chuckles, and Lily chuckles with her.

Her son is going to be okay.

Chapter Text

It feels as if a piece of Harry’s magic has made its home in his throat as he sits in the barren conference room he had been led to by Auror Higgs. The table is a dark, sophisticated wood, and the chairs have a cushioning charm. The walls are a dark crimson, and the large mirror hoisted on the wall is in an ornate, wooden frame that matches the table.

The door opens again, and closing the door behind them, Snape and Higgs join him - Snape next to him, and Higgs across.

“Mr Potter, it’s traditional to breathe when one’s nervous.” Auror Higgs states, peering at him. She situates an inkwell and parchment in front of her, quill in hand.

Harry can’t help the hiccough of laughter that bursts out of him, and he composes himself again as quickly as he can. “I don’t know how ‘traditional’ I am.” Harry says.

Auror Higgs hums. “Well, I’d recommend it regardless. Now, Mr Potter, I’d like to make this clear to you now - you will not be returning to your previous home. Snape was able to tell me you live with muggles, is that right?”

“Erm, yeah, that’s right.” Harry says. He nearly stopped listening at the words ‘you will not be returning’. Surely he didn’t hear that right? Surely it isn’t that easy?

“Brilliant. You see, Mr Potter, you are the last of a Noble line, and here in the Wixen World, muggles don’t have any rights.” Auror Higgs states matter-of-factly. “This means that, when you admitted to your professor that they weren’t treating you well, you were automatically granted the benefit of the doubt. As you may know, wixen often view muggles as creatures of a low intelligence on par with or even less than sentient magical creatures, and this means, further, that they can’t contest your accusation. Or, well, they won’t be taken seriously in any wixen court.”

“They can’t… contest? They can’t argue?” Harry asks incredulously.

“Indeed not. Instead of being tried for whether or not they did cause harm to you, they will be tried - if you want to press charges - for the severity of their crimes. Do you understand?”

“Y- yes.”

“Good. Do you want to press charges?”

“No.” Harry says confidently, “not right now.”

Auror Higgs raises an eyebrow. “Not right now? Does that mean you’d like me to keep these records for later?”

“Yes.”

“Understood. Now, tell me about your guardians and how they treated you, if you could.” Auror Higgs prompts him, and Harry thinks of every lesson his dad had ever taught him, every angry rant he heard him make on Harry’s behalf, before he starts from the beginning.

“They’re my Mum’s sister and her husband, Petunia and Vernon Dursley, and their son, Dudley…”

Snape perks up at the name Petunia, just as he had back at the beginning of the school year, but the man doesn’t interrupt him. Harry talks about the cupboard, the chores, the punishments, and his life at muggle primary school, and Auror Higgs dutifully writes down everything and asks clarifying questions.

Feeling wrung out, Harry allows Higgs to move the topic to his kidnapping at school, and he gives as detailed an account as he can when he refuses to say that Voldemort was there, possessing Quirrell. He doesn’t want to test this ‘benefit of the doubt’ he’s been given, and he already seems to be testing Auror Higgs credulity.

Regardless, Harry knows Dumbledore’s reputation will take a hit because of this, and Harry, remembering the Cloak he has on, takes a certain amount of pleasure from that knowledge.

“Alright, that’s all I need from you, Mr Potter. Thank you for answering my questions.” Auror Higgs says, capping the inkwell and setting it to the side. With a simple charm, her quill is free of ink, and she lays it gently on the table before spelling the ink on the parchment dry. “Madam Bones - the head of our department - is speaking with your family now in her office. They’re related to your grandmother, Euphemia Potter, and I’ll be bringing them down now. Do you have any questions before I leave to get them?”

“No, ma’am.” Harry answers, and she nods before doing just that.

“I will part from here as soon as your family arrives.” Snape says dryly, appearing unconcerned. “This is the last we’ll be seeing each other until the next term starts in September.”

“Don’t miss me too much.” Harry says. He would regret it if he wasn’t feeling a little separate from the outside world. As it is, he barely registers Snape’s sharp, reprimanding sneer.

“Mind your tongue, Potter.”

“The only thing here I will ‘mind’ is the stench of potions clinging to your robes.”

Snape’s jaw clenches, a vein in his forehead ready to burst, but the man takes a deep breath as he pinches the bridge of his overly-large nose. “Of all things…” Snape hisses under his breath, and Harry doesn’t quite catch the rest. “Try not to annoy your new guardians - you’ll have to live with them during the summer for the rest of your Hogwarts’ career.” He drawls.

“As you well know, they can’t do much worse than the Dursleys.”

