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Chapter Text

Prologue

In a vast, dimly lit hall, a dark-haired man rubbed his face wearily, exhaling a tired sigh before returning his gaze to the intricate symbols etched across the floor. Across from him, a blonde man hunched over a thick tome, his quill scratching furiously as he made various calculations regarding their enigmatic endeavour.

"Any updates, Draco?" the dark-haired man asked, his voice betraying the weight of their undertaking. Draco looked up from his book, dark circles prominent beneath his steel-gray eyes.

"I've made progress with the calculations, Harry, but nothing definitive yet," the blonde answered, running a hand through his dishevelled hair. "I'd estimate we need another two days to pinpoint the exact numbers required for this... ambitious project of ours." His counterpart gave a short nod, a flicker of determination crossing his emerald eyes. "Any word from Neville?"

Harry turned his wrist, examining the markers on the bracelet he wore. A red symbol in the shape of a sword glowed faintly. He turned back to Draco, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "He's still alive and kicking. Knowing Neville, he's probably giving those bastards hell as we speak."

Draco chuckled softly, the sound echoing in the cavernous hall. They lapsed into silence, each returning to their respective tasks – Draco to his intricate calculations, Harry to experimenting with different combinations of runes, searching for the elusive outcome they desperately sought.

Minutes ticked by, the silence broken only by the scratch of quill on parchment and the occasional muttered incantation. Suddenly, Draco felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end as a wave of dense, angry magic filled the room, pressing down on him with suffocating intensity.

"Harry?" Draco called out, his voice barely above a whisper. Harry looked up with a non-committal grunt, his eyes flickering with an otherworldly power. As their gazes met, the oppressive magical pressure eased rapidly. "When we pull this off – and we will – I won't say you should forgive them outright, but... consider giving them a chance, alright? We were all just kids back then, fumbling in the dark."

Harry's shoulders sagged, the weight of their past settling heavily upon him. "I... I understand, but it still hurts, Draco," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "Sometimes, I find myself questioning everything. My marriage to Ginny, my relationships with Ron and Hermione, even my love for my children – Albus, James, Lily. Were any of those feelings real? Or were they just... consequences of manipulation?"

He paused, struggling to articulate the turmoil within. "I know what I felt for my kids was genuine, but if the foundation of my life was built on lies and half-truths, how can I trust any of it? All those days playing with James and Lily, teaching Albus, the laughter, the joy, the love – were they just elaborate illusions? It's tearing me apart inside, Draco!"

Draco regarded Harry with a mixture of empathy and sorrow. He couldn't offer pity – Harry had never accepted it, not in all the years they'd known each other. Nor could he truly sympathize, for he couldn't fathom the depth of Harry's pain. Instead, he crossed the room in quick strides and enveloped the other man in a firm embrace, offering a shoulder to lean on.

As Harry's composure crumbled, Draco glanced towards the ventilation window, peering out at the grey, oppressive sky. His face hardened as he contemplated the grim fate they were fighting to overturn.

The day this calamity began was seared into Draco's memory. It had started with a case that turned the Wizarding World on its head – a resurgence of Grindelwald's followers, now comprised mostly of descendants of his original supporters. Draco Malfoy had been hired as a prosecutor by the ICW, while Harry Potter, the famed "Chosen One," led a multinational Auror task force to hunt down these remnants of a dark past.

For eight months, their efforts bore fruit. Fourteen wizards were arrested, tried, and sentenced to life imprisonment for their crimes against both wizards and Muggles. A trail of evidence led them to a manor in England, deserted for nearly two decades since the death of its previous occupant, Albus Dumbledore. The ensuing raid resulted in the capture of the group's supposed leader, seemingly putting an end to whispers of another dark lord rising to power.

The entire manor was sealed, and objects from the house were turned over to the prosecutors to gather incriminating evidence. That's when everything began to unravel.

Draco discovered Dumbledore's personal diary, its contents so disturbing that they shook the usually composed Lord of House Malfoy to his core. He immediately handed the case to his deputy and devoted himself to uncovering the full extent of his former headmaster's machinations. It took a month to catalog the events for which the dead man had been directly and indirectly responsible.

What struck Draco most was the intricate web of manipulation Dumbledore had woven around Harry, and how much of it had come to fruition. Without hesitation, he sought out his former classmate and presented him with the diary and his findings. In hindsight, Draco wished he had brought someone like Granger along that day, someone who could have offered Harry the emotional support he so desperately needed. But Hermione and her husband Ron were in Oslo, attending the trial of the captured group leader.

Harry, having decided to stay in Britain and spend time with his children before their return to Hogwarts, had confidently left the trial in the hands of his capable deputy.

As Harry numbly finished reading Dumbledore's diary, an Auror burst into the room, his face ashen with terror.

"The Minister is dead!" he gasped, struggling to catch his breath. "The trial was attacked by the true leader of Grindelwald's forces! No other country's Minister of Magic survived. The entire Scandinavian region has fallen under their control!"

In that moment of chaos, all eyes turned to Harry. But the revelations in Dumbledore's diary, coupled with the tragic loss of his two best friends, had shattered his confidence. His marriage to Ginny had already been strained for years, their love having slowly faded over time. Now, with her death in one of the subsequent attacks, Harry was left adrift in a sea of grief and uncertainty.

The man who had once been their beacon of hope fell into a deep depression, leaving Wizarding Britain without a leader in its darkest hour. Draco Malfoy tried his best to fill the void, but opinions formed during the Second War against Voldemort still held strong, and people doubted his orders.

Britain stood strong for a year, but it quickly began to crumble under the relentless assault. While Harry and Draco fought desperately at the Ministry, another group of enemy fighters launched a surprise attack on Hogwarts. Their mission was specific and brutal, resulting in the deaths of the Potter children, Scorpius Malfoy, and anyone else who dared stand in their way. Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy had been high on their list of targets, as the pair had been responsible for significant losses to their forces. They were determined to repay that debt with interest.

What they had gravely underestimated was that this wasn't merely a remnant of Grindelwald's ideology, but an entire army that had been breeding in the shadows, patiently waiting for the perfect moment to strike. The Statute of Secrecy shattered as Europe fell, plunging the entire world into chaos.

Over the next three years, skirmishes reduced the resistance to fewer than ten wizards, scattered across Europe. Harry, Neville, and Draco stubbornly clung together, refusing to give up hope as they searched for a way to combat the overwhelming darkness.

And then, they found an answer: Time Travel.

They would journey back through the years, far enough to nip this violent uprising in the bud. However, they were constrained by the existence of their own souls, unable to travel to a time before their births. Nor could they arrive too late and risk another all-out war. Britain, they knew, couldn't withstand three such conflicts in the span of two decades.

Their approach needed to be subtle, swift, efficient, and as impactful as possible. As Harry and Draco worked tirelessly in that dimly lit hall, the weight of the world resting upon their shoulders, they knew that failure was not an option. The future – past, present, and yet to come – depended on their success.

As Draco pondered their predicament, a harsh grating sound echoed from the doorway, signaling someone's entry into their secluded sanctuary. Neither Harry nor Draco needed to turn; the Fidelius Charm ensured only allies could breach their haven.

"Hey there, Nev! Had fun?" Harry quipped, his attempt at levity coaxing a slight upward twitch of Draco's lips and a raised eyebrow from the newcomer.

Neville dumped a heavy bag onto a nearby chair before sauntering over to his companions. "This and that," he shrugged, his face a blank canvas before splitting into a triumphant grin. "I did what we needed. A lot of Time-Turners. I at least hope these are enough because if I try to break in again, I'm fairly certain they'll have my head."

Draco nodded solemnly. "They should suffice. We won't be using them as is, anyway. If we can transform them into a more condensed form, the time density should increase, potentially making our plan viable."

"Potentially?" Harry's scowl deepened, clearly displeased with the lack of certainty. "When we embarked on this mad venture a year ago, you said it was definitely possible. Now you're saying potentially?"

"Harry!" Neville interjected, halting his friend's brewing tirade. "Cut Draco some slack! We've all lost something here. We're this close." He held up two fingers, barely a hair's breadth apart. "I want absolute certainty as much as you do, but we're attempting something unprecedented in magical history. Draco deserves the benefit of the doubt."

Draco shot Neville a grateful look before turning to Harry. "It's as Nev says, mate. We started with no records, no leads—nothing. Back then, I deluded myself with the chance of seeing Astoria again, and at that moment, the odds didn't matter. We all want to see our loved ones again, Harry. Deep down, even you know that you still long to see Hermione, Ron, and Ginny alive, regardless of what's transpired."

Harry nodded silently, but neither he nor Neville missed that it was the first time Draco had ever used their friends' first names.

"Topsy!" Neville called out, and with a resounding crack, a house-elf apparated into the hall. "Could you bring us something to drink?"

The elf nodded enthusiastically, a joyful smile gracing her features. Topsy was one of the few elves who had escaped the Fall of Hogwarts three years prior. She had bonded with Neville, who had been a Herbology professor when their beloved school fell. Neville had barely managed to escape with a handful of students who had been in his vicinity. "Topsy will bring Master's favourite!" she exclaimed before disappearing, only to reappear moments later with a bottle of firewhisky and three glasses.

After pouring their drinks, Topsy vanished once more. The three men toyed with their glasses, each lost in thought. This would likely be the last time they drank as the adults they had become, the final moment to mourn their misfortunes before embarking on their desperate mission.

Draco raised his glass. "To Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick." The venerable educators who had valiantly defended Hogwarts, allowing Neville and Hannah to escape with the children.

Neville followed suit. "To Hermione Granger and Hannah Abbott." The brilliant witch who had reshaped Magical Britain with her intellect, and the compassionate healer who had exhausted herself tending to injured students during their harrowing escape.

Harry completed the toast. "To Ronald Weasley, Ginerva Weasley and all those who fell fighting against the Obscura Order!"

They drank deeply, the firewhisky burning a path down their throats, a final reminder of the world they were leaving behind.

-oOo-

Two days later, the trio was making their final preparations for the monumental journey through time. They had decided that rather than arriving at the conclusion of the Second Wizarding War, they would insert themselves before it could even begin. Their mission: to eliminate Voldemort in his weakened state, ensure the survival of key allies, and root out the Obscura Order before it could gain a foothold.

The plan seemed deceptively simple, but they were acutely aware of its complexity and the myriad ways it could go awry.

Harry meticulously examined the runes he had painstakingly painted across the hall's floor, double-checking each intricate detail. At the center lay two Demiguise runes, positioned close together but facing opposite directions. Surrounding them were three double-mountain runes, with arrows originating from the valleys and radiating outward at equal angles. Finally, three sets of Runespoor and Graphorn runes were inscribed between the arrows, moving from right to left.

They had established the basic runic matrix long ago; the true challenge lay in how to power such an ambitious array. The answer rested at the heart of the central Demiguise runes—a glass container, three feet wide and four feet high, filled with countless double triangles sharing a vertex, all separated by vertical lines and brimming with Time-Turner sand.

The runic matrix would compress the sand into glass, a feat of magical engineering that melded wizarding ingenuity with Muggle scientific principles. The resulting increase in temporal potential would provide the necessary boost to the floor matrix, facilitating their journey across the vast expanse of time.

"So, we're aiming for the start of the Triwizard Tournament, aren't we?" Neville asked as they took their positions on the array, each standing on one of the outward-pointing arrows. Draco nodded affirmatively.

"That's the ideal insertion point," he confirmed. "We stop Barty Crouch Jr., expose Barty Sr.'s scandal regarding Sirius Black, and secure his innocence. That should create significant problems for many Death Eaters in the Wizengamot. After that, we hunt down the Horcruxes and Voldemort himself. Once that's done, we turn our attention to the Obscuras."

Harry nodded in agreement, a determined glint in his eyes. "We deal with Dumbledore before Voldemort. I won't have him interfering with his 'Everyone deserves a second chance' philosophy. And we save Severus in the process," he added with a shrug. Draco's lips curved into a small smile at the mention of his godfather. "Let's begin, shall we?"

The trio began to channel their magic into the matrix, directing it towards the glass container. They increased the flow steadily, watching as the sand within started to compress towards the center, glowing a bright orange as the temperature rose. For several tense minutes, this process continued, the orange hue growing increasingly intense until it suddenly shifted to a blinding white.

In that moment, they caught a fleeting glimpse of the newly formed stone at the center—a transparent, crystalline structure emanating an ethereal purplish glow. The runic matrix etched into the hall's floor began to pulse with light, the very air around them thrumming with dense, unnatural magic.

With a final surge of power, the matrix flashed blindingly bright. In its wake, the trio vanished, leaving behind an empty hall. Seconds later, the manor erupted in a spectacular explosion, the sudden discharge of magical energy reducing it to rubble—the last vestiges of a future they hoped to prevent.

As the dust settled on the ruins of their former sanctuary, Harry, Draco, and Neville hurtled through the corridors of time, their minds focused on the monumental task that lay ahead. The fate of the wizarding world—past, present, and future—rested squarely on their shoulders. Failure was not an option.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

White flashed in Harry's eyes as the seal triggered, and whatever pain Harry was expecting didn't come. Instead of the familiar confines of Grimmauld Place or the battlefield they'd left behind, he found himself standing beneath a grey sky that stretched endlessly in all directions, devoid of sun, moon, or stars. The air itself seemed drained of warmth and color, a perpetual twilight that pressed down on him like a physical weight.

The ground beneath his feet was neither soil nor stone, but something that felt like ash mixed with fragments of what might once have been bone. It crunched softly with each step, and as his eyes adjusted to the strange half-light, Harry realized the grey plane extended infinitely in every direction. No horizon line broke the monotony—just endless grey meeting endless grey.

Then the screaming reached his ears.

It started as a whisper, like wind through dead leaves, but grew steadily louder until Harry could make out individual voices crying out in languages he recognized and others he didn't. Some pleaded in English, others in what sounded like ancient tongues, their words carrying the weight of centuries of anguish.

Harry took a cautious step forward, his forty-five-year-old body moving with the practiced wariness of a man who'd survived two wars. That's when he noticed them—skeletons scattered across the grey landscape like discarded toys. But these weren't ordinary bones bleached white by time. These skeletons burned with pitch-black fire that gave off no heat, only an oppressive cold that seemed to seep into Harry's very soul.

The flames didn't consume the bones; instead, they danced along the calcium surface in patterns that hurt to look at directly. Some skeletons were human-sized, others massive enough to belong to dragons, and still others so small they could only have been children. All burned with the same black fire, all contributed their voices to the chorus of eternal lament.

"What the bloody hell—" Harry began, instinctively reaching for his wand. His hand closed on empty air. No familiar weight of holly and phoenix feather, no comforting warmth of magic ready to flow through the wood. Panic flickered in his chest as he patted his pockets frantically.

A sharp crack beneath his foot made him look down. In his distraction, he'd stepped directly onto a burning skull, its jaw hanging open in a silent scream. The bone crunched under his weight like eggshell, fragments scattering and immediately reigniting with that terrible black fire.

'I'm pretty sure this didn't exist at any point of time in the past,' Harry thought, his mind racing through everything he'd read about time magic. Nothing had prepared him for this realm of eternal suffering. He felt shivers travel down his spine, a bone-deep cold that had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with proximity to something fundamentally wrong with the natural order.

Even facing Voldemort at his most powerful, even staring down the leaders of the Obscura during the Resurgence war, Harry had never felt this level of primordial dread. This was fear on a cellular level, the kind that made his forty-five-year-old bones feel ancient and brittle.

The black fires burning around him suddenly flared higher, their intensity doubling, then tripling. Harry shielded his eyes with his arm as the flames began to move with purpose, swirling together into a massive vortex of darkness. The screaming voices grew louder, more desperate, as if they sensed what was coming.

Harry's heart hammered against his ribs—or what he assumed were his ribs in this strange place. The same crushing despair he'd felt in the presence of Dementors washed over him, but magnified a thousandfold. If Dementors were a drop of water, this was an ocean of despair deep enough to drown entire civilizations.

The vortex of black flame spun faster, creating a sound like screaming wind, until it suddenly collapsed inward. In the resulting silence—even the voices of the damned had gone quiet—a figure began to materialize.

It rose from the ashes of the collapsed fire like smoke given form. The being was tall, draped in a cloak that seemed to be cut from the darkness between stars. In one skeletal hand, it held a scythe whose blade gleamed with the same black fire that consumed the scattered bones. But it was the eyes that made Harry's blood turn to ice water in his veins.

White as fresh snow, white as bone bleached in the desert sun, but burning with an inner fire that spoke of power older than civilization, older than humanity itself. These weren't the eyes of any mortal being, no matter how powerful. These were the eyes of a force of nature given consciousness and malevolent intelligence.

"Peverell," the being rasped, its voice like grinding millstones and winter wind through a graveyard. When it spoke, its mouth opened in what might have been a smile, revealing teeth as white as its eyes, arranged in a rictus that had nothing to do with humor and everything to do with predatory satisfaction.

A pit opened in Harry's stomach, the kind of dropping sensation he'd felt as a child when he realized Uncle Vernon was reaching for his belt, or as a teenager when he'd seen Sirius fall through the veil. But this was worse, because he knew exactly who stood before him without needing any introduction.

"Death," Harry replied, forcing his voice to remain steady despite the terror clawing at his throat. He met those burning white eyes directly, a decision that required every ounce of Gryffindor courage he'd ever possessed. The forty-five years he'd lived, the battles he'd fought, the losses he'd endured—all of it had led to this moment of standing before the ultimate enemy of all living things.

He saw those impossible eyes narrow just a fraction, and then suddenly the being was no longer twenty feet away. It was less than an inch from Harry's face, moving faster than thought, faster than light. Cold, clawed fingers wrapped around Harry's throat with the grip of winter itself, each digit feeling like it was carved from ice that had never known warmth.

"You sure have guts to look me in my eyes, mortal," Death said, its voice now a whisper that somehow echoed through the endless grey plain. Harry could feel the being's breath—or what passed for breath—against his face, carrying the scent of old graves and forgotten sorrows. "Most of your kind cannot even lift their gazes from the ground in my presence. They weep and beg and soil themselves like frightened children."

Harry tried to grab the arm holding him, to pry those skeletal fingers from his throat, but his hands passed through Death's form like it was made of smoke. The cold intensified where he tried to make contact, a burning cold that felt like frostbite spreading through his fingers.

"It is futile to try to fight me in any manner in my domain," Death continued with a dark chuckle that sounded like wind through a charnel house. "Here, I am not merely powerful—I am power itself. I am the end of all stories, the final word in every book ever written."

Without warning, Death's grip tightened and then released, flinging Harry across the burning landscape like a rag doll. Harry flew through the air, past dozens of burning skeletons, their empty sockets seeming to track his flight. He crashed into a massive pile of bones that rose like a small mountain from the grey plain.

The impact drove the breath from his lungs and sent spikes of pain through his ribs and back. Bones scattered around him—human skulls, dragon vertebrae, what looked like goblin femurs, and stranger things he couldn't identify. Some were ancient, worn smooth by time, while others looked fresh enough that strips of meat still clung to them, all of it burning with that same cold black fire.

Groaning and cursing the pain that felt all too real for a spiritual journey, Harry pushed himself up from the macabre pile. Bone fragments stuck to his clothes and hair, tiny flames licking at his skin without actually burning him. He spat out what he hoped was just ash and glared at the floating figure of Death.

"What do you want?" Harry hissed, his voice hoarse from the impact and the supernatural grip that had nearly crushed his windpipe. He wiped blood from his split lip—apparently even in Death's domain, injury felt completely real. "If you're going to kill me, just get on with it. I've been expecting this conversation for twenty-seven years."

The white eyes regarded him for a long moment, and Harry could swear he saw something like amusement flicker in their depths. When Death spoke again, its voice carried a weight that seemed to press down on Harry's soul itself.

"I cannot allow you to travel back in time, Peverell," Death said, each word falling like a tombstone. "The temporal magic you seek to employ would require me to release souls I have already collected. Decades of careful harvesting, centuries of gathering the essence of mortality—all of it would be undone to accommodate your... heroic ambitions."

One skeletal hand extended, and suddenly transparent figures materialized in the air beside Death. Harry's heart clenched as he recognized Neville and Draco, suspended in some sort of ethereal stasis. Their eyes were closed, their faces peaceful, but Harry could see the faint outline of their souls flickering like candle flames in a breeze.

Neville looked exactly as he had in life—the shy boy who'd become a fierce warrior, the man who'd helped Harry through the darkest parts of the second war. Draco appeared as Harry remembered him from their final battle, no longer the sneering child of Hogwarts but a man who'd chosen to stand with them when it mattered most.

Harry's hands clenched into fists, his forty-five-year-old knuckles cracking with the force of his grip. "We need to go back," he ground out, his voice rising with each word. "We need to stop both Tom and Albus from destroying Magical Britain and the rest of the magical world. Too many good and innocent people died because of their greedy ambitions, their manipulations, their goddamn war games played with human lives!"

The anger felt good, cutting through the supernatural dread like a blade. Harry had spent decades learning to control his temper, but here in Death's domain, surrounded by the bones of the fallen, that control cracked like ice in spring.

Death tilted its hooded head, and when it spoke, its voice carried the weight of eternity itself. "Everything which is born is bound to die, Peverell. That is the absolute, inviolable law of the universe. From the smallest insect to the mightiest dragon, from the humblest flower to the most powerful wizard—all things that draw breath must eventually surrender it to me."

The being gestured to the endless field of burning bones around them. "Both wars you speak of were written in the tapestry of fate long before the first participants drew breath. All the people who perished in these conflicts had their deaths inscribed in the cosmic order the moment they emerged from their mothers' wombs. Your friends, your enemies, your lovers—all of them were always meant to feed the endless hunger of eternity."

"Don't give me that predestination crap!" Harry shouted, losing the last of his composure. The words echoed across the grey plain, causing some of the nearer burning skeletons to turn their empty sockets in his direction. "I've had forty-five years to think about fate and destiny and all that philosophical bullshit, and I know better than anyone how it really works!"

He struggled to his feet, bones clattering around him as he stood to his full height—not as tall as he'd been in his youth, but still imposing when his anger was fully roused. "I know about fate and prophecy better than most people ever will. I lived it, breathed it, nearly died for it more times than I can count. But here's what I learned that Dumbledore never understood—fate is just somebody's interpretation of events. It depends entirely on who's doing the reading!"

Harry's voice grew stronger, more certain, as he continued. "Dumbledore thought I needed to die for Voldemort to become mortal, and he raised me like a pig for slaughter, counting down the days until he could send me to my death with a clear conscience. But that prophecy could have been interpreted a dozen different ways! Nothing is ever set in stone during a person's life—we make choices, we change directions, we decide who we want to be!"

The rictus on Death's face shifted, becoming something fiercer, hungrier. The expression turned into what might have been laughter, a sound that sent chills racing down Harry's spine like liquid nitrogen. It was the sound of winter wind through a graveyard, of children crying in empty houses, of last words whispered into darkness.

"I haven't laughed like this in such a long time," Death said between peals of that terrible mirth. The laughter seemed to go on forever, echoing across the grey plain and mixing with the constant background chorus of screaming souls. "Centuries upon centuries of existence, and rarely do I encounter such delicious defiance from a mortal who knows exactly where he stands."

The laughter gradually faded, but the being's burning white eyes never left Harry's face. When Death spoke again, its voice was soft, conversational, and somehow more terrifying than any scream.

"Do you think Fate has any power here, in my domain?" it asked, and Harry barely had time to register the question before agony beyond description exploded through his right arm.

Black fire engulfed his limb from shoulder to fingertips, but this wasn't the cold fire that burned the scattered bones. This fire burned with the heat of molten metal, eating through flesh and muscle with impossible speed. Harry watched in horror as his arm was reduced to charred bone in seconds, the black fire continuing to dance along what remained of the limb.

The pain was unlike anything he had ever experienced—and Harry Potter had experienced considerable pain in his forty-five years. It wasn't just physical agony; it was the burning away of possibility itself, the destruction of every gentle touch his hand had ever given, every spell it had ever cast, every life it had ever saved.