Snape evidently has nothing to say to that, electing to ignore Harry instead. Harry lets him, ruminating on how things will play out now, and he’s feeling less and less confident by the minute. The truth is that they can do much worse, and if Harry’s really going to be living in Ireland, getting to Gringotts as an alternative will be much harder, and more complicated.

Harry isn’t given much more time to catastrophize as the door opens twenty minutes later, revealing an unfamiliar individual behind Auror Higgs’ petite stature. He’s pale and freckled, his eyes and hair a dark, deep brown that seem to swallow the light like Harry's own magic. Clean-shaven, he appears to be younger than Snape, who has stood up to make his escape.

“I believe it's time to take my leave.” Snape says, and Higgs nods.

“We'll make sure your student is taken care of, Severus.”

The professor only hums, and as soon as the unfamiliar man steps into the room, clearing the doorway, Snape flees. It's as if the man couldn't get away from Harry sooner.

The boy forcibly shakes off the thought, studying his supposed new guardian. The man is completely lax, or appears so, and notably, the man is wearing muggle denim jeans and a pain grey sweatshirt. When he realizes that Harry’s staring, he smiles reflexively.

“Take your seat, Mr O’Shaughnessy.” Auror Higgs says, taking hers after closing the door again. O’Shaughnessy does so, and despite the casual wear he sits up straight. “Mr Potter, this is your second cousin, Dermot O’Shaughnessy. While I was anticipating your Great Aunt and Uncle, it seems Mr O’Shaughnessy has informed Madam Bones of the prejudice they hold against Dark wixen, and after an interview, she has deemed him a more suitable placement.”

“Why does it matter if they’re prejudiced against Dark wixen? I’m from a Light family.” Harry feels the need to ask. They can’t possibly know his actual alignment-

“Uh,” O’Shaughnessy begins, unsure. He looks to Higgs, and the Auror nods to give him permission to speak. “Me family don’ really believe that.” He says, his Irish accent thick.

“What?” Harry asks blankly.

“I’m curious for an explanation as well.” Higgs says, and though it’s a statement, it sounds more like a demand.

“Euphemia cut off me Grandfather an’ the res’ o’the family after she married ‘er ‘usband.” O’Shaughnessy says, “This was before I were born, so I don’ ‘ave all the sordid details - I don’ even know the man’s name - but apparently, shortly affer she moved ta Britain an’ began datin’ the man, she began arguin’ more heavily against ‘eir prejudices, an’ would spout ‘nonsense’... Grandfather Carbry believes she were dosed wit a love potion, or under the imperius.” O’Shaughnessy admits with a strained smile.

“Oh.” Harry says.

“That’s… troubling,” Higgs agrees.

“I was in the middle o’stormin’ out o’the manor fer a final time when Madam Bones Floo-called. I’m happy I were there ta answer instead.”

No kidding. Harry bulks at the prospect of being in a household in which the people who hate him possess magic , and shutters. Oh, he doubts they’d use violent magic, being a Light family, but magic doesn’t need to be violent to be controlling. Invading. They could contain him in a room, and even if he were capable of breaking down any wards they erect (which he doesn’t know if he can) they’d know in an instant.

Not to mention what they’d do to ‘rehabilitate’ him and ‘cleanse’ his magic.

O’Shaughnessy smiles at him gently, as if knowing what Harry’s thinking about, and Auror Higgs clears her throat. She says, “I will be accompanying you to your new place of residence, Mr Potter, and once I have sufficiently observed that you’ll have what you need, I’ll return to the DMLE. I’ll visit throughout the summer as well, to make sure you’re happy in your new home.”

“Al…right.” Harry says, decidedly feeling off-kilter.

---

O’Shaughnessy’s flat is small.

It has two bedrooms, one of which was a study until recently, and one loo. The kitchen, sitting room, and dining room are an open concept design, and it’s sparsely decorated except for the pictures of friends that adorn the walls. Observing them, Harry doesn’t see a single one containing O’Shaughnessy, and most are candid shots, instead of posed.

Auror Higgs is asking O’Shaughnessy multiple questions about the man’s plans on feeding Harry and providing for him (an odd concept for the boy) and they don’t seem to realize that they’ve lost the boy somewhere between the entryway and the corridor leading to the loo and the bedrooms.

The photos are magical, of course. Despite the muggle flat, it’s a magical home, and just the thought of that alone makes Harry giddy. The subjects in the photos are most often a man and three other individuals, but the man is the most frequent. He seems like someone Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon would hate on principle - tattooed, pierced, and his hair is a dark teal color. 

Harry wrinkles his nose when he spots a picture of the man drooling in his sleep, the picture shaking as if the cameraman was laughing.

“Mr Potter?” A voice calls.

Turning around, Harry sees Higgs peering around the corner. “Yeah? Sorry - I got distracted.” He says. He gestures to the photos.

“No worries.” Auror Higgs assures, “Mr O’Shaughnessy has a bedroom for you prepared, and after a search, I’ve found no hidden weapons or… ‘Dark artifacts’.” She rolls her eyes at the term.

“You’re leaving, then?” Harry asks, suddenly much more nervous than before. It seems silly - he only met the woman today, only known her a few hours longer than O’Shaughnessy, but he’s admittedly quite fond of her already. It’s probably because she’s related to Terence.

And maybe Harry isn’t quite ready to be left alone with a strange man. With his blood family, even.

“Yes. However-” She starts, and she steps out from the corner and makes her way over to him in a few steps, pulling a card out from her pocket. Accepting it from her, Harry realizes it’s an address. “However, I’m giving this to you, if you ever need to contact me. Terence is a good judge of character, and he spoke very highly of you. I would hate to find out that you were in trouble and we weren’t able to help out.” She says.

“Really?” Harry asks.

“Really. If you need to make a quick escape - though I honestly doubt it - feel free to take the floo there as well. He’ll be arrested faster than he can say expelliarmus .” She promises, and finally a genuine smirk adorns her face. It’s a mean, mean smirk.

He shouldn’t trust it. The offer. But she’s a Slytherin, too, and Slytherins stick together, right?

Harry doesn’t think he does trust it, but the offer nonetheless makes the weight that has settled in his gut lighten some. He pockets the card. “Thank you, Auror Higgs.”

“Don’t mention it. Mr O’Shaughnessy already knows I’m saying goodbye to you, so I’m off. He said he’ll be waiting for you in your new bedroom - which is the last door on the right. Have a good summer, Mr Potter” She says, before apparating away with a loud crack .

Harry forces himself to take a deep breath. He still has his trunk on him, so if he has to make a run for it he’ll have his belongings. The Cloak is still disguised as his jumper, ready to morph to hide him from sight. Now that he’s in a magical home - a magical home outside the United Kingdom, even - he’ll be able to use wandless magic regardless of the trace.

Merlin, he hates not knowing what to expect.

He isn’t a near-Gryffindor for nothing, though, and Harry walks away from the photos and towards his new bedroom. The door Auror Higgs had indicated is wide open, and inside O’Shaughnessy is findling with a camera.

Shuffling himself through the door, Harry peers at the furniture that was supposedly picked out for him. It seems to be a matching set of spruce wood furniture, a twin bed, a four-drawer dresser, a desk, and a bookshelf. Harry can’t see the springs in the mattress like had in Dudley’s second bedroom, and he even has a set of green sheets and a solid green comforter.

It’s certainly more than he expected.

O’Shaughnessy looks up, and he yelps, fumbling with his camera. “Feckin’ Merlin , lad!”

Harry helplessly flinches at his tone, and the resulting adrenaline is enough to hear his pulse rattling through his ears. “Sorry-!”

“Ah, feckin’ Janey Mack,” O’Shaughnessy swears, surprising Harry enough with his tone to freeze. He raises his hands in a placating gesture after discarding the camera like a hot potato. “Ye jus’ startled me, ‘Arry. Didn’ mean ta yell at ya.”

“Oh, uh, it’s okay.” Harry says. His wide eyes are darting between O’Shaughnessy’s face and his hands, though, giving away his nerves. Sagging, O’Shaughnessy looks up at the ceiling, and his cheeks puff out as he sighs heavily.

“Alrigh’, ‘Arry,” He starts, and he keeps his hands where Harry can see them. “I know no’in’ abou’ takin’ care o’va kid-” let alone an abused one, he doesn’t say, but Harry hears, “-bu’ I ain’ gonna hit ye or no’in’. I ain’ gonna get mad either.”

“No offense, but I doubt that. I’ve been told that I’m rather irritating.” Harry says plainly.

O’Shaughnessy, surprisingly, just huffs a laugh. “I ten’ta attract irritatin’ types.” He admits. “Ye ‘ave free reign o’me kitchen. Eat when yer ‘ungry. I dunno wat yer muggle family did ta hurt ya, exactly, bu’ yer tiny.”

“Yeah? Have you made any more brilliant observations?”

“Oh, plenty,” O’Shaughnessy says with a pitying smile, but he doesn’t elaborate, nor does he appear to be planning to. He gestures to Harry’s new bedroom. “Now, this is yers, an’ yer welcome ta decorate as ye would like. We’ll ge’ sum messages ‘morrow, an’ o’er shite.”

“Al...right.” Harry says, not entirely comprehending what was said.

Sighing, O’Shaughnessy stands, and Harry moves out of the way of the door so he can leave unhindered. “Goodnight, lil’cousin. It’s late, an’ I’m sure yer tired.”