Harry's scream tore across the grey plain, raw and primal. He collapsed to his knees among the burning bones, his vision whiting out from the intensity of the pain. Tears stung the corners of his eyes, but even as they fell, he set his jaw and refused to beg. He'd learned long ago that begging never worked with beings like this.

Death's white eyes watched him with something that might have been appreciation. "Your lineage is a constant reminder of how I was made a fool of," the being said, its voice now carrying a note of ancient anger. "A reminder that mortals once dared to summon me from my eternal duties, and that one of them—your ancestor—had the audacity to trick me into a bargain that let him slip through my fingers."

Without warning, Harry's left arm erupted in the same black fire. The pain doubled, and this time Harry couldn't hold back a sob of agony. But still he didn't beg, didn't plead for mercy from a being that had never known the concept.

"I have watched your family for generations upon generations," Death continued, as if Harry's suffering was merely background music to its story. "The Peverells, thinking themselves clever, thinking themselves above the natural order. I watched and waited as your bloodline scattered across Britain, some lines growing strong while others withered into obscurity."

Harry could barely focus on the words through the haze of pain, but he forced himself to listen. Information was power, even here, even now.

"And then," Death said, its voice taking on a note of something like delight, "imagine my surprise when Fate itself decided that one branch of the Peverells—the Gaunts, corrupted by their own pride and madness—would be the instrument to annihilate the other branch, the Potters. Tom Riddle, carrying Peverell blood through his mother's line, destined to destroy Harry Potter, last of the Potter line but equally a Peverell."

Death descended from its floating position, its feet—or what Harry assumed were feet beneath the dark cloak—touching the ash-covered ground. As soon as the being made contact with the earth, the black cloak began to dissolve like smoke, revealing something that made Harry's breath catch in his throat despite his agony.

Death was a woman. Not just any woman, but one of impossible, terrible beauty. She stood perhaps five and a half feet tall, with a slender build that spoke of grace rather than fragility. Her hair fell to her waist in waves of pure white—not the white of age, but the white of fresh snow, of bone bleached clean, of light so pure it burned to look upon.

She wore a ballgown that seemed to be cut from the same white light as her hair, simple in design but elegant in its very simplicity. The dress moved around her as if stirred by breezes that touched nothing else in this dead realm. But it was her face that made Harry's heart stutter in his chest.

She was beautiful in the way that avalanches were beautiful, in the way that lightning was beautiful—awesome and terrible and utterly beyond human ability to safely approach. Her features were perfect in their symmetry, as if she had been carved by an artist who understood the mathematical principles underlying all beauty. But those white eyes, burning with their eternal fire, marked her as something far removed from humanity.

Death knelt before Harry, her movements fluid as silk, and reached out to cup his chin with fingers that felt like ice carved into the shape of flesh. Her touch sent waves of cold through his skull, numbing the pain in his arms while simultaneously making him acutely aware of every other sensation in his body.

"Look at you," she said, her voice now clearly feminine but no less terrible for the change. "Reduced to nothing but pain and bone, yet still you refuse to cry out for mercy. Still you look at me with defiance rather than submission."

Harry felt both his legs erupt in black fire.

The pain quadrupled, spreading through his entire body like liquid agony. His vision flickered, darkness creeping in at the edges, but he forced himself to remain conscious through sheer stubborn will. Forty-five years of war, loss, and survival had taught him that consciousness was often the only weapon he had left.

"I have wanted to see your family reduced to this state for centuries," Death said, her perfect lips curving in a smile that belonged on the face of an angel and the heart of a demon. "Broken, burning, stripped of all their mortal pride and pretension. I have to admit, you're handling it better than most of your ancestors did."

She tilted her head, white hair cascading over one shoulder like spilled moonlight. "Tell me, Harry Potter—is this what you humans call 'having nothing left to lose'?" She made a casual gesture with her free hand, and the suspended souls of Neville and Draco appeared beside them, close enough that Harry could have reached out and touched them if his arms hadn't been reduced to burning bone.

"What about them?" she asked, her voice taking on a note of false sweetness that made Harry's skin crawl. "Do you have nothing left to lose when their eternal souls hang in the balance?"

Harry's throat worked, trying to form words around the pain that consumed him. When he finally managed to speak, his voice was a harsh rasp: "Don't... you... dare..."

Death's smile widened, showing teeth as perfect and white as fresh snow. "Oh, but I do dare, little Peverell. In fact, let me make you an offer that will test just how noble your intentions truly are."

She released his chin and stood, her white dress settling around her like folded wings. The burning white eyes gained an evil glint that made the black fire consuming Harry's limbs seem warm by comparison.

"I will allow you to travel back in time," she said, each word precise and clear. "I will release all the souls who have died in both wars—Hermione, Ron, Luna, even that godfather and wolf you mourn so deeply. All of them can live again, can have the futures that were stolen from them."

Harry's heart leaped despite the pain. Sirius, alive again. Ron and Hermione, able to have the life together they'd been denied. Luna, able to explore all the strange and wonderful creatures she'd dreamed of. It was everything he'd hoped for when they'd begun this desperate plan.

"But," Death continued, her voice now dripping with false honey, "I keep these two here." She gestured to Neville and Draco. "They will remain in my domain as... collateral. Insurance against your success, you might say. And of course, they will die the moment you return to your own time—permanently this time, with no possibility of resurrection or reprieve."

The offer hung in the air like a poison cloud. Harry's mind reeled, not just from the pain but from the terrible mathematics of the choice before him. Save hundreds, maybe thousands of lives, but condemn two of his closest friends to eternal suffering. Get back everyone he'd lost in the first war, but sacrifice the two men who'd stood with him through the second.

"Their deaths for your chance to meet your godfather again," Death continued, her voice a seductive whisper. "Their eternal torment for your opportunity to see your dead friends whole and happy. Perhaps you could even marry that redhead again, have those children you lost, build the family that was denied to you the first time around."

The temptation was a physical thing, clawing at Harry's chest with diamond talons. He could see it all so clearly—Sirius laughing at the dinner table, safe and whole playing with his children. Hermione retiring after fixing the issues in Magical Britain. Fred, George and Ron teaching their children to play pranks. Scorp’s and Lily’s wedding.

But even as the images flashed through his mind, other memories rose to counter them. Ginny's face, twisted with anger and disappointment, as she'd realized their marriage was built on foundations of hero-worship and manipulation rather than genuine compatibility. His children, caught in the middle of increasingly bitter arguments, trying to hold together a family that had been broken before they were even born.

Harry closed his eyes, blocking out Death's perfect, terrible face. The pain in his limbs was nothing compared to the ache in his heart as he remembered the slow dissolution of everything he'd thought he wanted. The growing distance between him and Ginny. The way his children had learned to flinch when their parents were in the same room. The final, bitter divorce that had left everyone involved wounded and resentful.

"You should know what the old goat licker had done to Ginny and me," Harry said, opening his eyes to glare at Death with all the fury he could muster. His voice was steady despite the pain, strengthened by absolute certainty. "You should know how his manipulations affected our children in the long run. Love potions in the butterbeer, memory charms to make us compatible, compulsion spells to ensure we'd follow his perfect script for the post-war world."

Death's perfect eyebrows rose slightly, the first sign of genuine surprise she'd shown.

"I spent years wondering why my marriage felt like acting in a play written by someone else," Harry continued, forcing himself to stand despite his legs being nothing but burning bone. "Years wondering why my children seemed more like strangers than family, why every happy moment felt hollow and false. It was Draco’s diligence that I found Dumbledore's notes, his detailed plans for my 'proper' post-war life."

Harry stood to his full height, barely towering over Death but meeting her burning gaze without flinching. "I will never subject any children to that again. I will never build a family on a foundation of lies and manipulation, no matter how well-intentioned. And I will NEVER abandon Neville and Draco after everything they've sacrificed to get us this far."

His voice rose to a shout that echoed across the grey plain. "They lost everything— their families, their entire lives—to help me find a way to fix this broken world. Neville lost Hannah and unborn, Draco lost Scorp and possibly his unborn grandchild, my grandchild. I will not take away their chance at happiness because of my own selfish desires!"

Harry took a step closer to Death, his burned and skeletal legs somehow supporting his weight through sheer determination. "You can shove your offer back into the very pit of hell it came from, because I would rather die here and now than betray the people who've stood by me when everyone else gave up!"

Death took a step back, genuine shock flickering across her perfect features. For a moment, the burning white eyes went wide, and Harry caught a glimpse of something almost human in their depths. Then she began to laugh.

It wasn't the terrible, chilling laughter from before. This was different—surprised, delighted, almost... fond? Death doubled over, one hand pressed to her stomach, the other wiping at tears of mirth that leaked from her burning eyes like liquid starlight.

"Your ancestors were in the same position centuries ago," she said between peals of laughter. "When I set their limbs ablaze in this very domain, they could barely keep their senses intact, let alone maintain coherent thought. Most of them were gibbering wrecks within minutes, begging for death to end their suffering."

She straightened, her laughter fading to delighted chuckles. "Yet here you stand, forty-five years old and carrying more scars than most men accumulate in three lifetimes, and you have the presence of mind to not only reject my offer but to insult me while doing it. 'Shove it back into the pit of hell it came from'—oh, that's rich!"

Harry was taken aback by her reaction, and more than a little terrified. He'd just told a being of ultimate cosmic power to go to hell, and she was... amused? In his experience, powerful beings who found defiance entertaining were often the most dangerous of all.

"You are going to end up with me eventually, Peverell," Death said, her voice fond now rather than threatening. "Whether you worship me or curse my name, whether you come to me willingly or kicking and screaming, your story will always end with me. That is the nature of mortality—all roads lead to my domain, in the end."

She moved closer, close enough that Harry could smell something like winter air and old roses clinging to her form. "But I find myself... intrigued by your determination. Your willingness to sacrifice your own happiness for the sake of others. It's been a very long time since I encountered such selfless conviction."

Death's smile returned, but this time it seemed less predatory and more... pleased? "Let me make you a different offer, Harry Potter. A more generous one, in light of your... entertainment value."

Harry's eyebrows shot up in shock, though he tried to keep his expression neutral. Whatever she was about to propose, it couldn't be good. In his experience, supernatural beings never offered better deals out of the goodness of their hearts.

"You stand before me as the master of all three Deathly Hallows," Death continued, beginning to pace in a slow circle around Harry's burning form. "The Elder Wand acknowledges you as its true master, the Resurrection Stone came to you willingly, and the Invisibility Cloak has been yours by right of blood for decades. Such mastery has not been achieved since your ancestor first tricked me into creating the Hallows in the first place."

She stopped in front of him, those burning white eyes boring into his soul. "In recognition of that mastery, and in appreciation for your courage in standing against me despite your obvious pain, I will allow you and your friends to travel back in time. All three of you, with your memories intact, with your knowledge of what is to come."

Harry's heart began to race, hope and suspicion warring in his chest. "And the catch?"

Death's expression shifted to mock innocence, but the predatory gleam never left her eyes. "Moreover," she continued as if he hadn't spoken, "I will impart to you the complete magic of possessing the Deathly Hallows. My own power, filtered through artifacts of my creation, made available to a mortal for the first time in history."

The implications hit Harry like a physical blow. The power of Death herself, channeled through the Hallows. He would be able to do more than just save his friends—he could reshape the entire magical world, prevent both wars, maybe even find a way to defeat Death herself someday.

"What," Harry asked slowly, "do you want in return?"

Death's mock innocence vanished, replaced by a smile that was pure predator. Her white teeth gleamed in the grey light of her domain, and when she spoke, her voice carried the weight of eternity itself.

"Entertain me, Harry Potter," she said, stepping close enough that her cold breath touched his face. She reached up and cupped his face between her cold hands, her touch both gentle and terrifying. Harry tried to pull away, but found himself frozen in place by more than just her grip. Her burning white eyes seemed to look directly into his soul, reading every thought, every fear, every desperate hope he'd carried for twenty-seven years.

Before Harry could respond, before he could even fully process what she was offering, Death pressed her lips to his.

The kiss was like being struck by lightning, like falling into an arctic ocean, like touching the heart of a star. Cold fire raced through Harry's veins, rewriting his very essence at the molecular level. He felt his burned limbs regenerating, flesh and muscle rebuilding themselves around the bones, but that was nothing compared to the unbearable heat that flooded into him.

Heat flared through his restored body one final time, and then everything flashed white again.

The ancient stones of Hogwarts seemed to hold their breath in the early morning stillness of Christmas Day. Snow had fallen heavily throughout the night, blanketing the castle grounds in pristine white that sparkled like crushed diamonds in the pale winter sunlight streaming through the frost-etched windows of Gryffindor Tower. The common room was empty save for the gentle crackling of logs in the massive stone fireplace, their orange flames casting dancing shadows across the worn tapestries and faded portraits that lined the circular walls.

Hermione Granger sat curled in one of the overstuffed armchairs nearest the fire, a thick wool blanket wrapped around her shoulders as she watched the flames flicker and pop. She'd been awake for over an hour, unable to sleep past dawn despite having stayed up late the night before, her mind too restless with worry to find proper rest. In her lap sat a small, carefully wrapped package—Harry's Christmas gift, which she'd purchased weeks ago during their last visit to Hogsmeade, back before everything had gone so terribly wrong.

The memory of that day still made her stomach clench with a mixture of anger and heartbreak. The brutal revelation that Sirius Black—the mass murderer who had escaped from Azkaban, the man they'd all been taught to fear—was Harry's godfather had hit her best friend like a physical blow. She'd watched the color drain from Harry's face as Professor McGonagall had delivered the news with her typical brisk efficiency, watched his green eyes go distant and hollow as the implications sank in.

For nearly a week now, Harry had been like a ghost of himself. He picked at his meals, barely consuming enough to keep a bird alive. During classes, he stared out windows with unseeing eyes, his usual quick responses replaced by distracted nods and half-hearted shrugs. Even when he smiled—which was rare—it never reached his eyes, never carried the warmth that had drawn her and Ron to him in the first place.

The sound of footsteps on the boys' dormitory stairs drew her from her brooding. Hermione looked up to see Harry descending slowly, his messy black hair even more disheveled than usual, his too-large pajamas hanging loose on his thin frame. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his skin had taken on an unhealthy pallor that worried her more than she cared to admit.

"Merry Christmas, Harry," she said softly, rising from her chair and crossing to him with arms outstretched. The blanket slipped from her shoulders, forgotten in her concern for her friend.

Harry paused at the bottom of the stairs, seeming almost surprised to see her there. For a moment, his green eyes focused on her face with something approaching his old attentiveness, and Hermione felt a flicker of hope in her chest.

"Merry Christmas, Hermione," he replied, his voice hoarse from disuse. He accepted her hug awkwardly, his arms coming up to pat her back with the mechanical precision of someone going through the motions. His embrace felt hollow, like hugging a scarecrow—all the right shapes but none of the warmth that should have been there.

Hermione held on perhaps a moment longer than necessary, trying to pour some of her own strength into her friend through the simple contact. When she finally pulled back, she studied his face intently, noting the way his gaze seemed to slide away from hers, the way his shoulders hunched inward as if he were trying to make himself smaller.

"I have something for you," she said, trying to inject some cheer into her voice despite the weight in her chest. She reached for the small wrapped box she'd left on the nearby table, her fingers trembling slightly as she presented it to him. "I bought it before... well, before everything happened. I hope you like it."

Harry took the package with the same mechanical precision he'd shown during their hug, turning it over in his hands as if he'd never seen wrapping paper before. The gift felt almost insignificant in his palms—just a small jewelry box wrapped in deep green paper that matched his eyes, tied with a simple gold ribbon that Hermione had spent far too long getting just right.

"You didn't have to get me anything," Harry said quietly, his thumb tracing the edge of the ribbon. "I didn't... I haven't gotten you anything in return."

"Don't be silly," Hermione replied, though her heart ached at the defeated tone in his voice. "Just open it, please. I think... I hope it might help, even just a little."

Harry's fingers worked at the ribbon with unusual slowness, as if he were afraid of what he might find inside. The paper fell away to reveal a small wooden box, its surface polished to a warm honey glow. Inside, nestled in soft black velvet, lay a pendant on a simple silver chain. The centerpiece was what appeared to be a cloudy piece of glass set within a delicately carved wooden frame, the whole thing no larger than a Galleon.

Harry lifted the necklace from its box, furrowing his brow as he examined the pendant more closely. The glass seemed to swirl with internal mists, its surface opaque and unrevealing. He looked up at Hermione with genuine confusion, the first real emotion she'd seen from him in days.

"I'm not sure how..." he began, holding the pendant up between them.

"Here, let me show you," Hermione said, pulling her wand from the pocket of her dressing gown. She tapped the pendant gently with the tip, speaking a soft incantation under her breath.

The cloudy glass immediately cleared, and a soft, warm light began to emanate from within. Harry gasped as an image materialized in the pendant's surface—his parents, young and radiant, holding each other close in what appeared to be their backyard. Lily Potter's red hair caught the sunlight like spun copper, and her green eyes—so like Harry's own—sparkled with joy as she gazed up at her husband. James Potter had his arms wrapped protectively around his wife, one hand resting on the visible swell of her pregnant belly. Both of them were laughing at something beyond the frame of the image, their faces alight with the kind of happiness that seemed to make the very air around them glow.

Harry's breath caught in his throat, and Hermione saw his fingers tighten around the pendant until his knuckles went white.

"There's more," she said softly, tapping the pendant again.

The image shifted, dissolving like mist before reforming into a different scene. This time it showed Harry himself, flanked by Hermione and Ron, all three of them grinning at the camera with the carefree abandon of childhood. It was a photo Colin Creevey had taken at the end of their second year, shortly after the whole Chamber of Secrets ordeal had been resolved. Harry's hair was even messier than usual, and he had a streak of dirt across one cheek, but his smile was genuine and bright. Ron had chocolate smudges around his mouth from the celebration feast, while Hermione's usually perfect hair was slightly mussed from their earlier adventures. All three of them looked young and happy and whole.

"A reminder of your parents," Hermione said, her voice barely above a whisper, "and that Ron and I are always there for you, no matter what happens. No matter what we might learn about the past or what challenges we might face in the future."

Harry stared at the pendant for a long moment, his green eyes filling with tears that he stubbornly refused to let fall. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, and when he finally spoke, his voice was thick with emotion.

"Thanks, 'Mione," he managed, the words coming out rough and broken. "This is... it's perfect. I don't know what I did to deserve friends like you and Ron."

"You don't have to do anything to deserve friendship, Harry," Hermione replied firmly, though she felt her own eyes beginning to water. "That's rather the point of it."

The moment was interrupted by the thunderous sound of footsteps on the dormitory stairs, accompanied by Ron's voice echoing down from above.

"Bloody brilliant Christmas morning, this is! Mum sent enough food to feed half the castle, and— Oh." Ron appeared at the bottom of the stairs, his red hair sticking up at impossible angles and his freckled face still creased with sleep. He wore a pair of maroon pajamas that had clearly seen better days, and he was carrying what appeared to be a large tin of his mother's homemade fudge.

"Where's my gift?" he asked without preamble, his eyes lighting up as he spotted the wrapping paper scattered around Harry and Hermione. "I mean, er, Merry Christmas and all that, but seriously—presents?"

Hermione felt her jaw clench with irritation. Trust Ron to completely miss the emotional weight of the moment and focus entirely on material concerns. She threw him an annoyed glance, fighting the urge to hex him or at the very least stomp on his foot with all the force she could muster.

"Merry Christmas to you too, Ron," she said through gritted teeth, reaching for a second, slightly larger package she'd left on the mantelpiece. "Here. I hope you appreciate the thought that went into it."

"Merry Christmas, Hermione," Ron replied, accepting the gift with considerably more enthusiasm than Harry had shown. He tore through the wrapping paper with the efficiency of long practice, revealing another jewelry box similar to Harry's but slightly larger. Inside was a pendant much like Harry's, though this one showed only the photograph of the three friends together, with an empty space clearly designed to hold a second image.

"This one has just the photo of the three of us," Hermione explained, her voice still carrying a note of irritation, "and there's an empty slot where you can add another photograph of your choosing. Perhaps something of your family, or... well, whatever you think is important."

"Brilliant!" Ron exclaimed, though Hermione noticed he barely glanced at the actual photograph before pocketing the pendant. Almost immediately, his attention shifted elsewhere as he rubbed his stomach dramatically. "I'm absolutely starving. Haven't eaten since last night, and Mum's fudge isn't nearly enough to tide me over until proper breakfast."

'When are you not hungry?' Hermione thought viciously, her eyebrow twitching with barely suppressed annoyance. 'He really needs to learn when to speak and what to say. Here Harry is, clearly struggling with everything that's happened, and all Ron can think about is his stomach.'

Harry, who had been fastening the chain of his new necklace around his neck, looked up at Ron's complaint with something that might have been amusement flickering in his eyes. It was the first genuine emotion Hermione had seen from him in days, even if it was tinged with exhaustion.

"Come on then," Harry said, his voice still quiet but carrying a bit more strength than before. "Let's go down to breakfast. I could probably manage something small."

He shrugged and gestured for Ron to lead the way, and the three friends began making their way through the portrait hole and down the moving staircases toward the Great Hall. The castle was eerily quiet, with most of the students having returned home for the holidays. Their footsteps echoed off the stone walls, accompanied by the distant howling of wind through the upper towers.

As they walked, Hermione found herself studying Harry's profile, noting the way he absently rubbed at his chest every few steps. It was a gesture she'd noticed him making more frequently over the past week, and it worried her more than she wanted to admit.

"Are you alright, Harry?" she asked as they paused on one of the landings, waiting for a staircase to swing back into position. Her voice was carefully casual, but she couldn't quite hide her concern. "I mean, with everything about Sirius being... your godfather and all?"

Harry stopped walking entirely, turning to look at her for a long moment. In that pause, Hermione could swear she saw all the emotions he'd been keeping carefully hidden—the hurt, the confusion, the terrible sense of betrayal that had been eating at him since that awful day in Hogsmeade. His green eyes, usually so guarded lately, became windows into a soul that was struggling under the weight of too much pain.

"I don't know," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. His hand came up to rub at his chest again, the gesture seemingly unconscious. "Sirius was supposed to be my father's best friend. Everyone says they were like brothers—closer than brothers, even. Professor McGonagall said there were never two people more devoted to each other than James Potter and Sirius Black."

The words hung in the air between them, heavy with implication. Harry didn't need to voice the rest of his thoughts for Hermione to understand them perfectly. If Sirius could betray James—his best friend, his brother in all but blood—then what did that say about friendship in general? What did it say about trust, about loyalty, about all the bonds that Harry had thought were unbreakable?

Hermione felt her heart clench with sympathy and fierce protectiveness. She could see exactly where Harry's thoughts were leading him, could practically watch him pulling away from her and Ron in a desperate attempt to protect himself from further betrayal. The idea that he might think she or Ron could ever turn on him the way Sirius had supposedly turned on James made her feel physically ill.

"I'll never betray you, Harry," she said with absolute steel in her voice, stopping outside the massive oak doors of the Great Hall to face him fully. Her brown eyes blazed with conviction as she spoke, every word carefully chosen and delivered with the weight of an unbreakable vow. "Even if someone threatened my life, even if they threatened my parents, even if they promised me everything I've ever wanted—I would never, ever turn against you. Neither would Ron, no matter how thoughtless he can be sometimes."

Harry's expression softened slightly, and for a moment she thought she saw a glimmer of his old self in his green eyes. But then his hand went to his chest again, rubbing at what appeared to be nothing, and worry crept back into her thoughts.

"Are you feeling alright physically?" she asked, pointing to his chest. "You keep doing that—rubbing there. Are you in pain?"

"Just an annoying itch," Harry replied, though his voice lacked conviction. "It's been bothering me on and off for a few days. Probably just dry skin from the cold weather."