“Oh, uh, goodnight… Dermot.” Harry says unsurely. The man smiles wider, though, pleased as punch, and walks to the door across from Harry’s to enter his own bedroom.

How surreal. All school year Harry had been counting down the days with dread in his stomach, worried about his return to the Dursleys now that he had attended a magic school for wixen like himself, only to be told that he wouldn’t have to go back, and forced to wait in uncertainty until the trusted (as trusted as Snape can be) adults in his life make good on their word. Now, Harry’s met a little piece of his magical blood family, and the man seemed… nice.

Closing the door to his new bedroom, Harry feels the ink in his chest warm, and he smiles as he turns around to see Dad floating behind him.

“I think that this calls for celebration.” Dad says. He's smiling ear-to-ear, and his wispy form seems to shine brighter than usual. “I bet it hasn't sunk in yet, kiddo, but Vernon and Petunia are ancient history now!”

Giddy, Harry still has half a mind to soundproof his room due to sheer habit as his dad floats over to grab his hands, dragging him towards his new bed. Harry yelps when the spirit picks him up and sets him back on his feet on top of the mattress.

“Woah.” Harry exclaims softly, wiggling his toes. “There’s no springs.” And the comforter is so soft and fluffy .

“Jump!” Dad orders, “c'mon, Bambi!”

“I can't jump on the bed! What if I break it?”

“Then it can be fixed or replaced.” Dad reassures, “but you're a hundred pounds soaking wet - I'm sure it'll be fine.”

“Hey.” Harry says indignantly, and Dad laughs. He pulls away, floating backwards and flipping over, like a loop-de-loop.

“ Harry ! C’mon!” Dad says encouragingly. “We’re celebrating, remember?”

Feeling unsure - he’s never jumped on a bed before - Harry finally jumps, stumbling when he lands - and he does not squeak, no sirree. Dad only laughs and helps him right himself.

“No more excessive chores! No more working in the sun, and no more sneaking around with your magic just to eat! No more locks and no more cupboards!” Dad cheers.

“No more Dudley!” Harry yells, jumping again.

“No more Mrs Figg!”

“No more Harry Hunting!”

“No more hunger!”

“No more hand-me-downs! No more manhandling! Vernon can’t hurt me anymore!”

“That’s! right !”

Harry jumps again, this time leaning back and bringing up his legs to land safely on his back. He laughs, and he feels lighter than he probably ever has in his short life. Dad floats with his body parallel with the ground and spins like a corkscrew, before circling over Harry’s head.

Harry doesn’t know if he believes it all quite yet. It can’t be this easy, can it? Oh, but it was. It was explained to him - muggles don’t have rights in the Wixen World, and Harry is the Heir and last living member of his House. What he says, goes - legally, he has the benefit of the doubt.

And now he’s in Ireland, an ocean separating him from his relatives. He’s even under a new government, now a dual citizen.

“Do you think I did the right thing?” Harry finds himself asking. He doesn’t look at Dad, instead staring at the ceiling.

“What do you mean, Haz?”

“With Vernon and Petunia.” Harry says.

“Oh. I see.” Dad replies, and his tone is a little bloodthirsty despite the forced cheer. “Harry, if your mother and I were alive, we would've razed their entire home to the ground for what they did - but, then again, if we were alive you would have probably never have met them. And technically, your choice is the smart one.”

That choice being to leave them alone. For now, and maybe even permanently. They’ll keep the records if Harry ever wants to press charges, but those will be tucked away until then, never to see the light of day.

After a moment of contemplative silence, Dad continues, “I don’t think there’s a ‘right’ way to go about it, Harry. Legally, you can’t take action against them on your own, but… Morally? The choice is yours, even if I don’t want you to sully your hands like that. And if you choose the legal route - well, the Dursleys always coveted their pride second to their precious son.”

“Aren’t my hands already ‘sullied’?”

“No. You killed Quirrell because you were given no other choice. It was him, or you, and I’d want you to choose your survival every single time.” Dad floats above him, entering his field of vision, and his eyes are crimson. “If anything, Lily and I killed him, because it was our enchantment that hurt him. That blood is on our hands.”

Harry is saved from replying to that when there’s a knock on his window. Getting up, Harry warily walks up and peeks through the curtain.

“Hedwig!” Harry greets, and he unlocks the window and slides it open, allowing the snowy owl to fly inside. She perches herself on one of the bed posts at the end of the bed. “Hello, girl.” Harry says, and reaching up to pet her, he lets her nip a little at his fingers before burying them in her soft feathers. “I’m glad you found me okay.” Harry says. She hoots indignantly, as if the idea of being unable to is preposterous. The boy chuckles.

Finally, Harry pulls out his shrunken trunk and sets it down in front of his bed, enlarging it so he can bring out his owl treats for Hedwig and pajamas for himself.

“Do I need to worry about living here?” Harry asks his dad.

“Not at all.” The spirit assures, “You focus on being a kid, and Dermot will take care of the rest this summer.”

It feels good to hear.

---

The next morning, Harry realizes that he can send a letter to each of his friends to give them an update, so he writes them as he waits for Dermot to wake.

Writing it down made his new circumstances tangible, in a way, and it sinks in even further that the last time he saw his muggle relatives was nearly a year ago. If everything turns out alright, the only reason he’ll ever see them again is if he needs to testify at their trial.

Hedwig is then off with the letters. Harry watches for a bit as she goes, but with a sigh he looks away to watch his bedroom door. It feels like breaking a rule to leave - because it was, of course - and it makes anger stir in his gut. Dudley could come and go from his room whenever he pleased, he knew, and did the boy love to lord it over him.

Clenching his teeth, Harry walks over and swings open the door with more force than necessary, before releasing the breath he hadn’t known he was holding in one large exhale. He slowly steps out of his bedroom and silently shuts the door behind him. He makes the trek to the open concept sitting room and kitchen, steeling himself again to look inside Dermot’s pantry and fridge to scour for ingredients.

This time, he’s cooking his own breakfast. He’s eating the food he’s going to make and it’s going to be delicious . 

He finds eggs, shredded cheese, and various seasonings that look barely used. Finding the pots and pans, he pulls out a skillet, and next he pulls out a bowl and whisk. The next ten or so minutes are spent preparing and cooking some scrambled eggs with the help of a chair to see over the stove properly. The kitchen fills with its aroma as his spatula scrapes against the skillet.

Dermot walks in as he’s eating at the table, having dragged the chair back to sit in it, and the man stops to stare. Harry tenses in his seat, but he spitefully shoves another bite of his food into his mouth.

(He’s sitting at the table, and a part of him thinks he shouldn’t be. That anger flares again.)

“Did ye cook?” Dermot asks, appearing baffled at the prospect.

Harry chews and swallows his food before replying, “No, actually. It magically appeared when I sat down.”

“Yer eleven . How do ye know how ta cook?” Dermot completely ignores Harry’s cheek. “ I don’ know how ta cook.”

“How old are you?”

“Tha’s beside te point.” Dermot says.

“I’m not allowed to point out you’re too old not to know how to cook when you point out I’m too young?” Harry raises a lone brow.

Dermot opens his mouth, visibly struggling to scrounge up a response. “Ah, sure look.” He finally says, much to Harry’s confusion. “Alrigh’, ye know how ta cook. Understood.” He pulls out his wand and waves it at the dishes Harry had either left in the sink, rinsed, or on the stove to cool down, and they rise into the air as a scrubber begins washing them. Dermot pulls out a bowl, spoon, milk and boxed cereal, and strides over to sit across Harry.

“Uh, sorry for not making any for you.”

Dermot gives him an odd look as he pours his milk first and cereal second, like an animal. “We’ve established who’s te adult ‘ere.”

“You’re not much of one.”

Dermot laughs good-naturedly, “Ye’ve got enough cheek fer a second arse, lad. Bite yer tongue fer a second, will ya?”

“Biting it.”

“Well, last nigh’ happened rather quickly, don’ ye think? So lemme get this righ’. You don’ owe me shite, an’ ye certainly ain’t gonna take care o’me.” Dermot says, and he jabs his spoon at Harry’s direction. “I ain’t gonna parent ye, buh it’s now me responsibility ta make sure you ‘ave food, clothes, an’ shelter. Think o’me as more o’va older brother.”

Dermot takes a bite of his cereal.

“I’ve never had siblings before.” Harry murmurs.

“Lucky fer ye, it ain’t complicated.” Dermot says gently, “Li’le brothers are a huge pains in the arse - which yer doin’ a grand job of already - an’ listen when it’s important, yeah?”

“Yeah…”

“Brill. Now, finish eatin’, an’ we’ll leave. I know I said we need ta do some shoppin’, buh after sum thought I want to take ye ta a hospital an’ get checked up. That alrigh’?”

Grimacing, Harry nods. Dermot pretends not to notice his discomfort, munching on his cereal tiredly, and the two of them finish their breakfast silently.

Chapter Text

June 13th, 1992.

Dear Daphne,

I reckon that you’re surprised to hear from me, and I’m honestly still reeling from the change in my summer plans, surprised too. As I write this, I have to remind myself that I’m not dreaming.

What I hadn’t told you before was that Snape had approached me when I was in the hospital wing to ask about my home life, and I had been waiting to hear from him again ever since. I didn’t really believe that Snape would help though, so I was prepared for the worst. He pulled through, and now I’m living with a new guardian.