He pushed open the doors to the Great Hall before Hermione could press him further, and she followed quietly, her mind racing with concern. Something about Harry's dismissive answer didn't sit right with her, but she couldn't quite put her finger on what was wrong.

The Great Hall was a breathtaking sight, even more magnificent than usual in its Christmas finery. Twelve towering Christmas trees lined the walls, each one decorated with thousands of candles that cast dancing light across the stone walls and vaulted ceiling. The trees themselves were adorned with everything from tiny icicles that never melted to miniature golden snitches that fluttered their wings lazily among the branches. Garlands of holly and mistletoe draped from every surface, filling the air with the rich scent of evergreen and winter magic.

The four house tables had been replaced with a single long table set perpendicular to where the staff table usually sat, creating an intimate setting for the few dozen students and staff members who had remained at the castle for the holidays. The table was laden with more food than the remaining occupants could possibly consume—roasted turkeys and glazed hams, bowls of roasted vegetables that steamed in the cool air, platters of mince pies and Christmas pudding, and pitchers of pumpkin juice and mulled cider.

Professor Dumbledore sat at the head of the table, resplendent in robes of deep purple decorated with silver stars that seemed to move and twinkle of their own accord. His long silver beard was braided with tiny bells that chimed softly whenever he moved, and his blue eyes twinkled with their usual merriment as he surveyed the hall. Beside him sat Professor McGonagall, looking unusually relaxed in dark green robes instead of her usual tartan, though her expression remained characteristically stern as she supervised the remaining students.

Professor Snape sat several seats down, his black robes a stark contrast to the festive atmosphere around him. His dark eyes swept the hall with their usual cold intensity, lingering briefly on Harry as the trio entered. Professor Lupin was conspicuously absent—probably due to the recent full moon, Hermione realized with a pang of sympathy for their Defense teacher.

Madam Pomfrey bustled between the kitchen doors, directing house-elves in the placement of various dishes and occasionally pausing to check on students who looked particularly pale or tired. Her usual no-nonsense demeanor was softened slightly by the festive atmosphere, though her sharp eyes missed nothing as she evaluated the health and wellbeing of everyone present.

Ron immediately made a beeline for the nearest empty seats, his eyes already locked on a particularly appealing platter of roasted chicken. Harry followed more slowly, still rubbing absently at his chest, while Hermione brought up the rear, her worry growing with each passing moment.

Just as Harry reached for an empty chair, preparing to sit down for what would hopefully be his first proper meal in days, he suddenly clutched at his chest with both hands. The casual, absent gesture transformed in an instant into something desperate and panicked, his fingers clawing at the fabric of his shirt as if trying to tear something away.

A scream erupted from Harry's throat—not a shout of surprise or even ordinary pain, but a sound of such raw, primal agony that it seemed to tear through the very air of the Great Hall. It was the kind of scream that spoke of suffering beyond anything human beings were meant to endure, a sound that bypassed the ears and struck directly at the most primitive parts of the brain responsible for recognizing mortal danger.

Hermione and Ron barely managed to catch Harry as his legs gave out beneath him, his entire body convulsing as wave after wave of apparent agony wracked his thin frame. His green eyes rolled back in his head, showing mostly whites, while his mouth remained open in that terrible, continuous scream.

The effect on the Great Hall was instantaneous and dramatic. Every conversation stopped mid-sentence, every fork paused halfway to its destination, every eye turned toward the writhing figure of the Boy Who Lived. The festive atmosphere evaporated as if it had never existed, replaced by a tension so thick it seemed to press against the walls themselves.

From the head table, both Professor Snape and Professor Dumbledore rose to their feet simultaneously, their faces grim with concern and something that might have been recognition. Dumbledore's blue eyes had lost their usual twinkle, replaced by a sharp, calculating intensity that Hermione had rarely seen before. Snape's expression was unreadable, but his dark eyes were fixed on Harry with an intensity that was almost unsettling.

Professor McGonagall was already moving, her usual brisk stride carrying her swiftly around the table toward the struggling boy. Madam Pomfrey appeared as if from nowhere, her medical bag clutched in one hand while her wand was already in the other, diagnostic spells forming on her lips even as she pushed through the crowd of concerned students.

The whispers started almost immediately, a low buzz of speculation and concern that filled the hall like the drone of angry insects.

"What's happening to him?"

"Is he having some sort of fit?"

"Maybe it's his scar again, like in second year..."

"Could it be You-Know-Who?"

But some of the whispers were less kind, carrying the cruel speculation that seemed to follow Harry wherever he went.

"Trying to grab attention again, isn't he?"

"Always has to be the center of everything, that one."

"I'm not sure this time, though—whatever's happening looks genuinely painful..."

"Does he never run out of tricks to get everyone looking at him?"

"Maybe if he didn't go looking for trouble all the time..."

Hermione wanted to turn and hex every single person making such callous comments, but her attention was completely focused on her best friend, who was still writhing in apparent agony in her and Ron's combined grip. His screams had taken on a quality that made her skin crawl, as if the sound itself carried some kind of wrongness that her magic could sense even if her conscious mind couldn't identify it.

"Harry!" she called desperately, trying to make her voice heard over his continued screaming. "Harry, can you hear me? What's wrong? What's happening?"

But Harry showed no sign of hearing her. His eyes had rolled back so far that only the whites were visible, and his entire body was rigid with tension, every muscle locked in what appeared to be unbearable strain. Sweat poured down his face despite the cool temperature of the hall, and his skin had taken on an unhealthy grayish pallor that made Hermione's stomach twist with fear.

Professor McGonagall reached them first, her usual composed demeanor cracking slightly as she took in Harry's condition. "What happened?" she demanded, her Scottish accent thick with concern. "Was he complaining of pain? Any symptoms beforehand?"

"He said his chest was itching," Hermione replied quickly, not taking her eyes off Harry's face. "He's been rubbing at it for days, but he said it was nothing serious. Then he just... this just started."

Madam Pomfrey arrived seconds later, immediately kneeling beside Harry and beginning to cast diagnostic charms with practiced efficiency. The tip of her wand glowed with soft blue light as she waved it over his convulsing form, her face growing more puzzled and concerned with each passing second.

"I can't find anything wrong with him," she muttered, more to herself than to anyone else. "No curse damage, no signs of poisoning, no obvious magical trauma. His vital signs are elevated from the distress, but there's no underlying cause that I can—"

She stopped mid-sentence, her eyes widening in shock as something began to happen to the air around Harry. The temperature in the Great Hall, already cool due to the winter weather, began to drop precipitously. But this wasn't the gradual chill of changing seasons or even the sharp bite of winter wind—this was something else entirely, something that seemed to leach warmth not just from the air but from the very souls of everyone present.

Hermione had been close to Dementors before, had felt their soul-sucking coldness during the Quidditch match earlier in the term and during their encounters around the school grounds. But this was different—infinitely worse. If Dementors brought the cold of despair and hopelessness, this was the cold of absolute ending, of extinction itself. It was the kind of cold that existed in the spaces between stars, in the depths of forgotten tombs, in the final moments before death claimed its due.

Every person in the Great Hall felt it simultaneously—a bone-deep chill that made their teeth chatter and their breath mist in the suddenly frigid air. Several of the younger students whimpered with terror, while others began backing toward the doors in instinctive flight from whatever was happening.

But the cold was only the beginning.

Magic began to emanate from Harry's still-convulsing form—not the warm golden glow of typical wizarding magic, not even the sickly green of dark curses, but something the color of freshly fallen snow, of bleached bone, of starlight seen through winter clouds. It started as tiny wisps, barely visible threads of white energy that seemed to seep from his skin like morning mist rising from a lake.

Madam Pomfrey, who had been in the middle of casting another diagnostic charm, suddenly flinched backward as if she'd been burned. Her wand clattered to the floor as she stared in horror at the white magic beginning to swirl around Harry's body.

"What in Merlin's name..." she breathed, her professional composure finally cracking entirely.

The wisps of white magic grew stronger, more substantial, until they began to coalesce into visible streams of energy that danced around Harry like living things. The magic moved with purpose, though what that purpose might be was entirely unclear to anyone watching. It seemed both beautiful and terrifying, like watching a blizzard form in miniature or observing the aurora borealis through a telescope.

A quick glance toward the head table showed that even Professor Dumbledore looked genuinely shocked by what he was witnessing. The elderly wizard's face had gone pale beneath his silver beard, and his blue eyes were wide with what might have been recognition—or perhaps fear. Whatever was happening to Harry was clearly beyond even the Headmaster's extensive experience and knowledge.

But the true horror began when the white magic suddenly blazed brighter, no longer content to drift in gentle wisps around Harry's body. The energy erupted outward like a solar flare, completely enveloping the boy in a cocoon of brilliant white light that hurt to look at directly. The light pulsed with its own rhythm, like a massive heartbeat made visible, and with each pulse the supernatural cold grew more intense.

Hermione watched in helpless terror as Harry's emerald eyes, still rolled back in his head, began to change. The familiar green that had always reminded her of summer leaves and fresh grass started to drain away, replaced by the same brilliant white as the magic surrounding him. It was like watching the life itself leak out of him, leaving behind something alien and otherworldly.

But perhaps most terrifying of all was the reaction of the Dementors.

The soul-sucking creatures that had been patrolling the grounds of Hogwarts all term, supposedly to capture Sirius Black but serving mainly to terrify students and staff alike, suddenly began screaming. Not the rattling breath or whispered voices they usually made, but actual screams—sounds of raw, primal terror that no one present had ever heard from the supposedly emotionless creatures.

The screaming was so loud, so filled with genuine fear, that every window in the Great Hall—and quite possibly throughout the entire castle—shattered simultaneously. Glass rained down from the high windows like deadly snow, forcing everyone to duck and cover as razor-sharp fragments scattered across the floor and tables.

But even through the chaos of breaking glass and screaming Dementors, even through the supernatural cold and the blinding white light, Harry's own screams continued to rise above everything else. His voice had taken on an inhuman quality, as if whatever was happening to him had moved beyond ordinary human experience and into something else entirely.

The white magic blazing around him reached a crescendo that made the very air in the Great Hall vibrate with power. Magic itself seemed to be responding to whatever force was working through Harry, as if the fundamental forces that governed the wizarding world were being rewritten in real time.

And then, as suddenly as it had begun, everything stopped.

The white magic vanished like a snuffed candle. The supernatural cold dissipated, leaving behind only the normal winter chill of the Scottish Highlands. The screaming of the Dementors cut off abruptly, replaced by an silence so complete it was almost deafening after the cacophony that had preceded it.

Harry's eyes, which had been burning with that terrible white light, suddenly shifted back to their normal emerald green. But the transformation lasted only a moment before they rolled completely backwards, showing only the whites, and his entire body went limp like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

He collapsed into Hermione's arms, his breathing shallow and irregular, his skin still pale but no longer carrying that deathly grayish tinge. The necklace she had given him that morning glinted against his throat, the only normal thing in a scene that had transcended anything remotely resembling ordinary experience.

The Great Hall remained frozen in stunned silence, everyone staring at the unconscious boy who had just demonstrated power beyond anything they had ever witnessed or imagined possible. In the space of perhaps five minutes, Harry Potter had somehow channeled magic that could terrify creatures of pure evil and shatter glass throughout an entire castle.

And no one—not even Albus Dumbledore himself—had the faintest idea what they had just witnessed, or what it might mean for the wizarding world as a whole.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

1993
Hogwarts

The first sensation that crawled back into Harry's consciousness was fire. Not the warm, comforting flame of a hearth, but something that seemed to originate from his very bones, spreading outward like molten metal through his veins. His arms twitched involuntarily as awareness returned in slow, torturous waves. Every muscle fiber screamed in protest, as if he'd been struck by lightning and left to smolder from within.

The sterile smell of the hospital wing filled his nostrils - a mixture of healing potions, clean linens, and the faint underlying scent of magical remedies that always seemed to hover around Madam Pomfrey's domain. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear the soft bubbling of cauldrons and the gentle clink of glass vials being arranged on shelves.

Through the haze of pain and confusion, fragments of memory began to surface. A woman - impossible, ethereal, terrifying. White hair that seemed to move of its own accord, flowing like liquid moonlight. Eyes that held no color at all, just endless white depths that had looked right through his soul. And she had kissed him. Death herself had pressed her lips to his and sent him spiraling back through time.

The memory hit him like a physical blow, and Harry's eyes snapped open as he bolted upright in the narrow hospital bed. His heart hammered against his ribs as the full weight of his situation crashed down upon him. He was back.

The hospital wing looked exactly as he remembered - tall windows letting in the weak sunlight, rows of pristine white beds stretching across the room, and the familiar sight of Madam Pomfrey's office tucked away in the corner. The walls were adorned with moving portraits of famous healers, their painted eyes following his movement with mild interest.

Before he could properly orient himself or form his next coherent thought, Harry found himself knocked backward as a ball of bushy brown hair crashed into his midsection with surprising force.

"Oh, Harry!" Hermione's voice was muffled against his chest, thick with tears and relief. Her arms wrapped around him in a grip that spoke of hours spent worrying, of fears that he might never wake up. "Please, please don't scare us like that again. We thought... we thought we might lose you."

The familiar weight of her embrace, the scent of parchment and ink that always seemed to cling to her robes, the way her hair tickled his chin - it was all so achingly familiar that Harry felt his throat constrict with emotion. The last time he had seen Hermione, she had been walking away from him at Ministry’s International Apparition Point, heading to Norway with Ron for what they had believed would be a simple open and close trial against the Obscura Order. He had never seen her again.

"Blimey, mate," Ron's voice came from beside the bed, rougher than usual with barely suppressed worry. Harry's best friend stood there awkwardly, his red hair disheveled as if he'd been running his hands through it repeatedly. His freckled face was pale, and dark circles under his eyes suggested he hadn't slept well. "You proper scared us there. Thought you were going to... well, we didn't know what to think."

Harry looked at Ron - really looked at him - taking in the familiar crooked nose, the way he shifted his weight from foot to foot when he was nervous, the concerned frown that creased his forehead. This was Ron at thirteen, before the weight of war had settled on his shoulders, before he had learned to hide his emotions behind jokes and bravado.

"What happened?" Harry asked, his voice coming out as barely more than a croak. His throat felt raw, as if he had indeed been screaming. The question was partly genuine curiosity about what his friends had witnessed, and partly a desperate need to hear their voices, to confirm that this wasn't just another cruel dream.

Hermione pulled back slightly, her brown eyes red-rimmed and worried. She and Ron exchanged a look - one of those silent communications that had always passed between them when they were trying to decide how much to tell him.

"Well," Ron began, running a hand through his hair and leaving it sticking up at odd angles, "you were walking in the Great Hall, right?" Ron shifted again, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his jumper. "Anyway, you were fine one moment, and then suddenly you just... you grabbed your chest and started screaming. Not like when you have those dreams about You-Know-Who, this was different. Worse. It was like..." He paused, struggling to find the words. "Like something was tearing you apart from the inside."

Harry felt a chill run down his spine that had nothing to do with the cool air of the hospital wing. He barely managed to keep his expression neutral, even as his mind reeled with the implications. His friends had witnessed Death's magic working through him, had seen him in the grip of forces beyond anything they could understand.

"Then this cold came," Hermione continued, her voice dropping to almost a whisper. She pulled her robes tighter around herself, as if remembering the sensation. "It wasn't like the cold from Dementors, Harry. It was... deeper. Like it was freezing our souls. The fire in the Great Hall actually went out, and ice started forming on the windows even though it's not that cold outside."

"The whole Great Hall went mad," Ron added, his voice gaining strength as he warmed to the tale. "Everyone was running around, screaming. Some of the younger students started crying. Even the older ones looked terrified. Fred and George tried to make jokes, but their voices were shaking."

"And then the magic started," Hermione said, her academic mind clearly still struggling to process what she had witnessed. "It was coming out of you in waves, Harry. White light, but not like any spell I've ever seen. It was... ancient. Powerful. The very air seemed to vibrate with it."

Ron nodded vigorously, his blue eyes wide with the memory. "Your eyes changed too, mate. Went from green to completely white, like you weren't even you anymore. For a moment there, I thought... I thought something had possessed you."

Harry's jaw clenched slightly as he realized what had happened. Death's magic, flooding through him, marking him permanently as something other than entirely human. The thought should have terrified him, but after everything he had been through in his original timeline, it simply felt like another burden to bear.

"The portraits in the Great Hall were screaming," Ron continued, seemingly unable to stop now that he'd started talking. "She kept shouting about dark magic and demanding someone fetch McGonagall. Half the portraits in the corridor were either fleeing their frames or having hysterics."

Harry gently patted Hermione's head, the gesture automatic and comforting. Her hair was exactly as he remembered - impossible to tame, always escaping from whatever clips or bands she used to try to control it. "I'll take care of myself better, Hermione," he promised, his voice soft and sincere. The words carried more weight than she could possibly know - a vow from someone who had learned the hard way what it meant to lose the people he loved.

Hermione nodded against his shoulder, then hugged him tightly again, as if afraid he might disappear if she let go. Ron stood there looking like he wanted desperately to join in the embrace but was too embarrassed by the display of emotion. Harry caught his eye and gave him a small nod of understanding, which seemed to relax his friend's shoulders slightly.

"The Dementors were terrified!" Ron burst out suddenly, as if he'd been holding this piece of information back and could no longer contain it. "Can you believe that? Those soul-sucking monsters that everyone's afraid of, and they were the ones running scared. I heard Professor McGonagall telling Dumbledore that they haven't come within a mile of the castle since what happened to you this morning."

'Of course they wouldn't,' Harry thought grimly. 'After encountering Death herself, I suppose Dementors would seem about as threatening as Cornish Pixies.' The irony wasn't lost on him - the creatures that fed on despair and hopelessness, fleeing from someone who had literally bargained with Death itself.

The sound of brisk footsteps on the stone floor announced Madam Pomfrey's approach before Harry saw her. The matron rounded the corner from her office, her usually pristine white apron showing small stains from various potions, her graying hair pulled back in its characteristic tight bun. Her sharp eyes immediately focused on Harry with the intensity of someone who had been monitoring his condition for hours.

"Ah, Mr. Potter!" Her voice carried its usual mixture of professional concern and barely contained exasperation - the tone she reserved for students who found themselves in her care more often than was strictly normal. "I'm glad to see you're finally awake. You quite gave us all a scare this morning."

She moved with practiced efficiency, gently but firmly prying Hermione away from Harry's bedside. "Now then, Miss Granger, I need to examine my patient properly. You can hover and fret after I've determined that Mr. Potter isn't going to have another episode."

Madam Pomfrey raised her wand and began casting a series of diagnostic charms, the tip glowing with different colors as each spell revealed different aspects of Harry's condition. Her eyebrows, already drawn together in concentration, seemed to furrow deeper with each passing second. Harry watched her face carefully, noting the way her lips pressed into a thin line and how her free hand unconsciously tightened on her wand.

"What's wrong, Madam Pomfrey?" Hermione asked, her voice high with renewed anxiety. She had always been good at reading people's expressions, and the healer's growing concern was impossible to miss. "Is Harry all right? Is there something seriously wrong with him?"

Ron stepped closer to the bed, his earlier awkwardness forgotten in the face of potential bad news. "He looks all right to me," he said, though his voice lacked conviction. "I mean, he's awake and talking and everything."

Madam Pomfrey finished her diagnostic spells and lowered her wand, but the frown remained fixed on her weathered face. She inhaled deeply, the sound audible in the quiet hospital wing, and shook her head slowly.

"I can't say I understand what's happened," she admitted, her professional demeanor slipping slightly to reveal genuine puzzlement. "The diagnostic charms are showing results that shouldn't be possible. Mr. Potter, your magical capacity appears to have nearly tripled overnight."

The silence that followed this pronouncement was deafening. Harry could hear Ron's sharp intake of breath, could see Hermione's eyes widen with a mixture of fascination and worry. He fought to keep his own expression appropriately confused and concerned.

"Tripled?" Hermione's voice was barely above a whisper. "But that's... that's not possible, is it? Magical capacity is determined at birth. It can't just increase like that."

"Under normal circumstances, you would be absolutely correct, Miss Granger," Madam Pomfrey replied grimly. "Which is why I must ask..." Her eyes narrowed as they fixed on Harry, and her voice took on a sharp, dangerous edge. "Have you been practicing any dark rituals, Potter?"

The accusation hung in the air like a physical presence. Ron's mouth dropped open in shock, while Hermione took an involuntary step backward. Harry could feel their eyes on him, could sense the sudden tension that had entered the room.

'If only you knew,' Harry thought with bitter amusement. 'Summoning Death herself is probably several levels beyond what most people would classify as dark magic.' Aloud, he said, "I know better than that, Madam Pomfrey. I wouldn't even know where to begin with something like that."

The healer studied his face intently for a long moment, her experienced eyes searching for any sign of deception. Harry met her gaze steadily, drawing on years of practice at hiding his true thoughts and emotions.

Finally, she nodded slowly. "I believe you," she said, and Harry felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. "Even with this inexplicable increase in your magical power, you show no traces of the dark magic that clings to a person after performing such rituals. Dark magic leaves a... residue, you might say. A stain on the soul that experienced healers can detect. You show no such signs."

"Then what could have caused it?" Hermione asked, her scholarly curiosity overriding her worry. "If it wasn't dark magic, then what else could triple someone's magical capacity?"

Madam Pomfrey's expression grew even more troubled. "I honestly don't know, Miss Granger. In my forty years as a healer, I've never seen anything like it. The closest comparison might be the magical surges that sometimes occur during periods of extreme emotional trauma, but those are temporary and nowhere near this magnitude."

She turned back to Harry, her professional mask slipping back into place. "What I can tell you is that both the Headmaster and Professor Snape have been working tirelessly to determine what happened to you. They've been locked in their respective offices since this morning, researching every possible explanation."

Harry's stomach clenched at the mention of Snape's involvement. The Potions Master's skills in detecting magical residues were legendary, and Harry wondered how long it would be before his former professor began asking uncomfortable questions.

"Professor Snape seemed particularly... motivated to find answers," Madam Pomfrey continued, and Harry caught the slight hesitation in her voice. "Though I suspect his concern has less to do with your wellbeing and more to do with ensuring that whatever happened wasn't the result of some potion mishap in his classroom."

She moved to the foot of Harry's bed and picked up a clipboard, making notes with a quill that seemed to write on its own. "Now then, you two," she said, addressing Ron and Hermione without looking up from her writing. "Mr. Potter needs rest, and I need to monitor him for any further unusual magical fluctuations. Visiting hours are over."

"But—" Hermione started to protest, then seemed to think better of it when Madam Pomfrey fixed her with a stern look.

"No arguments, Miss Granger. Mr. Potter will still be here tomorrow, assuming no further complications arise. And before you ask, yes, this may very well have been an assassination attempt by Sirius Black, which means we need to take every precaution."

The mention of Sirius sent another jolt through Harry's system. In his original timeline, they had discovered his godfather's innocence during the events at the Shrieking Shack. As far as everyone at Hogwarts was concerned, Sirius Black was a dangerous escaped convict bent on killing Harry Potter.

Ron and Hermione exchanged worried glances again. "An assassination attempt?" Ron's voice cracked slightly on the words. "You really think Sirius Black tried to kill Harry with... with whatever that was?"

"We can't rule it out," Madam Pomfrey replied gravely. "There was an unmarked Christmas present delivered to Mr. Potter this morning. The Headmaster has reason to believe that Sirius Black may have used it as a conduit for whatever magic affected your friend."

Harry's mind raced. A Christmas present? He had no memory of receiving anything unusual, but then again, his memories of the original timeline were already beginning to feel distant and hazy, as if viewed through fog.

"What kind of present?" Hermione asked, her analytical mind immediately latching onto this new piece of information.

"A racing broom," Madam Pomfrey answered, causing both Ron and Hermione to gasp. "A Firebolt, to be exact. Quite expensive, and completely anonymous. The Headmaster confiscated it immediately for examination."