I don’t have to return to my muggle relatives this summer, or ever again. Instead I’m staying with my second cousin, Dermot, and I can only hope that this all goes well. If nothing else, this means that I can talk to you guys, and maybe even see you in person!

I’m living in Ireland now. I’m worried that Hedwig won’t be able to reach you from so far away, but I still have a small cut on my hand from when I said as much to her. She takes doubt in her capabilities very personally. I’ve learned my lesson. Please give her some food though, and extra rest if she needs it. She’ll deserve it.

Litha is going to be coming up quickly, and I don’t think this letter will make it to you in time, so we’ll have to wait until Lughnasadh to get together to celebrate the Wheel together again. Speaking of, can you write to Tracey and Millicent for me? I don’t want to push Hedwig too far by giving her another two letters. (Thank Merlin owls can’t read, or she’d probably take a whole finger.)

Hope to see you soon,

Harry.

---

June 17th, 1992.

The sun is dipping towards the horizon as Harry explores the muggle neighborhood he’s found himself living in. The buildings are practically on top of each other, and unlike Little Whinging, they all have their own personal, unique design, color, and charm. The muggles are friendly and vulgar in equal measures, swearing up a storm as they ask if he’s on holiday, as they don’t recognize him. Many ask if he’s lost, and others ask who he’s staying with.

Harry loves it, despite how being approached by strangers puts him on edge.

It’s the anonymity. At Little Whinging Harry was known as an untrustworthy delinquent, and at Hogwarts, a legend that doesn’t live up to his name. Here, word is already traveling about ‘Dermot’s little cousin’, a boy the man - their friend, apparently - has taken in. 

Harry is free to present himself however he wishes. The thought is a freeing one, and it makes him grin as he returns to Dermot’s flat, knowing the man has also returned from his job.

Dermot is a Warden, also known as a Wardmaster - the very same job Terrence will be pursuing after Hogwarts. It’s certainly self-explanatory - Dermot constructs wards when and where he’s commissioned to, whether it’s as simple as a sound-proofing ward or as complex as a multi-layered security ward. He seems to enjoy it, Harry has noted these past few days.

“Hullo, Laddie.” Dermot greets, “glad ta see yer ‘ere. I wanna run somethin’ by ya.” He slips his wand back into his holster as Harry turns to look at him from where he’s standing in the sitting room. He’s smiling, but there’s tension in his shoulders.

“What’s that?” Harry asks.

“Righ’, sure look. I don’ know what values ye were taught, buh I’ve been celebratin’ the Wheel fer years now, yeah? What would ye say ta joinin’ me this year?”

Harry begins to beam before he even realizes he’s smiling at all. Merlin, he was worried that he’d have to go find a secluded area away from the muggles on his own, but if Dermot celebrates, and has been for a while, he most likely knows a spot already that’s perfect for the occasion. What’s more exciting, Harry won’t have to do a Rite alone, and Rites are so much more interesting when you have someone to perform it with.

“I’d love to.” Harry says simply, and Dermot smiles in return.

---

June 25th, 1992.

Dear Tracey,

I don’t know if you heard the news or not, since I haven’t received any letters back - from any of you - but I’m living with my second cousin, who’s a wix, rather than my muggle family. A few days ago we performed a Rite for Litha together, and it was just as enjoyable as Imbolc with you and the others. I’m still hoping to celebrate Lughnasadh with you guys, so make sure to get back to me as soon as possible!

I honestly don’t know what to do with all of my free time. Before, my Aunt Petunia would always have some kind of chore for me to do, and now that I don’t have any besides cleaning my bedroom, I don’t know how I’m supposed to entertain myself. What do you usually do? At this rate, I’ll be rereading all of my textbooks, and I know if anyone could understand how desperate that makes me, it’d be you.

Are you having a good summer so far? How was Litha? Have you seen and talked to Millicent and Daphne since the train?

Sincerely,

Harry

---

July 1st, 1992.

It always starts with the roar of the flames.

Firelight burns at his retinas, and its heat licks at his arms and face. It towers above him, trapping him within its circle where he waits. The stone of the castle is replaced with a blackness that reminds Harry of his cupboard.

There’s the mirror. It stands before him, the words engraved at the top, and in its reflection Harry stands completely alone. The stone is not in his hand but it is , and hands wrap around his wrist and throat and face-

“Kill him!” A voice screams, but the words are nearly drowned out by the wailing of his assailant. There’s shards of mirror below him, reflecting the light of the roaring fire, and Harry can see him melting, burning, screaming - and Harry screams with him.

The eleven year-old boy wakes up, screaming just as he was within his dream and thrashing within the binds pinning his arms to his sides. Suddenly, he’s cold, the night air cooling the sweat that has started to gather at his brow and soak into his sheets. His throat burns just as the fire did.