Harry felt a surge of mixed emotions. The Firebolt - his beautiful, perfect Firebolt that had been a gift from Sirius. In his original timeline, the revelation that it had come from his godfather had been one of the few bright spots in an otherwise difficult year. Now, it was being treated as evidence of an assassination attempt.

"You'll be staying here until we can confirm that whatever happened to you wasn't the result of some dark curse or magical trap," Madam Pomfrey continued. "The Headmaster wants to be absolutely certain that you're safe before releasing you back to your dormitory."

Ron's face fell. "How long will that take?"

"As long as necessary, Mr. Weasley. Now, both of you, out. Mr. Potter needs his rest, and I have potions to brew."

Reluctantly, Ron and Hermione gathered their things. Hermione gave Harry one last hug, whispering, "We'll be back tomorrow morning, I promise. Try not to worry too much."

Ron clapped him awkwardly on the shoulder. "Yeah, mate. Get some sleep, and try not to have any more magical explosions, yeah? You're giving us all heart attacks."

Harry watched them go, noting the way Hermione kept looking back over her shoulder and how Ron's usually confident stride seemed uncertain. The hospital wing felt impossibly quiet after their departure, filled only with the soft sounds of bubbling cauldrons and the distant whisper of wind against the windows.

Alone with his thoughts, Harry allowed himself to truly process the situation for the first time. He was back in 1993, months earlier than he had planned to return. Neville and Draco were presumably still in their original timeline, unaware that the plan had gone awry. He was completely alone, armed with knowledge of future events but lacking the support system he had counted on.

'I have to contact Nev and Draco quickly before they do something stupid,' he thought with a sigh. He knew that if they had returned to 1993, the pair didn’t exactly have the greatest home lives.

'Hey, seeing the old goat hyperventilate makes for good entertainment.'

The voice came from his right, casual and amused, causing Harry to let out an undignified squeak of terror. He jerked upright so quickly that he nearly fell off the narrow hospital bed, his heart hammering against his ribs as his eyes frantically searched for the source of the voice.

There, sitting in the chair that Ron had occupied just moments before, was Death herself. She looked exactly as she had when he'd first encountered her - ethereally beautiful in a way that hurt to look at directly, with flowing white hair that seemed to move in a breeze that touched nothing else in the room. Her white, pupilless eyes sparkled with amusement at his reaction.

What made the sight even more surreal was Hedwig, perched on the back of the chair beside her. Harry's beloved owl was preening her feathers contentedly, completely oblivious to the cosmic entity sitting inches away from her.

"Mr. Potter!" Madam Pomfrey's voice came from across the room, sharp with concern. "Are you all right? I heard you cry out."

Harry forced himself to calm down, even as his eyes remained fixed on Death's amused expression. "I'm fine," he called back, his voice only slightly strained. "Just... cramped a sore muscle. Nothing to worry about."

He could see Madam Pomfrey's skeptical frown from across the room, but she eventually returned to her potion brewing, muttering something about "difficult patients" and "stress-induced muscle spasms."

"What do you want?" Harry hissed in the lowest whisper he could manage, acutely aware that Madam Pomfrey's hearing was better than most people gave her credit for.

Death's expression shifted to one of mock innocence, and Harry felt a blood vessel strain in his forehead. The being who had upended his entire existence was sitting there looking like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth.

"Sorry," she said, her voice carrying that same amused undertone that grated on Harry's nerves. "I might have underestimated the amount of magic I passed on to you. These things happen when you're dealing with temporal displacement and divine intervention."

"Are you saying that I'm alone right now?" Harry demanded through gritted teeth. "That Neville and Draco won't arrive until July of 1994?"

The silence that followed served as answer enough. Harry felt his heart sink as the full implications hit him. He had been counting on having his friends with him, had built his entire strategy around the three of them working together. Without them, he was just one thirteen-year-old boy with the memories of a much older, much more battle-scarred man.

The sensation of cold fingers running through his hair made him suppress a shudder. Death's touch was like ice, but not unpleasant - more like the shock of diving into a cold lake on a hot day.

"If I had sent you three together, you would have executed your original plan exactly as you discussed it," Death explained, her nails lightly scraping against his scalp in a gesture that was almost maternal. "Where's the entertainment in that? I already know what you intended to do. This way, there are variables. Chaos. The delicious uncertainty of watching you adapt and improvise."

Harry sighed deeply, feeling the weight of responsibility settle on his shoulders like a familiar cloak. He couldn't even bring himself to be properly angry with Death. After everything he had experienced, he understood that beings of her caliber operated on a completely different moral framework than mortals. To her, the fate of nations and the lives of individuals were simply pieces on a cosmic game board.

"How long have you been watching me?" he asked quietly, not really sure he wanted to know the answer.

Death's smile was enigmatic. "Time is a rather fluid concept for beings like myself, Peverell. I've been watching you since before you were born, and I'll be watching you long after you join me permanently."

She gestured toward Hedwig, who had finished preening and was now regarding Harry with bright, intelligent yellow eyes. "There's a reason why owls are considered omens of death in so many cultures, you know. Owls may sometimes be associated with good fortune, but only when they're depicted alongside gods or goddesses."

Harry looked at his beloved pet with new eyes, seeing her not just as the loyal companion who had delivered his letters and provided comfort during his darkest moments, but as something more complex and potentially ominous.

"You wizards use owls for communication," Death continued, "never stopping to consider that they are my familiars, just as much as thestrals, ravens and crows. Every letter delivered, every message sent - you do the work of marking souls for me without even realizing it."

The revelation hit Harry like a physical blow. "You're saying that every owl post is... what? Some kind of supernatural surveillance system?"

"Not surveillance, exactly. More like... gentle observation. And before you ask the question I can see forming in your mind, yes, when your owl chose you in Diagon Alley, it was because I was interested in you. I wanted to see how Fate would play its hand with the last of the Peverell line."

Death's white eyes seemed to gleam with satisfaction. "I must admit, I wasn't disappointed in the slightest. Your story has provided me with more entertainment than I've had in centuries."

Harry glanced at Hedwig again, feeling a complex mixture of emotions. Part of him felt betrayed, as if one of his few sources of genuine comfort had been revealed to be just another manipulation. But a larger part of him realized that it didn't really matter. Hedwig had been loyal and loving regardless of the circumstances that had brought her into his life. The owl's motivations - or Death's - didn't change the reality of their bond.

"I wouldn't call it manipulation, exactly," Death said, and Harry realized with a start that she had been reading his thoughts. "I simply suggested that she might find you interesting. Everything else - the loyalty, the affection, the genuine care - that was all her."

"Can you always read my mind?" Harry asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.

"You have my magic running through your veins now, Peverell. We're connected in ways that go far beyond the normal relationship between mortal and deity. Your thoughts, your emotions, your very soul - they're all an open book to me."

The casual way she said it made Harry's skin crawl. The idea that his most private thoughts were being monitored by a cosmic entity was deeply unsettling, even if that entity had technically saved his life by sending him back in time.

"The old goat is coming, by the way," Death remarked suddenly, her tone shifting to one of amused anticipation. "Along with your greasy-haired Potions Master. This should be quite entertaining."

And with that, she simply vanished, disappearing as if she had never been there at all. The only sign of her presence was a faint chill in the air and the lingering scent of winter wind.

Harry barely had time to compose himself before the heavy doors of the hospital wing swung open with a resonant creak. The sound of measured footsteps on stone announced the arrival of two very different but equally imposing figures.

Professor Dumbledore entered first, his long silver beard and robes flowing behind him like water. Even in the weak December light filtering through the hospital wing's windows, he seemed to radiate a subtle luminescence, as if lit from within by some inner fire. His blue eyes, usually twinkling with gentle humor, were serious and deeply thoughtful behind his half-moon spectacles.

Behind him stalked Professor Snape, his black robes billowing dramatically despite the absence of any discernible breeze. His sallow face was set in its habitual scowl, and his dark eyes glittered with what looked like a mixture of professional curiosity and personal irritation. His long black hair hung like curtains on either side of his face, and Harry noticed that there were faint stains on his sleeves - evidence of hours spent brewing diagnostic potions and conducting magical analyses.

Both men looked grave, their usual antagonism toward each other temporarily set aside in the face of whatever mystery Harry's condition presented. They approached his bed with the deliberate, measured steps of people who had spent considerable time and effort trying to solve a puzzle that continued to elude them.

"Poppy alerted me that you had regained consciousness," Dumbledore said, his voice carrying its usual warm, grandfatherly tone despite the serious circumstances. His eyes swept over Harry's form, taking in every detail with the thoroughness of someone accustomed to seeing beneath surface appearances. "I'm very glad to see that the episode hasn't affected you too deeply."

His gaze shifted briefly to Hedwig, who had taken up residence on the pillow beside Harry's head, her feathers fluffed contentedly. For just a moment, Harry thought he saw something flicker in the Headmaster's eyes - a brief flash of recognition or suspicion that was gone almost before it appeared.

"I don't remember much about what happened to me," Harry replied, keeping his voice carefully neutral. There was no point in seeming too knowledgeable about his condition, and playing the confused victim might actually work in his favor. "Madam Pomfrey told me that I'm much better now than I was this morning, but she also mentioned that my magic had increased substantially."

It was a calculated admission - sharing information that Madam Pomfrey had already revealed while positioning himself as someone who was as puzzled by events as everyone else.

Dumbledore nodded slowly, his fingers absently stroking his long beard. "Indeed. Such dramatic increases in magical capacity are typically associated with certain... unsavory practices. However, Poppy has confirmed that you show no signs of dark magic residue."

Harry caught the way Snape's eyes narrowed at this statement, and he realized that the Potions Master had likely been the one conducting the more intensive examinations. Snape's expertise in detecting magical traces and residues was legendary, and Harry wondered what exactly he had found - or failed to find.

"We have spent considerable time today attempting to determine what might have triggered such an unusual magical event," Dumbledore continued, settling into the chair beside Harry's bed with the careful movements of an elderly man who had been on his feet for too long. "Unfortunately, we have been unable to reach any definitive conclusions."

Snape remained standing, his arms crossed over his chest and his expression skeptical. "The magical residue from the incident is unlike anything in the literature," he said, his voice carrying its usual sneer but with an undertone of genuine professional frustration. "The energy signatures suggest magic of extraordinary antiquity - older than anything I have encountered in thirty years of research."

Harry fought to keep his expression appropriately blank while internally marveling at Snape's perceptiveness. Death's magic would indeed be older than anything recorded in wizarding texts, predating human civilization by eons.

"What we can say with certainty," Dumbledore added, his voice taking on a more serious tone, "is that we cannot rule out the possibility that this was an assassination attempt by Sirius Black."

At the mention of his godfather's name, Harry allowed a flash of fear to cross his features - not entirely feigned, given the complex emotions the name evoked. In his original timeline, the revelation of Sirius's innocence had been one of the most significant events of his third year. Now, sitting here in December, he was forced to play along with the assumption of his godfather's guilt. He had endure Dumbledore, who had always known about Sirius’s innocence but never had lifted a finger to help him.

"The Firebolt that was delivered to you this morning contained magical residue that we have confirmed matches Sirius Black's magical signature," Dumbledore explained, his blue eyes watching Harry's reaction carefully. "However, we found no evidence of curses, hexes, or any other form of harmful magic attached to the broom itself."

"Which leaves us with a mystery," Snape interjected, his black eyes glittering with suspicion. "If Black intended to harm you, Potter, why use a method so indirect and ultimately ineffective? Why send you an expensive racing broom instead of simply cursing it to throw you from a great height?"

Harry could see the logic in Snape's reasoning, and he realized that his former professor was already beginning to suspect that there might be more to the situation than met the eye. Snape had always been too intelligent and too paranoid to accept simple explanations, especially when they involved Harry Potter.

"Perhaps," Dumbledore said thoughtfully, "the broom was intended as a trigger rather than a weapon. Something to activate a curse or magical effect that had been placed on you through other means."

"Regardless of the specific method," Dumbledore continued, his voice taking on a tone of gentle but firm authority, "we cannot ignore the potential danger to your safety, Harry. Until we can be certain that no further attempts will be made on your life, I must ask that you limit your movements around the castle."

Here it came - the restrictions that would make Harry's life more difficult while ostensibly protecting him. But Harry could read between the lines. Dumbledore wasn't just concerned about Sirius Black; he was worried about the implications of Harry's sudden increase in magical power. The old wizard wanted to keep him under observation, to study him and determine whether this development would interfere with whatever long-term plans he had in motion.

"It would be best if you confined yourself to areas where there are always other people present," Dumbledore explained, his tone remaining gentle despite the authoritative nature of his words. "The common room, your classes, and the Great Hall should provide adequate security. The presence of witnesses will deter Sirius from attempting anything further."

The underlying message was clear: Harry would be under constant surveillance, his movements monitored and his activities observed. Dumbledore was ensuring that any changes in Harry's behavior or capabilities would be noted and reported.

"I understand, Headmaster," Harry replied, infusing his voice with the appropriate mixture of gratitude and nervous acceptance. "I'll be careful."

Snape's lips curled into their familiar sneer, though Harry detected something else in his expression - a calculating look that suggested the Potions Master wasn't entirely convinced by the surface explanation of events.

"See that you are, Potter," Snape said, his voice dripping with its usual disdain. "I have spent far too much time today analyzing magical residues and brewing diagnostic potions to have to repeat the exercise because of your carelessness."

But even as he spoke, Harry felt a subtle probing at the edges of his consciousness - a delicate magical touch that was attempting to examine his mental defenses and magical aura. Snape was conducting his own examination, using techniques that went beyond the standard diagnostic charms.

Harry allowed his natural Occlumency barriers to remain in place without strengthening them, presenting the appearance of a normal thirteen-year-old's mental defenses while concealing the deeper layers of his consciousness where his adult memories and experiences resided.

After a moment, Snape's probing withdrew, and Harry caught a flicker of frustration in the man's dark eyes. Whatever the Potions Master had been looking for, he hadn't found it - or at least, he hadn't found anything that he could definitively identify as suspicious.

Dumbledore rose from his chair with the slow, careful movements of advanced age, though Harry knew better than to mistake the Headmaster's apparent frailty for actual weakness. "Take care, Harry," he said, his voice warm with what seemed like genuine concern. "And if you ever feel that something is amiss - if you experience any unusual sensations or magical effects - please don't hesitate to inform Professor McGonagall or myself immediately."

"I will, Professor," Harry replied, meeting the old wizard's penetrating blue gaze with what he hoped was appropriate teenage earnestness.

Snape lingered for a moment longer, his black eyes boring into Harry's with uncomfortable intensity. "Your magical signature has changed, Potter," he said quietly, his voice pitched low enough that it probably wouldn't carry to Madam Pomfrey's office. "Whatever happened to you today, it has left permanent alterations in your magical matrix. I suggest you pay close attention to any new abilities or... impulses... that may manifest."

The warning carried an undertone of something that might have been genuine concern, though it was buried beneath layers of professional disdain and personal animosity. Harry realized that Snape, despite his obvious dislike, was trying to prepare him for potential consequences that the Potions Master suspected might arise from his altered magical state.

"What kind of abilities?" Harry asked, injecting just the right amount of nervous curiosity into his voice.

Snape's expression grew even more forbidding. "That remains to be seen. Magical alterations of this magnitude rarely occur without... side effects. You would do well to monitor yourself carefully and report any unusual developments immediately."

With that ominous pronouncement, Snape turned on his heel and strode toward the door, his black robes billowing behind him like the wings of some great predatory bird. Dumbledore followed more slowly, pausing at the threshold to give Harry one last penetrating look.

"Rest well, my boy," the Headmaster said softly. "Tomorrow will bring new challenges, but I have every confidence in your ability to face them with courage and wisdom."

The heavy doors closed behind them with a resounding boom that seemed to echo through the hospital wing long after the sound had faded. Harry found himself alone once more, surrounded by the familiar sounds of bubbling cauldrons and the soft rustle of Hedwig's feathers as she settled more comfortably on his pillow.

The silence stretched for several minutes, broken only by the distant sound of Madam Pomfrey moving about in her office. Harry could smell the acrid scent of some complex potion brewing, probably something designed to monitor his magical stability throughout the night.

Finally, when he was certain that neither Dumbledore nor Snape would be returning, Harry allowed himself to truly consider his situation. He was trapped in 1993, months before he had planned to arrive, without the support system he had counted on. Worse, his increased magical power and altered signature meant that he would be under constant scrutiny from both the faculty and likely the Ministry as well.

'I'll have to be more careful than I originally planned,' he thought, absently stroking Hedwig's soft feathers. 'Every move I make will be watched and analyzed. I can't afford to reveal knowledge I shouldn't possess or demonstrate abilities that would be impossible for a thirteen-year-old to have developed.'

The weight of responsibility settled on his shoulders like a familiar burden. In his original timeline, he had made so many mistakes, lost so many people. This time, he had the chance to prevent those tragedies, but only if he could navigate the treacherous waters of wizarding politics and Dumbledore's manipulations without revealing his true nature.

Outside the hospital wing's tall windows, snow had begun to fall more heavily, coating the grounds of Hogwarts in a pristine white blanket that sparkled in the light from the castle's many windows. The sight brought back memories of countless winters spent at the school, both good and bad. There had been snowball fights with Ron and Hermione, quiet moments by the fire in Gryffindor Tower, and the simple joy of being somewhere that felt like home for the first time in his life.

But there had also been darker memories associated with winter at Hogwarts. The cold nights spent wondering if Voldemort would return, the fear that had permeated the castle during his later years, the growing sense that nowhere was truly safe. Those experiences belonged to a future that he was now determined to prevent.

Hedwig shifted on the pillow beside him, her yellow eyes regarding him with what seemed like unusual intelligence. Harry found himself wondering how much of what Death had told him was true. Was his beloved owl really one of Death's familiars, or had that been another of the entity's cruel jokes?

"What do you think, girl?" he whispered softly, careful not to attract Madam Pomfrey's attention. "Are you my friend, or are you just another spy keeping watch over me?"

Hedwig tilted her head in that characteristic owl gesture that had always seemed almost human in its expressiveness. Then, to Harry's surprise, she gently nuzzled his cheek with her beak - a gesture of affection that she had never displayed quite so openly before.

'Maybe it doesn't matter,' Harry thought, allowing himself a small smile. 'Whatever brought us together, whatever forces might be watching through her eyes, she's still the same owl who's been my companion through everything.'

The sound of approaching footsteps interrupted his musings. Madam Pomfrey appeared from her office, carrying a steaming goblet that gave off wisps of purple vapor. Her expression was professionally neutral, but Harry caught the way her eyes quickly scanned him for any signs of distress or unusual behavior.

"A Dreamless Sleep potion," she explained, offering him the goblet. "You've had quite enough excitement for one day, and your body needs proper rest to adjust to... whatever changes have occurred in your magical system."

Harry accepted the potion gratefully, recognizing both its practical benefits and its implicit message. Madam Pomfrey wanted him unconscious and stable, where he couldn't have any more mysterious magical episodes that would require explanation.

The potion tasted exactly as he remembered - bitter and slightly metallic, with an aftertaste that lingered unpleasantly on the tongue. But within moments, he could feel drowsiness beginning to cloud his thoughts and relax his muscles.

"Sweet dreams, Mr. Potter," Madam Pomfrey said softly, adjusting his blankets with the practiced efficiency of someone who had been caring for students for decades. "Tomorrow we'll see how you're feeling, and hopefully Professor Dumbledore will have some answers about what happened to you."

As consciousness began to slip away, Harry's last coherent thought was a mixture of determination and dread. Tomorrow would indeed bring new challenges, and he would have to begin the delicate work of changing the future without revealing the terrible knowledge that made such changes necessary.

But for now, surrounded by the familiar sounds and smells of the Hogwarts hospital wing, with Hedwig's warm presence beside him and the soft patter of snow against the windows, Harry Potter allowed himself to rest. The weight of saving the wizarding world could wait until morning.

In the depths of sleep induced by Madam Pomfrey's potion, Harry didn't notice the way Hedwig's yellow eyes briefly flashed to brilliant white before returning to their normal color. Nor did he see the way the owl's head turned to regard the empty air beside his bed, as if acknowledging the presence of something invisible to human sight.

Outside, the snow continued to fall, blanketing Hogwarts in pristine white silence.

The first pale fingers of December sunlight crept through the tall, frost-etched windows of the hospital wing, casting long shadows across the pristine white floors. The weak morning light seemed almost hesitant, as if reluctant to fully illuminate the sterile space where so many students had recovered from various magical mishaps and misadventures. The air carried the familiar scents of healing potions and the faint metallic tang of magical residue that always seemed to linger in places where powerful magic had been performed.

Harry's eyes fluttered open slowly, his consciousness returning like a tide creeping up a beach. The first thing he noticed was the familiar weight of exhaustion that seemed to have settled into his very bones, though it was different from the bone-deep weariness he remembered from his adult life. This was the tiredness of a thirteen-year-old body that had been pushed beyond its limits by forces it wasn't meant to contain.

The second thing he noticed was the figure slumped in the chair beside his bed.

Professor Lupin sat in an awkward position, his tall frame folded uncomfortably in the too-small hospital wing chair. His sandy hair was more disheveled than usual, falling across his face in a way that made him look younger despite the premature lines of weariness etched around his eyes. His robes were wrinkled, as if he had been wearing them for far too long, and there were dark circles under his closed eyes that spoke of sleepless nights and constant worry.

Even in sleep, Remus carried himself with that particular combination of weariness and alertness that Harry remembered so well. It was the posture of someone who had learned to expect danger from any quarter, who could never quite allow himself to fully relax even in the supposed safety of Hogwarts. His hands were folded in his lap, but Harry could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his breathing remained just slightly too shallow for true rest.

Looking at his former professor - his father's friend, the man who had been like a surrogate father to him in so many ways - Harry felt a fresh wave of pain crash over him like a physical blow. The sight of Remus, alive and relatively young and unburdened by the tragedies that would later befall him, brought memories flooding back with unexpected intensity.

Teddy. His godson, with his ever-changing hair and his grandmother's fierce spirit. The boy who had been declared missing in action after the fall of the British Ministry to the Obscura Order, whose fate remained unknown even as Harry had been preparing for his desperate gambit with Death herself. The child who would never know his father if Harry couldn't prevent the events that would lead to Remus's death.

The pain was so sharp, so unexpected, that Harry had to bite down on his lower lip to prevent himself from crying out. He could feel tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, and he blinked rapidly to clear them away. He couldn't afford to break down now, not when so much depended on his ability to play the part of a confused thirteen-year-old.

Hedwig shifted on her perch at the foot of his bed, her bright yellow eyes opening to regard him with the kind of intelligent concern that had always made Harry suspect there was more to his owl than met the eye. She hooted softly, barely above a whisper, and fluttered down to nestle against his shoulder. Her feathers were warm and soft against his cheek, and the familiar weight of her presence provided a comfort that he hadn't realized he desperately needed.

"I'm feeling fine, girl," Harry murmured quietly, his voice still rough from sleep and the lingering effects of whatever magical trauma his body had endured. He lifted one hand to stroke her feathers, marveling at how real she felt, how solid and present after all the years he had spent missing her.

Hedwig huffed quietly in response, a sound that somehow managed to convey both skepticism and affection. Her meaning was clear enough: 'You better be fine, because I'm not going through that again.'

The soft sound of Harry's voice, quiet as it was, caused Remus to stir in his chair. The man's eyes snapped open with the instantaneous alertness of someone accustomed to being awakened by danger, and his hand moved automatically toward his wand before his conscious mind caught up with his reflexes.

Harry's own hand twitched slightly, muscle memory from years of constant vigilance nearly causing him to reach for his wand and fire off a Stunner before his rational mind reasserted control. The reaction was so automatic, so deeply ingrained, that he had to consciously force his arm to remain still.

"Harry!" Remus's voice was thick with sleep and relief as he leaned forward in his chair, his amber eyes scanning Harry's face with the intensity of someone checking for signs of lingering injury or magical influence. "Thank Merlin, you're awake. I was so worried..."