“‘Arry!” He hears distantly, “Laddie, it was jus’a dream! I’s jus’ me! Yer in me flat, safe. No one can get in ‘ere withou’ me say so. I’s me, Dermot, Laddie.”

Dermot?

I was having nightmares again, Harry realizes, and he sags in Dermot’s arms. He pants for air and coughs when it aggravates his sore throat. I must’ve forgotten to silence my room.

It’s usually the cold of his dad’s form that jolts him out of his nightmares, but clearly the honor was relegated to Harry’s poor guardian. Dermot’s wand, which is made of pine wood and a unicorn hair core, is illuminated where it has been set on Harry’s night stand. Its dim light casts exaggerated shadows across Dermot’s face and the walls across the room, but Harry can still see Dermot’s worry shining in his black irises. This close, Harry can see shades of grey within them.

“Sorry bout pinnin’ ye down, ‘Arry - I was worried ye would hurt yerself.” Dermot murmurs.

“It’s alright.” Harry says. His voice is softer than the comforter that’s currently bundled at the end of the bed. “Sorry for waking you.”

“Bah.” Dermot waves his hand, rejecting the apology, “I’d expected it when ye moved in. I don’ mind - Now, c’mon.” Dermot stands and jerks his head toward the door, looking at Harry expectantly. Stumped, Harry merely watches him walk to the door. He turns around to look at the boy, “Misunderstand me, didya?”

“Aren’t you going back to bed?” Harry asks uncomprehendingly.

He shakes his head. “Nah. I doubt ye can fall back asleep, an’ I wouldn’t wanna sleep while yer up by yerself. I also doubt ye wanna talk about it, so, I believe we can distract ye instead. How ‘bout it?”

The boy is still absolutely lost to what’s currently happening, but he knows not to bother to tell Dermot to just leave it be - the man is stubborn enough to rival Hermione. He’s right, of course. Harry won’t be going back to sleep. And if Dermot insists on staying with Harry, to distract him, then that’s what they’re going to do.

Slipping from the sweat-soaked sheets, Harry heads to his dresser to pull out some clean clothes, and Dermot nods in satisfaction before stepping out and closing the door to give him a moment of privacy. Once he joins Dermot in his clean jumper and joggers, he can see the same camera the man had been fiddling with that first night he lived here. A lone candle is lit, a much softer light than the light from a lumos .

It isn’t until Harry is curled up on the couch that the silence is broken. “I’m thinkin’ that ye won’t ‘ave much to say.” Dermot says, “so ye up fer listenin’?”

Harry nods.

“I’m the secon’ son o’ a powerful family. The spare. O’course, the tradition o’ requirin’ a women to provide two sons fer ‘er husband has died, but tha’ don’ change the way I’m viewed, I suppose. I were left alone much more offen than me brother, so I had more time to find different hobbies an’ the like - though me father thought many were a waste o’time.”

“That’s why you’re not in any of the photos on the wall, right? You’re the one taking them.” Harry observes. He wonders how Dermot found photography in particular.

“Quite. I’ve owned a fair few o’muggle cameras, but they always break eventually due to me magic. I enjoy capturing a moment an’ immortalizing them. As I grow older, and me subjects grow older, the people in me photos remain young. Photos are a reminder o’how far we’ve come, or someone’s happiest memories. Me photos will continue to exist even as I die.” Dermot says.

“Does that scare you? Death?” Harry asks.

“What a weighted question from an eleven year-old.” He remarks. Harry smiles shyly and shrugs, wanting to know the answer regardless. “A li’le. But I think everyone is, to some degree.

“Anyway, me parents hated me passion fer it. Me brother, Brogan… He were more jealous that I could pursue what I wanted, when his future was decided fer. He hated me fer that.”

“Do you think he’ll always feel that way?”

Dermot sighs. “Now? Yeah, considerin’ he passed abou’ a month ago. There were an accident.” He says without bite. “It’s why I were at me parents manor the day Madam Bones flooed. They were demandin’ that I take me brother’s place as heir to the family. I refused.”

“Oh. I’m sorry-”

Dermot shakes his head, and Harry’s voice dies in his voice. “I’m not tellin’ ya fer yer condolences. I’m tellin’ ya because ye know nothin’ about me, and I’m sure that’s stressful, yeah? How can ye trust an adult to take care o’ye if ye don’t know they’re worthy of that trust?” He says. 

He says this little speech of his - which is so clearly something he has been thinking about - with an ease and openness and sincerity that stuns Harry into silence. His expression freezes where his mouth is already half-open from being interrupted, and his fidgeting hands still.

Dermot merely watches him silently.