Before Harry could respond, Remus had risen from his chair and wrapped him in a careful but heartfelt embrace. The gesture was so unexpected, so achingly familiar, that Harry felt his carefully constructed emotional walls threatening to crumble. He could only awkwardly pat Remus's back in return, not trusting himself to speak without his voice betraying the depth of his emotions.

Remus smelled exactly as Harry remembered - a combination of tea, old books, and something wild and untamed that spoke of his lycanthropic nature. There was also the faint scent of train smoke and winter wind clinging to his robes, evidence of recent travel.

"I came back as soon as I could," Remus said as he settled back into his chair, though he remained leaning forward, as if afraid that Harry might disappear if he looked away. "I was escorting some of the younger students back to King's Cross for the Christmas holidays when Dumbledore's message reached me. I've never Apparated so many times in succession in my life - I think I may have set some sort of record getting back here."

His attempt at levity was undermined by the genuine worry in his voice and the way his hands seemed to be trembling slightly. Harry could see the exhaustion written in every line of Remus's face, the way his shoulders sagged with relief now that he had confirmation that Harry was alive and apparently unharmed.

"Thanks," Harry mumbled softly, genuinely touched despite everything he knew about manipulation and hidden agendas. Whatever Remus's ultimate loyalties might be, whatever role he might play in Dumbledore's grand schemes, his concern for Harry's welfare was clearly genuine.

"Madam Pomfrey cleared you for release about half an hour ago," Remus remarked, settling more comfortably in his chair but never taking his eyes off Harry's face. "She wanted to keep you for observation longer, but the diagnostic charms all came back normal - well, as normal as they can be given the circumstances."

Harry glanced toward the windows, noting the way the sunlight was still pale and weak, barely cresting above the rolling hills that surrounded Hogwarts. The shadows were long and sharp, indicating that dawn had only just broken.

"Did you sleep at all?" Harry asked, raising an eyebrow and fixing Remus with a look that was probably more penetrating than a thirteen-year-old should have been capable of. The signs of exhaustion were written all over the man's face - the bloodshot eyes, the slightly trembling hands, the way he kept blinking as if trying to clear his vision.

Remus shrugged in response, a gesture that was meant to be casual but came across as defensive. "I dozed a bit in the chair. Couldn't really leave, you understand. Not after what happened."

Harry sighed and brought his palm to his face in a gesture of exasperation. "I appreciate you being worried about me, Moony, but you need to take care of yourself better!"

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, delivered with the kind of fond exasperation that spoke of years of familiarity. It wasn't until he saw Remus's expression change that Harry realized what he had done.

Remus's smile, which had been growing in response to Harry's show of concern, froze halfway. His amber eyes widened with shock and something that might have been fear, and his entire body went rigid in his chair.

"How do you know that nickname?" Remus asked, his voice dropping to a low, incredulous whisper that was tinged with unmistakable apprehension. His hand moved unconsciously toward his wand, not in a threatening gesture but in the automatic response of someone who had just heard something that should have been impossible.

Harry felt his eyes widen as the magnitude of his slip-up crashed down on him. In his emotional response to seeing Remus alive and well, he had forgotten to maintain his cover, had spoken with the familiarity of someone who had known the man for years rather than the cautious respect of a student who had only recently learned his professor's identity.

His mind raced, searching for a plausible explanation that wouldn't involve revealing the truth about time travel and cosmic bargains with Death herself. The silence stretched between them, heavy with tension and unspoken questions.

"The Marauder's Map," Harry said finally, forcing his voice to remain steady despite the adrenaline coursing through his system. "Fred and George gave it to me - they said you and my father and his friends made it during your time here. And I... I know about your furry problem. You keep disappearing during full moons, but it doesn't bother me. So Moony made the most sense as a nickname."

The lie came smoothly, built on a foundation of truth that would make it harder to detect. Harry had indeed learned about the Marauder's Map from the Weasley twins, and his knowledge of Remus's lycanthropy was something that would become apparent to any observant student who paid attention to patterns.

Remus paused for a long moment, his amber eyes studying Harry's face with the intensity of someone trying to read between the lines. Harry could practically feel the weight of that gaze, the way Remus was searching for signs of deception or hidden knowledge.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Remus chuckled - a sound that was equal parts relief and amusement. "I thought Filch still had that map locked away in his office. He confiscated it from us in our seventh year and swore it would never see the light of day again."

"Apparently the twins managed to sneak it out a couple of years ago," Harry replied, allowing himself to relax slightly as Remus seemed to accept his explanation. "They said they've been using it to plan their more elaborate pranks."

"They're learning the art very well," Remus said with a grin that made him look years younger, "but they're nowhere near our level yet. We once turned the entire Great Hall into a swamp during exam week. Took the professors three days to drain it properly."

The pride in his voice was unmistakable, and Harry could see glimpses of the mischievous teenager that Remus had once been, before the weight of prejudice and loss had worn him down.

"Please don't encourage them," Harry said with genuine alarm, thinking of some of the Weasley twins' more spectacular failures and the chaos they had caused. "They're already planning something involving Dungbombs and the Slytherin common room. I'd rather not give them any more ideas."

Remus laughed heartily at that, the sound echoing off the stone walls of the hospital wing and seeming to chase away some of the lingering shadows of worry and exhaustion. It was a rich, warm sound that Harry had missed more than he had realized.

For a moment, Harry allowed himself to simply enjoy the normalcy of the interaction. This was what he had been fighting for in his original timeline - moments like this, where people could laugh and joke without the constant specter of war and death hanging over them. It was what he was determined to preserve this time around, no matter what the cost.

But the moment was broken when Remus yawned loudly, the sound so forceful that it seemed to echo off the walls. The exhaustion that he had been trying to hide was suddenly impossible to ignore, written in every line of his face and the way his eyelids seemed to be drooping despite his best efforts.

Harry stood up from his bed with more energy than he had expected to have, the magical healing that Madam Pomfrey had provided having restored most of his physical strength. He moved around to the side of Remus's chair and, before the man could protest, began physically maneuvering him toward the bed.

"Come on," Harry said firmly, displaying a stubbornness that would have made his mother proud. "You're going to sleep properly, and I'm not taking no for an answer."

"Harry, really, I'm fine," Remus protested weakly, though he didn't resist very hard as Harry guided him toward the bed. "I don't need—"

"Madam Pomfrey cleared me," Harry interrupted, "but I'm sure she won't be happy if you end up as her next patient with a bad case of exhaustion-induced magical depletion. You know how she gets about people not taking proper care of themselves."

The threat of facing Madam Pomfrey's wrath seemed to be enough to overcome Remus's remaining resistance. He allowed himself to be settled onto the hospital bed, and Harry could see the relief in his face as his body finally relaxed into the comfortable mattress.

"That worrying reminds me of Lily," Remus said with a soft smile, his voice already becoming drowsy as exhaustion finally began to claim him. "She used to fuss over all of us like that, making sure we ate properly and got enough sleep."

Harry stilled for a moment at the mention of his mother, feeling that familiar ache in his chest that always accompanied thoughts of his parents. But this time, instead of the bitter pain of loss, there was something warmer - a connection to the woman he had never really known but whose influence he carried within him.

After a moment, he managed to crack a grin. "Someone has to take up her job," he said, gesturing somewhat awkwardly toward Remus. "Usually it's Hermione who does the mother henning, but she's not here right now. Get some proper rest - I'll head back to my dormitory."

Remus nodded, already more than half asleep. "Thank you, Harry," he mumbled, his words slurring slightly as consciousness began to slip away. "Your parents would be so proud of the man you're becoming."

Within moments, Remus was breathing deeply and evenly, finally claimed by the sleep his body so desperately needed. Harry stood there for a moment, watching the peaceful expression that had settled over his professor's face, before shaking his head with a soft smile.

Hedwig settled onto his shoulder with a gentle hoot, her talons gripping just firmly enough to maintain her balance without causing discomfort. Her yellow eyes seemed to hold an intelligence that went beyond what should have been possible for a normal owl, and Harry found himself wondering just how much she truly understood about their situation.

As he made his way toward the hospital wing's exit, Harry's mind turned to more pressing concerns. The revelation that Death's magic now flowed through his veins had implications that went far beyond simple time travel. He was connected to forces that operated on a cosmic scale, and that connection would undoubtedly affect his ability to wield the Deathly Hallows.

The Three Hallows - the Elder Wand, the Resurrection Stone, and the Invisibility Cloak. In his original timeline, he had united them briefly, becoming the Master of Death in a moment of desperate need. Now, with Death's own power flowing through him, the relationship between himself and those ancient artifacts would be fundamentally different.

The Elder Wand was currently in Dumbledore's possession, and would remain there until the old wizard's death or defeat. Harry's thirteen-year-old body simply wasn't capable of taking on someone of Dumbledore's skill and experience in direct combat, which meant he would need to find another way to claim the wand when the time came. Building up his physical conditioning beyond what Quidditch provided would be essential, but that was a long-term project.

The Resurrection Stone was still embedded in the Gaunt family ring, still serving as one of Voldemort's Horcruxes, still hidden away in the ruins of the Gaunt shack. Of the three Hallows, it was probably the least immediately useful - its power to summon the shades of the dead was more about closure than practical combat applications. Even if he could call upon the spirits of his parents or other fallen allies, they would retain their own free will and might not be willing to simply follow his commands.

But it was the third Hallow that occupied most of his thoughts as he made his way through the corridors of Hogwarts. The Invisibility Cloak - his inheritance from his father, the Potter family heirloom that had been passed down through generations. In his original timeline, Dumbledore had returned it to him with the claim that he had been keeping it safe, but Harry had never questioned how the old wizard had been able to track him even when he was supposedly invisible.

Now, with his adult memories and his understanding of Dumbledore's manipulative nature, a disturbing possibility had occurred to him. What if the cloak's apparent failure to hide him from Dumbledore hadn't been due to the Headmaster's superior magical abilities? What if it had been sabotaged?

The very idea made his blood boil. The Invisibility Cloak was one of the few connections he had to his father, one of the few material links to the family he had never really known. If Dumbledore had tampered with it, had violated that connection for his own manipulative purposes...

Harry's pace quickened as he made his way through the corridors, his destination now fixed firmly in his mind. He needed to examine the cloak, needed to determine whether his suspicions were correct. If Dumbledore had indeed found a way to compromise the cloak's effectiveness, then removing that compromise would be his first step toward true independence.

The corridors of Hogwarts were largely empty at this early hour, with most students still asleep in their dormitories. The few early risers he encountered - mostly older students heading to the library or the Great Hall for an early breakfast - gave him curious looks but didn't attempt to engage him in conversation. Word of his mysterious collapse had undoubtedly spread throughout the school, and most people were probably uncertain about how to react to him.

As he approached the entrance to Gryffindor Tower, Harry found himself facing his first obstacle. The Fat Lady's portrait hung in its usual place, but the painted woman herself looked distinctly nervous as she spotted his approach. Her elaborate dress rustled as she shifted uncomfortably in her frame, and her powdered face bore an expression of wariness that hadn't been there before.

"Password?" she asked, though her voice lacked its usual authoritative tone.

Harry paused, his mind racing as he tried to remember what the password had been during his third year. It was such a mundane detail, something that changed regularly and held no particular significance beyond providing access to the common room. After thirty years and the trauma of time travel, it was hardly surprising that he couldn't recall it.

"I don't remember," Harry answered without missing a beat, his tone matter-of-fact rather than apologetic.

The Fat Lady straightened in her frame, some of her usual officiousness returning. "Then I can't let you pass. Rules are rules, young man, regardless of your recent... difficulties."

Harry sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as frustration began to build. He had far more important things to do than argue with a portrait whose subject had been dead for centuries. The need to examine the Invisibility Cloak, to determine whether his suspicions about Dumbledore's tampering were correct, burned in his mind like an urgent compulsion.

"You know me, don't you?" Harry asked, injecting a note of sardonic humor into his voice. "Harry Potter, the problem child with a penchant for attracting trouble? The Boy Who Lived? Surely that counts for something."

"Rules are rules, Mr. Potter," the Fat Lady reiterated, though Harry caught a slight tremor in her voice. "I cannot allow entry without the proper password, regardless of your... celebrity status."

The dismissive tone, the casual disregard for his situation, the stubborn adherence to bureaucratic procedure when he had more important concerns - it all combined to trigger something dark and dangerous in Harry's psyche. The memories of his adult life, the years of war and loss and constant struggle, rose to the surface like oil on water.

"There are two ways we can do this," Harry said, his voice taking on a deceptively jovial tone that somehow managed to be more threatening than any shout. "First option: you open the door and let me in like a reasonable person."

He paused, and when he continued, his voice had dropped to a cold whisper that seemed to leach the warmth from the surrounding air. His green eyes hardened into chips of ice, and the smile that curved his lips held no humor whatsoever.

"Second option: I demonstrate exactly why Sirius Black's little temper tantrum on Halloween will seem like a pleasant afternoon in comparison."

The corridor, which had been filled with the soft murmur of early morning activity, fell into absolute silence. Students who had been walking to breakfast froze in their tracks, their conversations dying mid-sentence as they turned to stare at Harry with expressions of shock and growing fear. Even the portraits lining the walls seemed to hold their breath, painted eyes wide with disbelief.

The Fat Lady's face went pale beneath her powder, and Harry could see her hands trembling as the memories of that terrible Halloween night came flooding back. Sirius Black's attack on her portrait had been a traumatic experience that had left lasting scars on her psyche, and the casual way Harry had referenced it sent a chill down her painted spine.

"You... you wouldn't do such a thing," she stammered, though her voice lacked conviction. "You're a Gryffindor, a good boy. You wouldn't really..."

Harry's hand moved to rest on his wand at his side, the gesture casual but unmistakably threatening. The wood felt warm under his fingers, eager to channel the magic that now flowed through him in quantities that far exceeded what a thirteen-year-old should possess.

"Try me," he said softly, his voice carrying a promise of violence that made several students take involuntary steps backward. "What would you prefer? An Incendio to set your frame ablaze? A Reducto to shatter you into splinters? Perhaps a Bombarda for something more... explosive?"

He paused, allowing the threats to sink in before delivering the final blow.

"Or maybe something of a darker nature? Sectumsempra to slice your canvas to ribbons? Fiendfyre to ensure that not even ashes remain?"

The mention of Fiendfyre sent a wave of terror through the assembled students. Several of them went pale beyond what seemed physically possible, and Harry heard more than one sharp intake of breath. The cursed flame was known to be one of the most dangerous and uncontrollable forms of dark magic, capable of burning through almost any magical protection and consuming everything in its path.

Hedwig, sensing the shift in Harry's mood, puffed out her chest and fixed the Fat Lady with a stare that somehow managed to be deeply unsettling despite coming from what should have been a harmless owl. Her yellow eyes seemed to gleam with an inner light that spoke of forces beyond normal avian intelligence.

The Fat Lady scoffed, though the sound was shaky and unconvincing. "Your threats are pretty words, Mr. Potter, but I know you can't carry them out. You're just a thirteen-year-old boy, and you wouldn't really—"

Her words were cut off as Harry raised his wand and a sickly white light erupted from his wand tip, crackling with energies that made the air itself seem to recoil. The light struck the Fat Lady's portrait frame with a sound like breaking glass, and hairline cracks began to spread across the painted surface. The portrait itself flickered and wavered, as if the very existence of the painted woman was being called into question.

The Fat Lady let out a shriek of terror and pain that echoed through the corridors like the wail of a banshee. The sound was so raw, so filled with primal fear, that several students clapped their hands over their ears and stumbled backward.

"Are you still sure?" Harry asked, his voice carrying an arctic chill that seemed to freeze the very air around him. The white light continued to dance around his wand tip, ready to be unleashed again if necessary.

The corridor was filled with absolute silence, broken only by the Fat Lady's whimpering sobs. Students stared at Harry with expressions of open fear and disbelief, as if they were seeing him clearly for the first time. Even the portraits seemed to shrink back in their frames, unwilling to draw attention to themselves in the face of such casual displays of power.

Unknown to Harry, his casual threat to destroy a portrait had crossed a line that no student in Hogwarts' thousand-year history had ever crossed. Portraits were considered to be living entities in their own right, deserving of the same protections and considerations as any other sentient being. The idea of deliberately destroying one was so far beyond acceptable behavior that most wizards couldn't even conceive of it.

The Fat Lady's portrait swung open with barely suppressed whimpers, the painted woman pressing herself against the far edge of her frame as if trying to put as much distance as possible between herself and Harry. Her elaborate dress was disheveled, and her powdered face was streaked with what looked like tears.

Harry stepped through the opening without a backward glance, leaving behind a corridor full of traumatized students and portraits. He had more important concerns than managing his reputation or maintaining the facade of a normal thirteen-year-old boy.

As he entered the Gryffindor common room, he nearly collided with Katie Bell and Alicia Spinnet, who were coming down from the girls' dormitories to investigate the commotion they had heard from the corridor. Both girls were still in their nightgowns, their hair mussed from sleep, and their eyes wide with curiosity and concern.

The sudden appearance of two figures in his peripheral vision triggered Harry's combat reflexes before his conscious mind could intervene. His hand moved in a sharp, practiced gesture, and a wandless Expelliarmus erupted from his fingertips with enough force to crack stone.

Harry managed to redirect the spell at the last possible moment, sending it crashing into the wall beside the two girls instead of hitting them directly. The impact left a scorch mark on the ancient stone and sent chips of masonry flying through the air.

Both girls flinched violently, throwing themselves backward as the magical energy crackled past them. Katie let out a small scream of surprise and terror, while Alicia stared at Harry with an expression of shock that bordered on disbelief.

"I'm extremely sorry!" Harry said, his voice filled with genuine remorse as he realized how close he had come to seriously injuring two innocent students. "It was a reflex - I didn't mean to... I'm so sorry."

He didn't wait for a response, instead pushing past the two confused and terrified girls and dashing toward the stairs that led to the boys' dormitories. Behind him, he could hear Katie and Alicia whispering urgently to each other, their voices filled with fear and bewilderment.

The dormitory he shared with his fellow third-year Gryffindors was largely empty at this early hour, with most of his roommates still home for the Christmas holidays. Only Ron remained, fast asleep in his bed with the curtains partially drawn. His red hair was visible against the white pillow, and soft snores indicated that he was deeply unconscious.

At the foot of Ron's bed, in a small cage that served as his temporary home, was Scabbers - the rat that Harry now knew to be Peter Pettigrew in his Animagus form. The sight of the creature that had betrayed his parents sent a surge of rage through Harry's system so powerful that his vision briefly tinted red.

For a moment, just a moment, Harry seriously considered drawing his wand and ending Pettigrew's miserable existence with a single Killing Curse. It would be so simple, so satisfying, to watch the green light consume the rat and finally deliver justice for years of betrayal and cowardice.

But rational thought reasserted itself before he could act on the impulse. Cornelius Fudge would do everything in his power to ensure that Sirius remained in Azkaban if Pettigrew died before his true identity could be revealed. The rat was more valuable alive than dead, no matter how much Harry's thirst for vengeance demanded otherwise.

The sound of Harry's dramatic entrance had startled Ron awake, and his best friend sat up in bed with his red hair sticking up at impossible angles. Scabbers, sensing some undefined threat to his existence, had immediately scurried away from his cage and was attempting to hide in the shadows beneath Ron's trunk.

"Death!" Hedwig suddenly squawked, her voice carrying clearly through the dormitory as she fixed her yellow gaze on the fleeing rat. The single word seemed to hang in the air like a physical presence, carrying implications that went far beyond simple avian intelligence.

Ron's eyes went wide with terror as he stared at Hedwig, his mouth falling open in shock. "Why is Hedwig after Scabbers now?" he asked, his voice cracking with confusion and fear. "And since when can she speak?!"

The questions came out in a rush, and Harry could see that his friend was torn between the desire to flee as far as possible from what appeared to be a talking owl and the impulse to remain frozen in place out of sheer terror.

Harry looked at Hedwig with a raised eyebrow, silently communicating his exasperation. 'Really? You chose to reveal that particular ability now?'

Hedwig puffed out her chest with obvious pride and stared directly into Harry's eyes. For just a moment, her yellow sclera shifted to pure white - the same colorless depths that characterized Death herself - before returning to normal.

Harry shook his head, wondering what game Death was playing now. He understood that owls were traditionally considered omens of death in many cultures, but having his beloved Hedwig suddenly start speaking the word "Death" in front of witnesses was a complication he didn't need.

He moved to his trunk and began rifling through it, searching for the Invisibility Cloak while Ron watched with a mixture of awe and terror. The ancient garment was exactly where he had left it, folded carefully beneath his other belongings and shimmering with the subtle, otherworldly luminescence that marked it as one of the Deathly Hallows.

Harry spread the cloak over his bed and began methodically casting detection charms, his wand movements precise and controlled despite the power that now flowed through him. Ron watched with frozen fascination as spell after spell washed over the ancient fabric, each one revealing different aspects of its magical composition.

Most of the detection charms simply dispersed when they came into contact with the cloak, their energies absorbed and negated by the artifact's inherent properties. But one spell - a particularly complex charm designed to detect foreign magical signatures - produced a different result.

Harry's eyes narrowed as the spell revealed the presence of something that didn't belong, something that was definitely not part of the cloak's original magical matrix. It wasn't woven into the fabric itself, but rather seemed to be attached to it in a way that suggested deliberate sabotage.

His mind raced as he considered the implications. The cloak was supposed to disperse all forms of magical tracking and detection, but whatever Dumbledore had done to it was clearly circumventing that protection. The foreign element was too small and too well-integrated to be detected by basic spells, but it was definitely there.

An idea struck him - a way to exploit the cloak's own properties to identify and remove the offending element. If the cloak dispersed magic, then whatever was allowing Dumbledore to track it would have a limited capacity to do the same. By overwhelming that capacity, he should be able to force the foreign element to reveal itself.

Harry raised his wand and focused his will, drawing upon the vast reserves of power that Death's gift had placed at his disposal. He cast an overpowered Wingardium Leviosa, pouring far more magical energy into the simple levitation charm than any reasonable person would ever need.

Ron watched with awe-struck and slightly terrified eyes as waves of magical power rolled off Harry in visible distortions, like heat shimmer rising from sun-baked stone. The air itself seemed to thicken with the density of magic being channeled, and every piece of metal in the room began to vibrate with sympathetic resonance.

The spell crashed into the Invisibility Cloak like a tsunami of pure force, and for a moment the ancient artifact blazed with silver light as its protective properties struggled to absorb and disperse the overwhelming magical input. But Harry's suspicions proved correct - a single white cotton thread, no longer than his fingernail, suddenly came loose from the cloak and was caught up in the levitation effect.

The thread fought against the magical pressure, but it lacked the cloak's ability to simply absorb and neutralize hostile magic. Within seconds, it was pulled free of its hiding place and pressed against the canopy of Harry's four-poster bed, held there by the continued force of the levitation charm.

Harry cancelled the spell and immediately reached up to snatch the invasive thread before it could fall back to the cloak or escape in some other way. The moment his fingers closed around it, he felt a brief flash of familiar magical signature - unmistakably Dumbledore's work, woven with the kind of subtle skill that spoke of decades of experience in magical manipulation.

Without hesitation, Harry channeled a small amount of his enhanced magical power directly into the thread. The foreign fiber burst into flames in his bare palm, consumed by white fire that left no heat and produced no smoke. Within moments, nothing remained but a few motes of ash that dissipated in the air.

Ron could only stare with a mixture of awe and terror as Harry turned to him with a satisfied grin. The casual display of power, the way Harry had manipulated magic that should have been far beyond a thirteen-year-old’s capabilities, the complete lack of concern about burning something in his bare hands - it all combined to paint a picture of someone who was far more than he appeared to be.

"Well," Harry said cheerfully, as if he hadn't just demonstrated abilities that defied every law of magical theory that Ron knew, "I honestly don't know since when she can talk," Harry said with a shrug, deciding that the best approach was to treat the situation as if it were perfectly normal. "But since there's no invasive tracking charm on the Cloak anymore, it should be truly invisible now."

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

1993
Hogwarts

The Great Hall's vaulted ceiling reflected the gray December morning sky, heavy clouds promising snow that hadn't yet begun to fall. Enchanted candles flickered in their holders, casting dancing shadows across the four long house tables laden with the morning feast. The usual chatter of students filled the cavernous space, punctuated by the clatter of cutlery and the occasional hoot from the owl post.

Harry Potter walked through the massive oak doors, his footsteps echoing against the stone floor. Behind him, Ron Weasley's freckled face bore an expression caught between terror and wonder, his blue eyes darting around the hall as if expecting something miraculous or catastrophic to happen at any moment. Hermione Granger flanked Harry's other side, her bushy brown hair seeming more unruly than usual, her sharp eyes flicking between her two friends with barely concealed confusion and growing concern.

The moment Harry crossed the threshold, he felt it—that familiar, uncomfortable sensation of being watched. His gaze swept upward to the High Table where the professors sat, their breakfast momentarily forgotten. Professor Dumbledore's piercing blue eyes, usually twinkling with benevolent mischief, were fixed upon him with an intensity that made Harry's stomach clench. Beside the headmaster, Professor McGonagall's stern features were set in lines of deep concern, her lips pressed into a thin line as she observed his entrance.

Damn, Harry cursed silently, his jaw tightening imperceptibly. Should have known that outburst at the Fat Lady's portrait would come back to haunt me. Nothing stays secret in this bloody castle.

The memory of his anger an hour ago flashed through his mind—how he'd lost control, how his voice had drop to a cold threat as he'd threatened and nearly destroyed the painted guardian of Gryffindor Tower. The Fat Lady's shocked expression, the way other portraits had gasped and whispered among themselves. In his original timeline, he'd been just a frightened thirteen-year-old. Now, with decades of bitter experience weighing on his soul, he should have known better.

"Harry," Ron whispered, his voice barely audible above the morning din, "why's everyone staring? I mean, more than usual?"

"I don't know," Harry murmured back, though he knew exactly why. He guided his friends toward the Gryffindor table, trying to appear nonchalant despite the weight of scrutiny pressing down on him like a physical force.

They had barely taken their seats when Professor McGonagall rose from the High Table, her emerald robes swishing as she descended from the dais. Her tartan witch's hat sat primly atop her graying hair, pulled back in its characteristic tight bun. Students parted before her like water before the bow of a ship, conversations dying as she passed.

"Mr. Potter," she said, her Scottish accent crisp with authority as she approached their section of the Gryffindor table. "The Headmaster and I require a word with you. Please finish your breakfast and report to his office immediately afterward."

The words fell like stones into still water, creating ripples of silence that spread outward from their position. Harry felt every eye in their vicinity turn toward him, whispers beginning to buzz like angry wasps.

"Is everything alright, Professor?" Hermione asked, her voice higher than usual with worry. Her hand moved instinctively toward Harry's arm, as if to offer comfort or perhaps prevent him from doing something rash.

McGonagall's expression softened slightly as she looked at the bushy-haired girl. "Nothing for you to worry about, Miss Granger. Mr. Potter simply needs to discuss a... matter with us."

Ron's fork clattered against his plate as he dropped it. "But Professor, Harry hasn't done anything wrong, has he? I mean, not that I know of—"

"Mr. Weasley," McGonagall interrupted, though not unkindly, "this does not concern you. The password is 'Chocolate Frogs,' Harry. Don't keep us waiting."

As she turned and walked back toward the High Table, her heels clicking against the stone floor, Harry felt the familiar burn of injustice in his chest. But this time, it was tempered by understanding—understanding of how Dumbledore's mind worked, how every action was calculated, every kindness a manipulation.

"Harry," Hermione's voice cut through his dark thoughts, sharp with concern. "What did you do?"

He turned to face her, taking in her worried brown eyes, the way her hands were clasped tightly together on the table. Ron was staring at him too, a piece of bacon hanging forgotten from his fork.

"I may have... had words with the Fat Lady today morning," Harry said carefully, spooning porridge into his bowl with deliberate calm.

"Had words?" Hermione's voice rose an octave, drawing glances from nearby students. She lowered it to an urgent whisper. "What kind of words? Harry James Potter, what exactly did you do?"

The full use of his name—something she'd picked up from Mrs. Weasley over the summer—made Harry wince internally. In his original timeline, he would have been defensive, would have snapped back. Now, he simply continued eating, letting her work herself into a state.

"I might have... threatened to erase it from existence," he said between spoonfuls of porridge.

"Erase from existence?" Ron repeated, his eyes widening. "Blimey, Harry, what did you say to her?"

Harry set down his spoon and looked directly at his friends. "I told her that if she didn't stop simpering and open the portrait hole, I'd make what Sirius did to it on Halloween a happy spring afternoon."

The silence that followed was deafening. Hermione's face went through several colors—white, then red, then a sort of mottled purple that reminded Harry uncomfortably of Uncle Vernon.

"You WHAT?" she exploded, her voice carrying across half the Great Hall before she caught herself and continued in a furious whisper. "Harry Potter, you threatened to destroy a portrait? Are you completely mad? What were you thinking? You can't just go around intimidating people—or paintings—because you're in a bad mood!"

"I wasn't in a mood," Harry said quietly, but Hermione was just getting started.

"Not in a mood? NOT IN A MOOD?" Her hair seemed to be growing frizzier by the second. "You threatened someone—something—that was just doing their job! The Fat Lady is supposed to protect our common room! She was probably just being cautious, and you—you—" She sputtered, apparently lost for words strong enough to express her indignation.

Ron was staring between them like he was watching a particularly intense Quidditch match. "Er, Hermione, maybe we should—"

"No, Ronald, we should NOT just brush this off!" She rounded on him, her eyes blazing. "This is serious! Harry could be expelled for this! Threatening to destroy portraits, losing his temper—what's gotten into you lately, Harry? Ever since that day, you've been different. Distant. Angry. And now this!"

Harry nodded along with her rant, making appropriate sounds of acknowledgment while his mind worked on other problems. This incident perfectly illustrated why his temper would be his downfall, just as it had been in his original timeline. Every outburst, every moment of lost control, played right into Dumbledore's hands.

But more importantly, this situation had crystallized something he'd been grappling with since his return: he couldn't take down Dumbledore from within Hogwarts. It was impossible. The old man had too much control here, too many allies, too many ways to watch and manipulate.

It was like trying to overthrow the Ministry from within when your enemy controlled every department, every law, every enforcement mechanism. You simply couldn't win playing by their rules on their ground.

Voldemort had understood this principle. He had used Draco.

That's why the Obscura Order had been so effective against them during the war. Dumbledore, positioned at the helm of the Order of the Phoenix, had fed them insider information for over two and a half decades before his death. Even after Dumbledore was gone, the intelligence network he'd built had kept Obscura one step ahead for another twenty years.

Harry needed to get out of Hogwarts. And he needed to do it without arousing Dumbledore's suspicions.

Like Peter Pettigrew had done.

The thought came unbidden, and Harry stilled, his spoon halfway to his mouth. The comparison was unsettling, but it had merit. Peter had managed to disappear right under everyone's noses, had fooled them all for over a decade.

"Harry? HARRY!" Hermione's voice snapped him back to the present. She was waving her hand in front of his face, her expression shifting from anger to worry. "Are you even listening to me?"

"Sorry," he said, finishing his porridge quickly. "You're right. I shouldn't have lost my temper."

"That's... that's it?" she asked, clearly expecting more of a fight. "You're not going to argue? Or make excuses?"

"No," Harry said, standing and slinging his bag over his shoulder. "You're absolutely right. I need to go face the music now."

He left them staring after him, Hermione's mouth still open mid-word, and made his way out of the Great Hall. The corridors of Hogwarts stretched before him, familiar yet somehow different now that he saw them through older, more cynical eyes.

The stone gargoyle that guarded Dumbledore's office came into view, its fierce expression unchanged since Harry's first visit in his second year. Or rather, what had been his second year in his original timeline.

"Chocolate Frogs," he said clearly, and the gargoyle sprang aside with a grinding of stone on stone.

The spiral staircase carried him upward, each step bringing him closer to what he knew would be a carefully orchestrated performance. As he neared the top, voices drifted down from the office above—McGonagall's crisp Scottish tones and Dumbledore's softer, more measured cadence.

"Albus, are we absolutely certain this isn't some form of mind magic affecting Mr. Potter?" McGonagall was saying, her voice tight with concern. "This behavior is been... concerning. And this outburst with the Fat Lady—it's so unlike him."

Harry paused on the stairs, pressing himself against the curved stone wall. He knew Dumbledore would be aware of his presence—the old man's magical senses were too acute to fool completely—but whatever was said now would be meant for his ears.

"The Black family was indeed infamous for their dark curses and hexes," came Dumbledore's reply, his voice carrying that particular tone of gravitas he used when dispensing wisdom. "We still don't know the full extent of what Harry was exposed to in that house. The Blacks have been steeped in dark magic for centuries. A mind-affecting curse would certainly explain his recent... volatility."

Of course, Harry thought grimly. Blame it on the Blacks. How convenient.

"We need to keep a much closer watch on Harry," Dumbledore continued, and Harry could practically hear the concerned frown in his voice. "For his own safety, as well as that of his friends and classmates. If he's not fully in control of his actions..."

The implication hung in the air like a sword over Harry's head. This was exactly what he'd expected—Dumbledore would use this incident to justify increased surveillance, more restrictions, tighter control. The old manipulator never missed an opportunity to consolidate his influence.

Harry was struck by a sudden, brilliant inspiration. He could use Dumbledore's own manipulations against him. He could orchestrate his own disappearance, and the groundwork was already being laid.

Taking a deep breath and smoothing his expression into the carefully calculated mask of a confused, frightened thirteen-year-old, Harry climbed the final steps and knocked hesitantly on the office door.

"Professor?" he called, his voice pitched higher than usual, uncertainty coloring every syllable.

"Ah, Harry!" Dumbledore's voice boomed warmly from within. "Please, come in. We've been waiting for you."

Harry pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped into the circular office. It was exactly as he remembered—portraits of former headmasters lining the walls, their painted eyes following his movement; Fawkes perched on his golden stand, the phoenix's brilliant plumage catching the light from the tall windows; shelves upon shelves of mysterious magical instruments, some whirring softly, others perfectly still. He wondered how long it would take the bird to recognize Death’s magic within him, completely opposite in nature to the phoenixes.

Dumbledore sat behind his massive desk, his long silver beard cascading over his deep purple robes. His blue eyes, magnified by half-moon spectacles, studied Harry with what appeared to be kindly concern but which Harry now recognized as calculating assessment. Professor McGonagall stood beside the desk, her stern features etched with worry.

"Please, Harry, have a seat," Dumbledore said, gesturing to a chair that had been placed directly across from him, beside McGonagall. The positioning was deliberate—Harry facing both authority figures, the dynamic clear.

As Harry settled into the chair, he caught the briefest glimpse of satisfaction that flickered across Dumbledore's features before being replaced by his characteristic grandfatherly concern. It was so quick that his younger self would never have noticed it, but Harry's experienced eyes caught it easily.

"I believe you know why you've been called here," Dumbledore began, his voice gentle but with an underlying steel. His fingers were steepled before him, the gesture somehow making him seem even more imposing despite his seated position.

Harry nodded slowly, his eyes wide with what he hoped looked like genuine remorse and confusion. "Yes, sir. About... about what happened with the Fat Lady."

"Indeed," McGonagall said crisply, stepping forward slightly. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, her hands clasped behind her back. "Your behavior today morning was completely unacceptable, Mr. Potter. Threatening to destroy a portrait—any portrait—is a serious offense. The Fat Lady was simply doing her duty, protecting the Gryffindor common room as she has done for centuries."

"I know," Harry said quietly, letting his voice shake slightly. "I... I don't know what came over me. I felt so angry, so frustrated, and it was like..." He paused, as if struggling to find the words. "It was like I wasn't in control of my own body. Like something else was making me say those things."

He watched as McGonagall's eyes widened with alarm, her hand moving instinctively to her throat. Dumbledore, however, leaned forward slightly, his blue eyes sharpening with interest.

"That's a very troubling description, Harry," the headmaster said softly. "Can you tell us more about this sensation? When did it begin? Have you experienced it before?"

Harry let his hands tremble slightly as he gripped the arms of his chair, and shook his head.

He felt the familiar sensation of someone attempting to enter his mind—Dumbledore's Legilimency probe, as gentle as a butterfly's touch but no less invasive. Harry allowed his Occlumency shields to appear weaker than they were, projecting the emotions he wanted Dumbledore to see: genuine terror, confusion, and helplessness. He layered in visual memories of his confrontation with the Fat Lady, but filtered through the perspective of someone who felt out of control.

"Extraordinary," Dumbledore murmured, and Harry caught the satisfied gleam in his eyes. "Professor McGonagall, I believe we may be dealing with something more serious than a simple disciplinary matter."

McGonagall moved closer, her worry evident. "Albus, surely you don't mean—?"

"The Black family's affinity for dark magic is well documented," Dumbledore said gravely. "Curses designed to influence behavior, to corrupt from within. Such magic often lies dormant for years before manifesting. This is on the other hand is very quick. It manifested within a day."

Harry let his breathing become shallow, as if the very idea terrified him. "Professor, I'm scared," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "What if I hurt someone? What if I lose control when I'm with Hermione or Ron? I couldn't bear it if I—" He broke off, covering his face with his hands.

The act was perfect—the frightened child, overwhelmed by forces beyond his understanding or control. He could practically feel Dumbledore's satisfaction radiating across the desk.

"There, there, Harry," Dumbledore said soothingly, rising from his chair and moving around the desk. He placed a gentle hand on Harry's shoulder, and Harry had to suppress the urge to shrug it off. "Your concern for your friends does you credit. It shows that whatever influence may be affecting you, your essential goodness remains intact."

"But what if it gets worse?" Harry asked, looking up with wide, frightened eyes. "What if next time I can't stop myself?"

McGonagall made a soft sound of distress. "Albus, we need to contact St. Mungo's immediately. If there's a curse—"

"I don't believe St. Mungo's healers will be able to help with this particular type of magic," Dumbledore interrupted smoothly. "No, this will require more... specialized knowledge. I have several contacts who have studied the darker aspects of ancestral curses. I'll reach out to them immediately."

"How long will that take?" Harry asked, injecting just the right note of desperate hope into his voice.

"These things take time, I'm afraid," Dumbledore replied, his hand still resting on Harry's shoulder. "Days, perhaps weeks. But in the meantime, we'll take every precaution to ensure your safety and that of others."

There it is, Harry thought grimly. The trap closing around me.

"Under normal circumstances," Dumbledore continued, "threatening a portrait would result in detention at minimum, possibly suspension. However, given these extraordinary circumstances, we'll treat this as a medical matter rather than a disciplinary one."

"Thank you, Professor," Harry said, relief flooding his voice—relief that was partly genuine, though not for the reasons Dumbledore thought.

"However," the headmaster added, his tone becoming more serious, "should you experience another episode, you must come to one of us immediately. Do not attempt to handle it alone. The magic we're dealing with may be more dangerous than you realize."

"I understand," Harry nodded quickly. "I'll come straight to you if I feel... strange again."

"Excellent," Dumbledore smiled, finally removing his hand from Harry's shoulder. "Now, I believe you should return to your dormitory and rest. These experiences can be quite draining."

McGonagall stepped forward, her expression softening with maternal concern. "If you need anything, Harry—anything at all—please don't hesitate to ask. We're here to help you through this."

"Thank you, Professor McGonagall," Harry said, standing slowly as if still shaken by the morning's revelations. "I... I appreciate your understanding."

As he reached the door, Dumbledore called after him. "Harry? Try not to worry too much. We'll find a solution to this problem. You have my word."

Harry turned back, managing a weak smile. "Thank you, sir. That... that means a lot."

The moment he stepped out of the office and heard the door close behind him, Harry's expression hardened. He pulled his Invisibility Cloak from his bag—he'd had the foresight to bring it, knowing he'd need it for what came next—and threw it over himself.

Now came the dangerous part. He needed to create the foundation for his disappearance, and that meant taking significant risks.

His first stop was the Potions storage room in the dungeons. The corridors were mostly empty—most students were either in their first class of the day or still lingering over breakfast in the Great Hall. Harry moved carefully, his footsteps silent on the stone floors.

The dungeons were their usual gloomy selves, lit by torches that cast dancing shadows on the damp stone walls. The air was thick with the scent of preserved ingredients and brewing potions. As Harry approached Snape's domain, he could hear the soft bubbling of cauldrons from the Potions master's private brewing room.

Through a crack in the door, Harry could see Snape hunched over a complex setup, carefully adding what looked like powdered moonstone to a gently simmering potion. The Wolfsbane Potion for Remus, Harry realized. It was that time of the month.

Moving carefully, Harry cast a silent Muffliato on the storage room door, then slipped inside. The room was cramped and dark, shelves lined with jars and bottles containing everything from pickled slugs to powdered unicorn horn. Harry cast another silencing charm to muffle any sounds he might make, then added the strongest locking charm he knew to the door itself.

Even if someone discovered the theft, they'd have to break down the door to get in, and then they'd still have to find him under the Invisibility Cloak—nearly impossible unless they knew exactly where to look.

Harry began systematically gathering ingredients, taking entire supplies of what he needed. Wormwood for its healing properties. Bubotuber pus for the nutrient potions. Dittany for rapid healing. Dragon liver for vitality restoration. Unicorn tail hair for the most potent healing draughts.

Snape is going to be absolutely livid when he discovers this, Harry thought with grim satisfaction. But that's exactly what I need.

The sheer quantity of ingredients he was taking would be enough to brew dozens of healing potions, nourishment draughts, and nutrient supplements. Some for himself—to reverse the years of malnutrition inflicted by the Dursleys—but most for Sirius, who would need extensive treatment to recover from his decade-long imprisonment in Azkaban.

As he worked, Harry's mind raced through the next steps of his plan. He needed somewhere to hide these ingredients where no one would ever think to look. Two locations came to mind: the Chamber of Secrets or the Room of Requirement.

The Chamber had advantages—it was virtually impossible to access without speaking Parseltongue, and it contained basilisk venom that could destroy Horcruxes. But Fawkes knew where it was, could apparate Dumbledore there in an instant if the phoenix suspected something amiss.

The Room of Requirement, on the other hand, was much safer. It responded only to the specific needs of the person requesting it, and unless someone knew exactly what to ask for, they'd never find his hidden brewing operation.

Decision made, Harry finished his gathering and carefully unlocked the door. Peering out, he could see Snape still absorbed in his delicate brewing work, completely unaware that his stores were being systematically raided mere feet away.

Harry slipped out of the storage room and began the treacherous journey to the seventh floor, avoiding all the main corridors and commonly used passages. Students would be moving between classes soon, and he couldn't risk bumping into someone while invisible.

The seventh floor was blissfully empty when he arrived. Harry paced back and forth three times in front of the blank wall, concentrating on his need: I need a place to brew potions in secret, somewhere no one will ever find me, somewhere with everything I need...

The door that appeared was small and unremarkable, exactly the sort of entrance that would be easily overlooked. Harry slipped inside and immediately stowed his Invisibility Cloak—he'd need full mobility for what came next.

The room was perfect: spacious enough to work in but not so large as to feel overwhelming, with excellent ventilation and a complete potions setup that put even Snape's personal laboratory to shame. Cauldrons of various sizes gleamed on sturdy tables, and the walls were lined with empty shelves ready to hold his stolen ingredients.

But first, he needed to find something else in this vast repository of lost things. Harry made his way deeper into the room, past towers of forgotten books and discarded furniture, until he found what he was looking for: an old, battered potions kit that some long-graduated student had left behind decades ago.

It wasn't much to look at—the scales were tarnished, the knife was dull, and the measuring cups had seen better days—but it would serve his purposes. The most challenging aspect of brewing the healing potions he needed was the time involved. The basic healing draughts would be ready in two days, but the more complex nourishment potions would take four days, and the most potent nutrient supplements would need a full week to mature properly.

By the time his first batch was ready, the Christmas holidays would be over and regular classes would resume. More students meant more eyes, more chances to be discovered. He'd have to be extraordinarily careful.

Harry began the preliminary work, slicing ingredients with practiced precision and setting up the most time-sensitive brews. Sirius would need the healing potions first—his body was probably in terrible condition after twelve years in Azkaban—but the nutrient supplements could wait until they had access to regular, nourishing food.

A quick Tempus charm told him that nearly an hour had passed since he'd raided Snape's stores. The Potions master would be finishing his Wolfsbane brew soon, and it wouldn't take him long to discover the theft.

Harry placed his preparatory work under a powerful stasis spell—it would keep everything exactly as it was until he returned—and bolted from the Room of Requirement.

I need an alibi, he thought frantically as he pulled the Invisibility Cloak over himself once more. Something I would do alone, something that fits with my supposed "episodes" of losing control.

Hermione had often complained about his tendency to brood by himself, to isolate himself when he was upset. Usually, he might claim he'd been flying, but given the "curse" affecting him, Dumbledore would probably restrict his access to his Firebolt.

Then inspiration struck. He could lay another piece of groundwork for his disappearance while creating his alibi. And all it would cost him was the basilisk venom in the Chamber of Secrets—a sacrifice he could make since Fiendfyre could also destroy Horcruxes.

Harry made his way quickly to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, the one place in the castle where he was least likely to encounter other students. Since he'd killed the basilisk in his second year, Myrtle had found a sort of peace and spent most of her time exploring other parts of the castle, only returning to her bathroom once a week or so.

The bathroom was empty and echoing when he arrived, just as he'd hoped. Harry pocketed his cloak and pulled out his wand, pointing it at himself.

What he did next would have horrified his younger self, but desperate times called for desperate measures. He cast a mild vomiting curse on himself, just strong enough to make him genuinely nauseated and pale. Then he sent several low-powered stunning spells and disarming charms into the stagnant water pooled in one corner of the bathroom.

The spells would show up on Priori Incantatem if anyone bothered to check, creating the impression of a daily magic practice from days before. The splashing water soaked his robes convincingly, and the vomiting curse had left him looking genuinely ill.

Harry caught sight of himself in the cracked mirror above the sinks—pale, disheveled, water-stained robes clinging to his thin frame. Perfect.

He didn't have to wait long. Heavy footsteps echoed in the corridor outside, growing louder and more urgent with each passing second. Harry knelt beside one of the toilet stalls, gripping the door frame as if for support, and prepared for the performance of his life.

"POTTER!" Snape's voice boomed through the bathroom like a thunderclap as he burst through the entrance, his black robes billowing dramatically behind him.

Behind him came Dumbledore, his expression grave but alert, followed closely by Remus Lupin—who looked pale and tired, as he always did approaching the full moon—and Professor McGonagall, her face etched with concern.

"Where have you been—" Snape began furiously, but stopped short as he took in Harry's appearance.

Harry slowly stood up, using the stall door for support, and stumbled out into the main area of the bathroom. His legs felt genuinely shaky from the vomiting curse, and he had to work to keep his balance.

"Potter," Snape said again, but his voice had lost some of its venom, replaced by disgust and a grudging concern.

"Professor," Harry said weakly, swaying slightly as he tried to focus on the four adults staring at him. He could see his reflection in Snape's dark eyes—pale, sick, obviously distressed.

Just as he'd planned, Harry felt another wave of nausea hit him. He turned quickly back toward the stall, retching convincingly though he managed to avoid actually vomiting again. When he emerged, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve, all four professors were looking at him with varying degrees of concern and sympathy.

"Are you alright, Harry?" Remus asked gently, stepping forward with the natural kindness that had made him Harry's favorite Defense teacher. His face was drawn and tired, but his amber eyes were warm with genuine worry.