“You…” Harry starts, but he has no clue where he would end. He lets himself trail off.

Living with Dermot hasn’t been easy, regardless of the fact that Harry isn’t with the Dursleys, regardless of the man’s hospitality. Dad can only do so much to help him get comfortable living here. He hadn’t realized that Dermot would notice, though. He certainly hadn’t expected the man to realize just how much the adults were asking of him when they changed his guardians so suddenly.

“Thank you.” Harry settles on.

“Don’t mention it, lad.”

---

July 22nd, 1992.

Dear Millicent,

I haven't heard from you guys at all since the summer started, and I don't know why - I can't figure it out. Do I need to be worried? Are you guys safe? Have you guys changed your mind about me?

I guess writing a letter would be useless if you guys were in trouble. Is there any way for you to contact me?

Dermot has been asking me if I want to hang out with my friends, and I keep telling him that you guys are too busy. I hope that's really the case.

Hope to hear from you,

Harry.

---

Harry, for the nth time, watches Hedwig fly off into the distance, and instead of the excited anticipation he felt at the beginning of the summer, he feels only quiet resignation and a despairing loneliness that's horribly familiar to him.

He doesn't want to believe that his friends have abandoned him now that they don't have to see him everyday, and to contemplate them being in danger - when he's still suffering nightmares from time to time from when he was the one in danger - for the sake of his feelings makes him feel sick to his stomach. Harry can only hope there's a secret third possibility that he just doesn't know yet.

Sighing, Harry pulls away from the window with a deep-set frown tugging at his adolescent features, and he finally turns away from the landscape view to leave his bedroom in favor of the sitting room.

Dermot has the curtains of the windows open, allowing the sunlight to pour into the flat and fill it with its warm glow. The man himself is on the soft, brown sofa, pouring over printed photos to weed out the bad ones from the good ones - dismissing any that have a bad angle, weird lighting, or poor posing of the subject. There’s some that feature Harry, all candids, in which Harry is cooking, studying, or walking throughout the muggle neighborhood. 

On the wall of photographs, there's already one framed and hung - this one from a different batch of photos. Harry had caught Dermot pointing the camera at him and brought his textbook up to hide his face, and the moment has been immortalized, much to his exasperation.

“What's botherin’ ye?” Dermot asks. Harry takes the seat on the opposite side of the sofa, and he contemplates how he wants to answer this time.

Because this is certainly far from the first time Dermot has asked. More and more frequently Harry has come in here to distract himself from the lack of letters he's been receiving, and unlike the Dursleys, Dermot cares when he appears troubled.

But habits die hard. “It's nothing.” Harry says, then sighs. He's hardly convincing.

“Aren't ye supposed to be good at lyin'?” Dermot retorts. He puts another photo in the ‘discard’ pile. Another goes to ‘keep’. “Tat’s wot ‘cunnin’’ implies.”

“You haven't called me out yet.”

Dermot scrutinizes another photo. This one he took of a muggle family at the nearby park, who'd been having a picnic. He had asked for their permission, and he managed to capture the moment the toddler had grabbed his father's ear with an ice-cream covered hand. The mum is laughing, a well-manicured hand covering her smile and smothering her snickers. He puts the photo in the ‘keep’ pile, and sighs. “Yeah, well, I was waitin’, and now I'm tired of waitin’. I can hardly help if ye don’ tell me wot's wrong, now can I?”

“I don't think you can, Dermot.” Harry finally admits.

“Lemme be the judge o'that, lad. Spill.”

On his chest, Harry can feel Prongs warm slightly, as if Dad has appeared, but he remains out of sight of Dermot. There’s a cold brush against his neck, though, his dad urging him to speak up - and not for the first time.

Harry sighs again, heavier than before, and he can't help but roll his eyes. “None of my friends have replied to my letters this summer.” He says. It’s oddly difficult to force out. It’s like there’s something pressing down on his tongue and water clogging up his throat.

“Ye haven't gotten a reply?”

Harry hums affirmatively. He stares at the far wall across from him, pretending he doesn't see Dermot put down his photos to look at him.

Harry resolutely clenches his jaw and avoids the man's gaze. He can feel it as Dermot leans back into the couch, the cushions shifting.

“I'm sure t’ere's a reasonable explanation, laddie.” Dermot says. Harry doesn’t reply as he grows tired of the conversation. His mood for sharing dissipates like a thick fog under the shining sun, but the man isn't done. “‘Ere, ye ‘ave ‘eir addresses, yes?”

“...yeah?” Harry says uncertainly.

“Could ye give them t'me?”

Harry eyes Dermot wearily, unsure, but Dad's cold form brushes against him again, this time more insistent, and he can only sigh and stand before heading to his bedroom.