"I think so," Harry said breathlessly, still gripping the stall divider for support. "Just an upset stomach. I think I've gotten most of it out of my system now."

"Clearly, you are not alright!" McGonagall snapped, moving toward him with her characteristic brisk efficiency. "You look absolutely dreadful. We need to get you to the hospital wing immediately."

"No, please!" Harry said quickly, genuine panic entering his voice at the thought of Madam Pomfrey's tender mercies. "I don't think she'll be too happy to see me again so soon. And honestly, I think I've emptied my entire stomach already. I'm feeling a bit better now."

The four adults exchanged meaningful glances—the kind of silent communication that happens between colleagues who've worked together for years. Harry could practically see them weighing his condition against the hassle of dealing with Poppy Pomfrey's inevitable fussing and questions.

"Very well," McGonagall said finally, though her expression remained stern. "But I'm taking you back to Gryffindor Tower personally, and I'll be getting a stomach-settling potion from Poppy to take with you."

As they prepared to leave the bathroom, Harry caught the subtle look that passed between Dumbledore and the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets. The headmaster's eyes lingered on the sink that concealed the tunnel entrance, and Harry could practically see the wheels turning in that brilliant, manipulative mind.

Perfect, Harry thought with grim satisfaction. Take the bait, you meddling old fool. Go investigate the Chamber. Find evidence of dark magic, of curses and corruption. It'll fit perfectly with your narrative about the Black family's influence on me.

"Come along then, Potter," McGonagall said, casting a cleaning and drying charm over his robes with a few efficient wand movements. The magic swept away the water stains and the lingering smell of the dank bathroom, leaving him looking merely pale and shaken rather than actively ill.

As they left the bathroom, Harry allowed himself a small, hidden smile. The first phase of his plan was complete. He'd established his alibi, planted the seeds for his eventual disappearance, and gathered the materials he'd need to help Sirius recover from his ordeal.

But this was only the beginning. The real challenge lay ahead: getting out of Hogwarts without arousing Dumbledore's suspicions, reuniting with Sirius, and beginning the long, dangerous work of preparing for the wars to come.

The game, as they say, was afoot.

The following days passed in a suffocating haze of constant surveillance. Harry felt like a specimen under a microscope, every movement catalogued, every expression analyzed. Professors seemed to materialize from thin air whenever he rounded a corner—McGonagall emerging from her office just as he passed, Flitwick pausing his conversation with another teacher to watch him walk by, even Sprout glancing up from her greenhouse work to track his movements across the grounds.

"Everything alright, Mr. Potter?" had become the most frequently asked question in his vocabulary, spoken in tones ranging from McGonagall's brisk concern to Dumbledore's gentle probing. The headmaster's twinkling blue eyes seemed to follow him even when the man himself wasn't present, as if portraits and paintings had been enlisted in the surveillance effort.

The only respite came during the night hours, when the castle settled into its ancient rhythms of creaking stone and whispered secrets. Even then, Harry suspected that magical monitoring might be in place—wards keyed to detect his magical signature, perhaps, or subtle tracking charms woven into his belongings.

The common room presented its own challenges. The Fat Lady had been replaced by Sir Cadogan, the mad knight whose portrait guarded the entrance with theatrical enthusiasm. But Sir Cadogan was also incredibly observant, despite his eccentricities, and would undoubtedly report any mysterious openings of the portrait hole to the professors.

Dire situations call for dire measures, Harry thought grimly as he lay in his four-poster bed, listening to Ron's gentle snores and the soft scratching sounds that came from Scabbers' cage. The rat that wasn't really a rat, sleeping peacefully while the boy he'd helped destroy lay awake planning.

Harry waited until he was certain Ron was asleep.

And Ron... Ron lay sprawled across his bed, one arm hanging over the edge, his mouth slightly open. On the nightstand beside him, Scabbers' cage sat in shadow, the creature within nothing more than a darker patch against the bars.

If only you knew, Harry thought, staring at the cage with barely contained hatred. If only you knew that your beloved pet is the reason your best friend's parents are dead. The reason I spent eleven years with the Dursleys. The reason so many people will die if I don't stop this.

But Peter Pettigrew would have to wait. The rat was predictable, contained, useful in his very predictability. There were larger games afoot, and Harry needed every piece on the board positioned exactly where he wanted them.

Moving with the careful silence of someone who had spent years sneaking through this very dormitory, Harry retrieved his Invisibility Cloak from his trunk. The fabric whispered like water over his hands as he pulled it over himself, disappearing from view.

The portrait hole was out of the question—too many eyes, too many questions. But Hogwarts was an ancient castle with secrets built into its very foundations, and Harry knew more of those secrets than most.

He made his way to the window, a tall, arched opening that looked out over the castle grounds. The December night was bitter cold, with a sharp wind that rattled the glass panes and sent clouds scudding across the star-strewn sky. Far below, the grounds stretched out in patterns of silver and shadow, the lake a dark mirror reflecting the crescent moon.

This is madness, a small voice in his head whispered—the voice of his thirteen-year-old self, the boy who would never have contemplated what he was about to do. You could die. You could be expelled. You could—

But Harry silenced that voice with the cold pragmatism of someone who had already died once, who had already lost everything that mattered. What was one more risk in service of the greater goal?

He opened the window, wincing as the hinges creaked softly. The night air rushed in, carrying with it the scents of winter—frost and pine, the distant smoke from Hagrid's chimney, the clean smell of snow that hadn't yet fallen but hung heavy in the clouds above.

The ground was perhaps forty feet below, far enough to kill him if he misjudged. But Harry had advantages his younger self had never possessed: knowledge, experience, and the desperate certainty that failure was not an option.

He climbed onto the windowsill, his heart hammering against his ribs as he looked down. The Invisibility Cloak billowed around him in the wind, and for a moment he felt like he might be swept away entirely.

Then he jumped.

The sensation of falling was brief but terrifying—the ground rushing up to meet him, the wind tearing at his clothes and hair. At the last possible moment, Harry raised his wand and whispered, "Arresto Momentum."

The spell caught him like an invisible hand, slowing his descent until he landed with nothing more than a soft thud on the frost-hard ground. His knees buckled with the impact, but he rolled with it, coming up in a crouch with his wand still at the ready.

The grounds were eerily quiet, painted in shades of silver and black by the moonlight. The Whomping Willow stood in the distance like a sleeping giant, its branches still for once. Hagrid's hut was dark, smoke rising steadily from its chimney. The gamekeeper would be fast asleep, probably with Fang sprawled across his feet.

Harry allowed himself a moment to catch his breath, to let his heart rate return to something approaching normal. The cold bit at his exposed skin, and he was grateful for the warmth of his thick winter robes.

Four days, he thought with grim satisfaction. Four days of this madness, and it's finally paying off.

The lack of sleep had taken its toll—he could feel it in the ache behind his eyes, the slight tremor in his hands. But it had also served his purposes perfectly. The dark circles under his eyes, the occasional moment of fatigue-induced confusion, the way he sometimes stared off into space during meals—all of it fed into Dumbledore's narrative about the supposed Black family curse affecting his mind.

He'd seen the look in the headmaster's eyes that morning at breakfast, when Harry had paused mid-sentence while talking to Hermione, his gaze going distant and unfocused for just a moment too long. Not worry for Harry's wellbeing—Dumbledore was far too calculating for such simple emotions—but concern for how this development might affect his carefully laid plans.

Good, Harry thought savagely. Let him worry. Let him scramble to adjust his manipulations. Every moment he spends focused on controlling me is a moment he's not anticipating what I'm really planning.

Harry made his way across the grounds, moving carefully to avoid the more obvious paths. The castle's external doors would all be locked and warded after curfew, but Hogwarts had been built by people who understood that sometimes unconventional entrances were necessary.

Two entrances remained accessible throughout the night. The first led to the greenhouses, where Professor Sprout often worked late into the evening tending to plants that required care under moonlight or starlight. The second was a secret passage that most students had forgotten about, one that led directly to the Shrieking Shack.

Harry chose the greenhouse entrance, slipping through the door that Professor Sprout always left unlocked for her nocturnal gardening sessions. The air inside was warm and humid, thick with the scents of earth and growing things. Moonlight filtered through the glass panels overhead, casting everything in an ethereal, silver-green glow.

He moved quickly through the greenhouse, past tables laden with exotic plants and magical specimens. A bowl of struggling Devil's Snare writhed as he passed, its tendrils reaching toward him with lazy menace. Mandrakes rustled in their pots, thankfully still too young to be truly dangerous. In one corner, a Whomping Willow sapling flexed its tiny branches, practicing the violent movements that would one day make it a formidable guardian.

The inner door led back into the castle proper, and from there Harry made his way through corridors he knew would be empty at this hour. His Invisibility Cloak was insurance, but knowledge was his real protection—he knew where the prefects patrolled, where Filch liked to lurk, which portraits were inclined to raise alarms about students out of bed.

The seventh floor was blissfully quiet when he reached it, moonlight streaming through the tall windows to create pools of silver on the stone floor. Harry paced back and forth three times in front of the familiar blank wall, his mind focused on his need: I need my potions laboratory. I need the place where I've been brewing healing draughts and nourishment potions. I need to finish what I started.

The door that appeared was exactly as he'd left it—small, unremarkable, easily overlooked by anyone who wasn't specifically searching for it. Harry slipped inside and immediately felt the familiar comfort of having a space that was truly his own.

The Room of Requirement had outdone itself in providing exactly what he needed. The space was larger tonight, with better ventilation and more sophisticated equipment. Cauldrons of various sizes sat on sturdy tables, their surfaces gleaming in the soft light from enchanted torches that burned without smoke or heat. The walls were lined with shelves containing his pilfered ingredients, everything organized with the precision of someone who understood that a single mistake in potions could mean the difference between healing and harm.

But it was the three cauldrons in the center of the room that drew his attention, bubbling away under carefully controlled flames. Four days of late-night work, four days of careful monitoring and precise timing, and his efforts were finally bearing fruit.

Harry approached his makeshift laboratory with the careful steps of someone who understood that impatience could ruin hours of work. The healing potions had been ready since yesterday—clear, golden liquid that caught the light like liquid sunlight. The nourishment potions were a rich amber color, thick with the concentrated essence of nutrients that could restore vitality to even the most depleted system.

And the nutrient potions... Harry smiled with satisfaction as he examined the slowly simmering cauldron. The color was exactly what the national standards specified—a deep, forest green that seemed to shift and swirl with its own inner light. Two more days, and they would be ready. Two more days, and he would have everything he needed to restore Sirius to something approaching full health.

Harry carefully extinguished the flame beneath the nourishment potion, watching as the liquid settled into perfect stillness. The surface was mirror-smooth, reflecting his own face back at him—pale, thin, marked by exhaustion but burning with determination.

He selected three crystal vials from a nearby shelf and began the delicate process of bottling the nourishment potion. Each vial had to be filled to exactly the right level—too little and the dose would be ineffective, too much and it could cause dangerous imbalances in the body's natural systems.

As he worked, Harry allowed himself to drink one of the vials himself. The potion was bitter, with an aftertaste of iron and earth, but he could feel its effects almost immediately—a warmth spreading through his chest, a sense of strength returning to muscles that had been systematically weakened by years of inadequate nutrition.

Two years, he reminded himself. Only during the summers. The rest of the year I was well-fed at Hogwarts. His body had managed to catch up to normal development during the school terms, but the summers with the Dursleys had left their mark. A few doses of nourishment potion would be enough to undo that damage, to give him the physical foundation he would need for the battles ahead.

Content with his progress, Harry secured the remaining vials in a protective case and cast one final glance at the nutrient potion. Soon, he promised silently. Soon Sirius would have everything he needed to recover from twelve years of hell.

Harry left the Room of Requirement and made his way to the first floor, where a section of wall near the second-year Charms classroom concealed one of Hogwarts' many secret passages. The entrance was activated by a specific sequence of taps with a wand, and Harry executed the pattern from memory.

The wall swung inward with a grinding of ancient stone, revealing a narrow tunnel that sloped downward into darkness. The passage was old—older than Hogwarts itself, perhaps, carved from the living rock by people whose names were lost to history. The walls were rough-hewn stone, slick with moisture and covered in patches of luminescent moss that provided just enough light to navigate by.

The tunnel seemed to stretch on forever, winding through the earth beneath the castle grounds. Harry's footsteps echoed softly in the confined space, and more than once he had to duck to avoid low-hanging sections of the ceiling. The air was cold and stale, heavy with the scent of earth and age.

As he walked, Harry's mind turned to what lay ahead. Seeing Sirius again would be... complicated. In his original timeline, their relationship had been fraught with misunderstandings and missed opportunities. Sirius had seen James in Harry, had tried to recapture a friendship that had been cut short by death and betrayal. Harry had been desperate for family, for someone who could tell him about his parents, but he'd also been young and confused and carrying burdens that no child should have to bear.

This time would be different. This time, Harry understood exactly what Sirius was to him—not a replacement father, not a living memorial to James Potter, but his own person. Someone who had suffered as much as Harry had, in different ways. Someone who deserved better than the hand fate had dealt him.

The tunnel began to slope upward, and Harry knew he was nearing his destination. He pulled out his wand, ready for whatever he might find. Sirius had been on the run for months now, hunted by Dementors and Aurors alike, living on scraps and desperation. There was no telling what state he might be in, physically or mentally.

The passage ended at a wooden door set into the stone wall. Harry pressed his ear against it, listening for any sounds from beyond. Silence met his efforts, but that could mean anything—Sirius might be asleep, or hiding, or simply being cautious.

Harry eased the door open, wincing as the hinges creaked softly. Beyond lay the interior of the Shrieking Shack, a place that most of the wizarding world believed to be haunted by violent spirits. The irony wasn't lost on him—the "ghosts" that had supposedly terrorized this place for years had been nothing more than a teenage boy transforming into a werewolf once a month.

The main room was a study in controlled decay. Furniture lay scattered and broken, victim to years of Remus's monthly transformations during his Hogwarts years. Wallpaper peeled from the walls in long strips, and the floorboards creaked ominously with every step. Moonlight filtered through grimy windows, casting everything in shades of silver and shadow.

And there, sprawled on the floor near what had once been a fireplace, was a large black dog.

Even in sleep, Sirius looked terrible. His coat was matted and dull, his ribs clearly visible beneath the fur. He was too thin, too still, and for a moment Harry felt a spike of panic. What if I'm too late? What if twelve years in Azkaban was more than even Sirius Black could survive?

But then the dog's flanks rose and fell with steady breathing, and Harry allowed himself to exhale.

"Animagus Revelio," he whispered, his wand trained on the sleeping form.

The red light struck Sirius like a gentle slap, forcing the transformation whether he willed it or not. The change was more violent than Harry remembered—bones cracking and reshaping themselves, limbs elongating, fur receding to reveal pale, scarred skin. Sirius jerked awake with a strangled gasp, his body instinctively curling into a defensive position as his wild eyes searched for threats.

For a moment, they simply stared at each other. Sirius crouched on the floor like a cornered animal, his long black hair hanging in lank curtains around his gaunt face. His clothes were little more than rags, and Harry could see the stark outlines of his ribs through the torn fabric of his prison uniform. But it was his eyes that truly broke Harry's heart—once bright with mischief and laughter, now shadowed with paranoia and pain.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Harry said softly, his voice carrying clearly in the silent room. He lowered his wand and pulled off his Invisibility Cloak, letting it pool around his feet.

Sirius's eyes widened in shock, disbelief warring with desperate hope across his features. His mouth opened and closed several times before he managed to speak.

"Is... is that really you, Harry?" The words came out as barely more than a whisper, raw with emotion and the remnants of disuse. "Or am I finally losing what's left of my mind?"

Instead of answering with words, Harry stepped forward and knelt beside his godfather, opening his arms in clear invitation. The gesture seemed to shatter something in Sirius—his carefully maintained defenses, perhaps, or simply the wall he'd built around his heart to survive twelve years of hell.

"Harry," Sirius breathed, and then they were embracing, Sirius's arms coming around him with desperate strength.

The hug was everything Harry had imagined and nothing like he'd expected. Sirius was too thin, all sharp angles and prominent bones, but he was real and alive and here. His grip was almost painfully tight, as if he were afraid Harry might disappear if he loosened his hold even slightly.

"I know you didn't do it, Padfoot," Harry whispered against his godfather's shoulder, using the nickname deliberately. "I know you didn't betray my parents. I know you're innocent."

The effect of those words was immediate and devastating. Sirius's breath hitched, and Harry felt warm tears soaking through his robes where Sirius's face was pressed against his shoulder.

"I've waited so long," Sirius said, his voice cracking with the weight of years of suppressed emotion. "So long to hold you like this. To tell you how sorry I am, how I failed you that night."

He pulled back suddenly, his hands gripping Harry's shoulders with gentle desperation. His face was streaked with tears, but his gray eyes burned with intensity.

"I saw what those Muggles did to you," he said, the words tumbling out in a rush. "Before they took me to Azkaban, I saw the bruises, the way you flinched when that horse-faced woman reached for you. I should have prioritized keeping you safe instead of running after that rat! I should have—"

"Sirius, stop," Harry interrupted gently, but his godfather was beyond hearing, caught up in a spiral of guilt and self-recrimination.

"Twelve years!" Sirius continued, his voice rising with anguish. "Twelve years you spent with those monsters while I rotted in a cell, and it's all my fault! If I hadn't been so focused on revenge, if I had just grabbed you and run—"

"SIRIUS!" Harry said more forcefully, his hands coming up to frame his godfather's face. "Stop. Listen to me. None of what happened was your fault. You couldn't have known what would happen. You were doing what you thought was right."

But Sirius was already pulling away, his attention shifting with the manic intensity that Harry recognized as a symptom of his prolonged exposure to Dementors.

"Your friend," he said urgently, struggling to his feet with movements that spoke of months of poor nutrition and inadequate rest. "Weasley's rat—it's Peter! He's been hiding as Scabbers for Merlin knows how long! We have to—"

He started toward the door, but Harry's arms wrapped around him, holding him in place with gentle but implacable strength.

"I know," Harry said simply.

Sirius went very still, his wild eyes focusing on Harry with laser intensity. "You... what?"

"I know Peter is Scabbers," Harry repeated, his voice calm and matter-of-fact. "I know he's been Ron's pet for years. I know he was the one who betrayed my parents, not you."

For a long moment, Sirius simply stared at him, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly. Then his expression shifted, confusion giving way to something approaching impressed disbelief.

"How?" he asked. "How could you possibly know that?"

"It's... complicated," Harry said, choosing his words carefully. "But the important thing is that we need to leave him alone."

"WHAT?!" The word exploded from Sirius with such force that dust motes danced in the moonlight. He tried to pull away again, but Harry's grip remained firm. "Are you completely out of your mind?! He sold out James and Lily! His betrayal killed them! It nearly killed you!"

"I know exactly what he did," Harry said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register that made Sirius pause. "It takes every ounce of self-control I possess not to kill that rat every morning when I see him in Ron's cage. Every time I watch him eat, every time I see him sleeping peacefully while my parents are dead, I want to wrap my hands around his throat and squeeze until—"

Harry cut himself off, taking a deep breath to center himself. When he spoke again, his voice was calmer but no less intense.

"But he needs to be kept alive," he continued, "because he is a rat. And rats are always predictable."

Sirius furrowed his brow, confusion replacing anger. "What do you mean, predictable?"

Before Harry could answer, he reached into his robes and produced six crystal vials, their contents gleaming in the moonlight. Three contained the golden healing potions, while the other three held the rich amber nourishment draughts.

"Three are healing potions," he said, pressing the vials into Sirius's hands. "The other three are nourishment potions. I'm also brewing nutrient potions, but they'll take another two days to finish."

Sirius stared down at the vials in his hands, his expression shifting from confusion to something approaching awe. "You... you made these? Yourself?"

"Your mother would be proud of your work in potions," he said softly, his voice carrying a note of wonder that made Harry's chest tight with emotion.

The comment hit Harry harder than he'd expected. In all his years at Hogwarts, in all his interactions with teachers and friends, very few people had ever complimented his potion-making abilities. Snape certainly never had, despite Harry's gradual improvement over the years. Even Hermione, brilliant as she was, tended to focus on theory rather than practical application.

But Sirius—Sirius who had known Lily Evans, who had seen her brew potions with the same instinctive grace that Harry had inherited—he understood what this achievement meant.

"Thank you," Harry said quietly, his voice rougher than he'd intended.

They stood in comfortable silence for a moment, Sirius carefully examining the potions while Harry gathered his courage for what came next. What he was about to reveal would change everything between them, would shatter whatever preconceptions Sirius might have about his thirteen-year-old godson.

"Sirius," he said finally, his voice carefully neutral. "Can you call Kreacher?"

Sirius's head snapped up, confusion and something approaching alarm crossing his features. "What? Harry, you're not making sense. First you tell me to leave Peter alone, now you want me to call that miserable house-elf? What—"

"Just call him," Harry interrupted gently. "I'll explain everything later, I promise. But right now, I need you to trust me."

Sirius studied his face for a long moment, clearly searching for answers in Harry's expression. Whatever he saw there must have convinced him, because he nodded slowly.

"Kreacher!" he called, his voice carrying clearly through the abandoned house.

The response was immediate—a sharp crack of displaced air, and suddenly a house-elf stood before them. But this wasn't the Kreacher that Harry remembered from his later years, ancient and decrepit and filled with bitter hatred. This Kreacher was merely old, his tennis ball-sized eyes burning with malice as he looked between Sirius and Harry.

"Filthy master calls Kreacher away from his duties?" the elf spat, his voice dripping with contempt. "Calls Kreacher to serve him and the half-blood brat? Kreacher does not want to be here, does not want to look upon the blood traitor and his spawn."

Sirius's eyes flared with rage, his hand moving instinctively toward where his wand would be if he still had one. "You'll hold your tongue, you miserable—"

"Stop," Harry said quietly, raising his hand. "Please, just let me handle this."

Sirius turned to stare at him, betrayal clear in his expression. "Harry, you don't understand what this creature is like. The things he's said about your mother, about—"

"I understand more than you know," Harry said softly, never taking his eyes off Kreacher. "But right now, he's exactly what we need."

He turned his full attention to the house-elf, who was glaring at him with undisguised hatred. "Kreacher, I want you to take Sirius back to Grimmauld Place and patch him up. Get him fed, get him clean, make sure he's healthy."

Kreacher's laugh was like the sound of breaking glass. "Why should Kreacher listen to a half-blood who isn't even a Black? Why should Kreacher care what happens to the blood traitor who has disgraced the noble house of his birth?"

"My grandmother was Dorea Potter née Black," Harry said calmly. "So I am a Black, by blood if not by name. And secondly, I'll help you with Regulus's last wish and destroy the locket."

The effect of those words was immediate and dramatic. Both Kreacher and Sirius went completely still, their eyes widening in shock. The silence stretched on for several heartbeats before Sirius found his voice.

"Regulus was a Death Eater!" he said, his voice sharp with old pain and confusion. "He chose Voldemort over his own family! He—"

"And he betrayed Voldemort in his final days!" Harry shot back, his voice carrying a conviction that stopped Sirius cold. "That's why he was killed! He discovered what Voldemort had done, what he had created, and he tried to stop it!"

Sirius stared at him, mouth agape, while Kreacher began to wail—a sound of pure anguish that seemed to come from the very depths of his soul.

"Master Regulus tried to destroy the Dark Lord's locket," Kreacher sobbed, his usual contempt replaced by raw grief. "Kreacher tried to help, tried to do as Master Regulus commanded, but Kreacher could not destroy it! Time and time again Kreacher tried, but the locket would not break, would not burn, would not yield to any magic Kreacher possessed!"

The house-elf began to rock back and forth, his long fingers pulling at his ears in distress. "Kreacher ought to be punished for his failures! Kreacher could not protect Master Regulus, could not fulfill his final command! Kreacher is worthless, useless—"

"Hey!" Harry said sharply, stepping forward. "No punishing yourself. That's an order."

Kreacher stopped mid-motion, his hands frozen halfway to his ears. He stared at Harry with confusion and something that might have been hope.

"You have my word that I'll destroy the locket," Harry continued, his voice gentle but firm. "But in return, you will not insult anyone based on their blood status, and you will treat everyone with basic respect. Can you do that?"

Kreacher's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "How can Kreacher trust the half-blood's word? Many have promised things to Kreacher, but none have delivered. Why should you be different?"

Harry's hand moved to his forehead, his fingers tracing the lightning bolt scar that had marked him since infancy. When he spoke, his voice was soft and sad.

"Because I have something similar in here," he said, tapping his scar. "Something dark and terrible that shouldn't exist. And I understand what it's like to carry a burden that seems impossible to bear."

Both Kreacher and Sirius were staring at him now, Kreacher with dawning understanding and Sirius with growing alarm.

"What do you have in your scar?" Sirius asked, his voice tight with fear. "Harry, what are you talking about?"

Harry turned to face his godfather fully, knowing that what he said next would change everything between them.

"Do you know about Horcruxes?" he asked quietly.

The color drained from Sirius's face like water from a broken cup. His hand moved unconsciously to his chest, as if he were trying to protect his heart from the very concept.

"Regulus and I..." he said slowly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Our curiosity led us to read about them once, in the restricted section of the Black family library. But Grandfather Arcturus found out and threatened to hunt us down to the ends of the earth if we ever attempted anything so vile."

Sirius paused, horror dawning across his features like sunrise over a battlefield. "Please don't tell me you have one. Please don't tell me that Voldemort has made a Horcrux."

Harry's smile was sharp and bitter, devoid of any warmth or humor. "Seven, actually," he said quietly. "Seven pieces of his soul scattered across the wizarding world, hidden in objects of power and significance."

If Sirius had been pale before, he was now the color of parchment. He stumbled backward until his back hit the wall, his legs seeming to give out beneath him.

"Seven," he repeated, the word falling from his lips like a curse. "Dear Merlin, seven. How is that even possible? The damage to his soul, the destruction of his humanity—how can he still be alive?"

"He's not," Harry said simply. "Not really. What calls itself Voldemort now is barely human, held together by will and dark magic and an obsession with immortality that has consumed everything else he might have been."

Kreacher was staring at Harry with something approaching reverence now, his eyes wide with understanding. "The half-blood—no, Master Harry—he carries a piece of the Dark Lord's soul? Like Master Regulus's locket?"

"Yes," Harry confirmed, his voice steady despite the magnitude of what he was revealing. "The night Voldemort tried to kill me, his Killing Curse rebounded. But not before a piece of his soul latched onto the only living thing in the room—me."

The silence that followed was deafening. Sirius was staring at him with an expression of horror and anguish that Harry had never seen before, while Kreacher had gone completely still, his usual fidgeting replaced by an almost reverent quiet.

"That's..." Sirius started, then stopped, his voice failing him. He tried again. "That's why you want to help Kreacher destroy the locket. Because you understand what it's like to carry something so dark inside you."

"It's more than that," Harry said softly. "The Horcruxes are connected. Sometimes I can feel what Voldemort is feeling, see what he's seeing. It's how I knew about the locket, how I knew what really happened to Regulus."

He turned back to Kreacher, his expression gentle but determined. "Your master died a hero, Kreacher. He discovered what Voldemort had done and tried to stop it, even though he knew it would cost him his life. He deserves to have his sacrifice honored."

Kreacher's eyes filled with tears—the first genuine emotion Harry had ever seen from the ancient house-elf. "Master Regulus was good," he whispered. "Master Regulus tried to do what was right, even when it was dangerous. Even when it meant betraying the Dark Lord."

"Yes," Harry agreed. "And together, we're going to finish what he started. But first, Sirius needs your help. He's been living rough for months, and he needs proper food and medical attention if he's going to be strong enough for what's coming."

Sirius pushed himself away from the wall, his movements slow and deliberate. "Harry," he said, his voice hoarse with emotion. "What you're talking about—destroying Horcruxes, carrying a piece of Voldemort's soul—this is beyond dangerous. This is..."

He trailed off, unable or unwilling to voice what they both knew was true.

"It's why I came here tonight," Harry said quietly. "It's why I needed to see you, to explain everything before—"

He stopped, gathering his courage for what came next. When he spoke again, his voice was calm and steady, as if he were discussing the weather rather than asking for the impossible.

"I need a favor from you, Sirius," he said. "I want you to kill me."

Chapter Text

Chapter 4

1994
Hogwarts

The Great Hall buzzed with the familiar chaos of students returned from the Christmas holidays. Hundreds of voices merged into a symphony of excitement, complaints about assignments, and tales of holiday adventures. The enchanted ceiling reflected the grey January sky outside, heavy with clouds that threatened more snow. Candles flickered in their holders along the four house tables, casting dancing shadows across the stone walls adorned with house banners that swayed gently in the magical drafts.

Harry Potter sat hunched over his dinner at the Gryffindor table, his emerald eyes carefully avoiding the boisterous conversations around him. That morning, he had bottled the nutrient potions and another back of nourishment potions in the Room of Requirement, before carefully extracting and sealing away Ravenclaw’s diadem. He didn’t want mishaps on his last day because he was careless and Voldemort thought it was funny to possess unsuspecting students. He had the diadem and Cloak in his pockets at all times. He wasn’t taking chances.

His gaze swept carefully across the hall, cataloguing faces with the precision of someone who had learned that survival depended on observation.

There, at the Gryffindor table further down, sat Neville Longbottom. The boy's round face was pale, his usual nervous energy replaced by something quieter, more withdrawn. His hands shook slightly as he reached for his goblet, and Harry's heart clenched with recognition. The boy who would one day stand against Voldemort himself was still trapped in the shell of his younger self, unaware of the destiny that awaited him.

At the Slytherin table, Draco Malfoy held court with his usual arrogance, his pale pointed face animated as he regaled his housemates with some tale that had them laughing sycophantically. 

"Harry? Harry, are you listening?" Hermione's voice cut through his brooding thoughts like a knife through parchment.

He turned to face his two best friends, forcing his features into an expression of casual attention. Ron's ears were slightly red from the cold journey back to the castle, his freckled face animated as he attacked his shepherd's pie with the single-minded focus he usually reserved for Quidditch or chess. Hermione sat beside him, her bushy brown hair pulled back in a practical ponytail, her amber eyes bright with concern and indignation.

"Sorry," Harry mumbled, taking a sip of his pumpkin juice. The familiar sweetness did nothing to ease the bitter taste of deception in his mouth. "What were you saying?"

Hermione's expression softened slightly, but her voice remained heavy with worry and anger. "I was telling you about Buckbeak. Hagrid came to see me before dinner - he's beside himself with worry." She leaned forward, lowering her voice so that the other Gryffindors couldn't overhear. "He said that the Ministry is pushing for an execution date. Dumbledore has been working with him to appeal to the Wizengamot, presenting new evidence about what really happened during that Care of Magical Creatures lesson, but..."

She trailed off, her hands clenching into fists on the wooden table. The torchlight caught the angry tears gathering in her eyes.

"But what?" Ron asked through a mouthful of food, though his casual tone didn't hide the concern in his blue eyes.

"But Hagrid thinks it may be futile," Hermione continued, her voice cracking slightly. "Lucius Malfoy has too much influence. He's been calling in favors, making donations to the right people, spreading lies about how dangerous Buckbeak supposedly is. The whole thing is rigged from the start." Her voice rose slightly before she caught herself and glanced around nervously.

"It's complete rubbish!" she continued in a furious whisper. "Buckbeak didn't do anything wrong! He was just defending himself when that - when Malfoy insulted him. Hagrid warned everyone about showing respect to hippogriffs, but did Malfoy listen? Of course not! And now an innocent creature is going to die because Malfoy couldn't follow simple instructions and his father has more galleons than sense!"

Ron swallowed his food and nodded grimly. "Yeah, it's not fair. But what can we do? It's not like we can just march into the Ministry and tell them they're being idiots."

Harry listened to the familiar conversation with a sense of déjà vu so strong it made him dizzy. He remembered this exact moment from his original timeline - the helpless anger, the sense of injustice, the feeling that the adult world was corrupt and broken beyond repair. But now, with the knowledge of what was to come, the conversation took on darker undertones.

He smiled into his cup as he drank the pumpkin juice, the expression cold and bitter. "Sadly, the only person who has real influence here is Dumbledore."

The words came out more harshly than he'd intended, carrying an edge that made both Ron and Hermione stop and stare at him. Ron's fork paused halfway to his mouth, a piece of potato sliding off and landing on his plate with a soft plop.

"You say that as if it's a bad thing," Ron said slowly, his brows furrowing in confusion. He set down his fork entirely, giving Harry his full attention for the first time that evening.

Hermione was studying Harry's face with the intensity she usually reserved for particularly difficult Arithmancy problems. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she took in his expression - the way his jaw was clenched, the bitter twist to his mouth, the shadows that seemed to have taken permanent residence in his green eyes.

"Harry," she said carefully, "Dumbledore is the greatest wizard of our time. He's the only one who stood up to Grindelwald, the only one Voldemort ever feared. If anyone can help Buckbeak, it's him. Why would you think his influence is a bad thing?"

Harry set down his goblet with deliberate care, his fingers white-knuckled around the handle. The weight of his knowledge pressed against his ribs like a living thing, demanding to be released. But he couldn't tell them the truth - not about the time travel, not about Dumbledore's manipulations, not about the war that was coming or the prices they would all pay.

"Dumbledore is a great wizard," Harry replied slowly, each word carefully measured. "But that doesn't make him a good person."

The silence that followed his statement was deafening. Around them, the Great Hall continued its evening bustle - students laughing, cutlery clinking against plates, the occasional screech of an owl delivering late post. But at their small section of the Gryffindor table, the air had gone still and heavy.

Ron stopped eating entirely, which was remarkable enough to draw stares from nearby students. His mouth hung slightly open, showing the remnants of his dinner, before he seemed to remember himself and closed it with a snap.

"Blimey, Harry," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "What's gotten into you? First you're acting strange all through the holidays, and now you're talking about Dumbledore like he's... like he's..."

"Like he's what, Ron?" Harry asked quietly, his green eyes boring into his best friend's face. "Like he's human? Like he makes mistakes? Like he might have his own agenda that doesn't always align with what's best for everyone else?"

Hermione leaned back as if Harry had physically struck her. Her face had gone pale, making her freckles stand out starkly across her nose and cheeks.

"Harry James Potter," she hissed, using his full name in the way she did when she was truly upset. "I can't believe you just said that. After everything Dumbledore has done for you - for all of us! He saved you from the Dursleys every year, he's protected you from Voldemort, he's given you a home here at Hogwarts. How can you sit there and question his motives?"

"Is your mind curse acting up again?" Ron asked suddenly, his voice filled with worry that cut through Harry's anger like a blade through silk.

The concern in his best friend's voice - genuine, caring, completely undeserved given the lies Harry had told them - nearly broke his resolve entirely. Ron reached across the table as if to check Harry's temperature, his freckled face creased with the kind of worry usually reserved for family.

Harry flinched away from the touch, hating himself for the hurt that flashed across Ron's features. But he couldn't bear the kindness, not when he was about to betray them so completely.

The mention of the "mind curse" sent a fresh wave of guilt crashing over him. Three days ago, when he'd returned from his meeting with Sirius in the Shrieking Shack, he had spun them an elaborate lie about Dumbledore's theory regarding a Black family curse affecting his judgment. The words had tasted like ash in his mouth, but he'd forced them out anyway, knowing he needed a cover story for his increasingly erratic behavior.

He had told them that Dumbledore suspected he was being influenced by some ancient Black family magic, something that made him paranoid and suspicious of authority figures. It was a convenient lie - it explained his strange behavior while simultaneously reinforcing their trust in Dumbledore's wisdom and concern for Harry's welfare.

But now, sitting here and seeing the genuine worry in their faces, Harry felt like the worst kind of traitor.

Three days ago...

"I want you to kill me."

"What the fuck do you mean?" Sirius hissed, his eyes widening in shock and horror. Even Kreacher looked at Harry as if he had completely lost his mind and should be carted off to St. Mungo's rather than sitting in a classroom at Hogwarts.

The profanity seemed to echo in the abandoned room, bouncing off the broken walls and settling into the dust-covered floor. Sirius's hands were shaking - whether from emotion, malnutrition, or the lingering effects of Azkaban, Harry couldn't tell.

"With the Killing Curse, might I add," Harry continued conversationally, as if he were discussing the weather rather than his own execution.

"Do you even realize what you're babbling?!" Sirius shouted, his voice cracking with emotion. He took a step forward, his hands clenched into fists, his entire body radiating the kind of desperate energy that came from too many years of imprisonment and helplessness.

Before Sirius could work himself into a full panic, Harry moved forward and grabbed his godfather by the shoulders. Sirius's bones felt fragile under his hands, and Harry had to swallow back a surge of protective anger at what Azkaban had done to the man who should have been his guardian.

"I know exactly what I'm asking you to do," Harry said firmly, looking directly into Sirius's wild grey eyes. "I'm asking you to kill me. But I'll be fine."

Sirius and Kreacher both sputtered in shock, their voices overlapping in a chorus of disbelief and protest.

"Listen," Harry said urgently, giving Sirius a gentle shake. "Just listen to me for a moment."

He pulled out his Invisibility Cloak with one hand while maintaining his grip on Sirius with the other. The silvery fabric seemed to shimmer in the dim light filtering through the boarded windows, and both Sirius and Kreacher fell silent as they stared at it.

"Since when have you known about this cloak, Sirius?" Harry asked quietly.

Sirius's brow furrowed in confusion, his eyes darting between Harry's face and the cloak. "It's a family heirloom," he said slowly. "Passed down through generations of Potters. Your father showed it to me in our first year, once he trusted James and me enough with the secret."

"Right," Harry nodded. "But that doesn't answer my question. When did you first hear about it?"

Sirius was quiet for a long moment, his grey eyes distant as he searched through memories that had been battered by years of Dementor exposure. When he spoke again, his voice was uncertain.

"My first year, like I said. Once James trusted us enough..."

"No," Harry interrupted gently. "You heard about it far before that. You've known about this cloak since your childhood - you just didn't know the Potters had it."

The confusion on Sirius's face deepened, and he released a frustrated growl. "What are you getting at, Harry? My memory isn't what it used to be, thanks to those fucking Dementors."

"Think," Harry urged.

Sirius was quiet for several long minutes, his eyes closed as he concentrated. When he opened them again, there was a spark of recognition.

" Aunt Dorea and Uncle Charlus - they never mentioned it directly. When they realized you knew about the cloak, Uncle Charlus said... he said that if I had any questions about its origins, I should come to him," Sirius said slowly. "But he never elaborated, and then he died before I could ask."

"You've known about it since you were a child," Harry pressed. "But you didn't believe it really existed."

The silence stretched between them, broken only by the wind whistling through the gaps in the walls. Harry could practically see the wheels turning in Sirius's head as he tried to piece together the puzzle.

It was Kreacher who provided the answer, his ancient voice shaking with something that might have been awe or terror.

"The Deathly Hallows," the house-elf whispered.

Sirius's head snapped toward Kreacher so fast Harry worried he might give himself whiplash. Harry, meanwhile, gestured with wide arms as if to say 'exactly.'

"They're nothing but myths," Sirius protested, but his voice lacked conviction. "Children's stories written by Beedle the Bard."

"Are they?" Harry asked quietly. "Have you ever wondered why this cloak hasn't lost its power? It's been in use for what, two decades with my father, and many centuries before that? Normal Invisibility Cloaks fade with time, Sirius. They become opaque, they tear, they lose their magic. But this one..."

He held up the cloak, letting the light play across its surface. Even in the dim, dusty atmosphere of the Shrieking Shack, it seemed to glow with its own inner light.

"This one is as perfect as the day it was made," Harry continued. "The three Peverell brothers - Antioch, Cadmus, and Ignotus - they each received a gift. Antioch got the Elder Wand, the most powerful wand ever created. But he was arrogant, boastful. He was killed in his sleep by a wizard who wanted the wand for himself."

Sirius was listening intently now, his grey eyes wide and focused in a way they hadn't been since his escape from Azkaban.

"The wand passed from hand to hand," Harry continued, his voice taking on the cadence of a storyteller. "Owner after owner, each one meeting a violent end. It eventually made its way to Gregorovich, the wandmaker. But then Grindelwald stole it from him during his rise to power."

"And then..." Sirius's voice was barely a whisper.

"And then Dumbledore defeated Grindelwald in their famous duel," Harry finished. "The Elder Wand has been in Dumbledore's possession ever since."

The implications of what Harry was saying seemed to hit Sirius like a physical blow. He staggered backward, his face pale with shock.

"You're telling me that Dumbledore has the Elder Wand?" he asked incredulously. "That he's been the master of the Deathly Hallows this entire time?"

"One of them," Harry corrected. "The Resurrection Stone was passed down through Cadmus's line. His descendants married into the Gaunt family - they're a branch of the Peverells, you see. The Gaunts fashioned the stone into a ring and passed it down through the generations."

"And where is it now?" Kreacher asked, his voice barely audible.

Harry's expression darkened. "It sits in the ruins of the Gaunt shack, protected by a withering curse and housing a piece of Voldemort's soul."

"A horcrux," Sirius breathed, and Harry nodded grimly.

"Voldemort is related to the Gaunts?" Sirius asked, his voice rising with disbelief.

Harry's smile was bitter and sardonic. "Tom Marvolo Riddle is the son of Merope Gaunt and a Muggle named Tom Riddle. Merope used love potions to seduce the Muggle, and when she stopped giving them to him - hoping he would stay for love of her and their unborn child - he abandoned her. She died in childbirth at a Muggle orphanage, but not before naming her son after his father."

The silence that followed this revelation was deafening. Sirius opened his mouth, then closed it again, repeating the action several times like a fish out of water. Kreacher was doing the same thing, his large tennis-ball eyes wide with shock.

Finally, Sirius found his voice, and when he spoke, it was with a fury that made the air in the room seem to crackle with energy.

"You mean to fucking tell me", he snarled, his voice rising to a shout, "that the fucking Dark Lord who spent years preaching about fucking blood purity and the superiority of purebloods is a fucking half-blood at best? That he might as well be considered a Muggleborn?"

"Yep!", Harry replied, popping the 'p' in a gesture that was pure James Potter.

Kreacher was nodding vigorously, his disgust at Voldemort's hypocrisy evident in every line of his ancient face.

"The irony is beautiful, isn't it?" Harry continued. "All those purebloods who followed him, who believed in his message of superiority, bowing down to someone who would have been their inferior by their own twisted logic."

"Kreacher does not wish to intrude," the house-elf said hesitantly, "but perhaps we should return to the discussion where the young master wants Master Sirius to kill him?"

Harry threw a betrayed look at Kreacher, who had the grace to look somewhat sheepish. Sirius's anger immediately redirected itself toward Harry, his grey eyes blazing with protective fury.

"Right," Sirius said through gritted teeth. "We were talking about you wanting me to commit murder. Care to explain that little request?"

Harry took a deep breath, knowing that the next part of his explanation would be the hardest for Sirius to accept.

"The Cloak ended up with the Potters when Ignotus Peverell's eldest granddaughter, Iolanthe, married Hadrian Potter," Harry began. "It's been passed down through the Potter line ever since."

Sirius nodded impatiently, gesturing for Harry to continue.

"A couple of days ago, I had a conversation with Death," Harry said quietly.

Both Sirius and Kreacher's eyebrows rose to their hairlines.

"You might have heard that I had a... freak incident on Christmas morning?" Harry asked.

Sirius nodded minutely, his face grim. He had indeed heard about it - the entire castle had been buzzing with rumors about Harry Potter collapsing in the Great Hall, his magic fluctuating wildly before he'd been rushed to the Hospital Wing.

"That was because I was flooded with Death's magic," Harry explained. "She's been... monitoring me, you could say."

"You mean to tell me," Sirius said slowly, "that the magic of a supernatural entity is flowing through you? And you're basing your survival on that magic?"

Before Harry could answer, a melodious voice filled the room, causing both Sirius and Kreacher to jump backward in fright.

"I won't let him die this quickly."

The voice belonged to a woman who seemed to materialize from the shadows themselves. She was tall and ethereal, with flowing white hair that moved as if underwater and eyes like pale stars. Her presence filled the room with a sense of ancient power and inevitable finality.

"Sirius, Kreacher," Harry said with false excitement, throwing a dirty look at the entity, "meet Death!"

Sirius's head snapped back and forth between Harry and Death, his mouth working soundlessly as he tried to process what he was seeing. Kreacher had gone completely still, his tennis-ball eyes wide with a mixture of terror and awe.

"This is what I meant about the Killing Curse," Harry continued, as if introducing a supernatural entity was perfectly normal. "When you cast it at me, it will kill the piece of Voldemort's soul that's been lodged in my scar since I was a baby. The horcrux will be destroyed, and I'll survive because Death won't allow me to die."

"Can't you just remove the horcrux from his scar?" Sirius asked Death directly, his voice barely steady.

Death shrugged elegantly and gave what could only be described as a rictus grin.

"That wouldn't be nearly as fun," she replied, her voice like wind chimes in a gentle breeze.

Sirius stared at the supernatural entity with an expression of complete disbelief, then pointed a lazy finger at her while turning to Harry.

"Is she for real?"

"I could take you to the afterlife right now if you'd like to find out exactly how real I am," Death offered helpfully.

"No!" Sirius said quickly, shaking his head so vigorously his tangled hair whipped around his face. "Nope! Thank you very much, but I would quite like to continue living!"

Harry couldn't help but snicker at his godfather's reaction, which earned him another glare.

"But why me?" Sirius continued, his voice desperate. "Harry, you know that using the Killing Curse requires genuine hatred for the victim. I don't hate you! I could never hate you!"

This was the moment Harry had been dreading. The moment when he would have to break Sirius's heart all over again, this time with the truth about the man they had both trusted implicitly.

Harry took a deep breath, steeling himself for what he was about to reveal.

"Dumbledore is a piece of shit," he said bluntly.

The words hung in the air like a curse, and Sirius recoiled as if Harry had struck him.

"Harry, what are you saying?"

"Do you honestly think," Harry continued, his voice growing harder with each word, "that Dumbledore didn't know for the past twelve years that Scabbers was Peter Pettigrew? Nothing happens in Hogwarts without Dumbledore knowing about it. Nothing. He has portraits in every corridor, ghosts reporting to him, house-elves who see everything. Do you really believe that a man as powerful and connected as Albus Dumbledore was completely unaware that an illegal Animagus was living in Gryffindor Tower?"

Sirius's face was growing paler with each word, but Harry wasn't finished.

"And did you know that he was Grindelwald's lover?" Harry asked quietly.

"What?" Sirius whispered.

"Their relationship, their plans for wizard domination - it wasn't just political, Sirius. They were partners in every sense of the word. Their falling out after Ariana's death wasn't because Dumbledore suddenly developed a conscience. It was because they disagreed on methodology. Dumbledore wanted to achieve their goals through subtle manipulation and political maneuvering. Grindelwald preferred direct force and intimidation."

Sirius was shaking his head in denial, but Harry pressed on relentlessly.

"After Grindelwald's defeat, when the International Confederation of Wizards arrested his top officials, do you know what happened to them? Some were executed, yes. But others, the ones with valuable information or useful skills, were quietly released. And do you know who helped arrange their freedom? Who provided them with new identities, safe houses, and protection?"

"No," Sirius breathed.

"Dumbledore," Harry said simply. "He's been harboring former Grindelwald supporters for decades, using them as a network of spies and informants throughout the wizarding world. They feed him information about the International Confederation, about foreign ministries, about anyone who might oppose his vision of how the wizarding world should be run."

"How do you know this?" Sirius asked in a broken whisper.

Harry's expression softened slightly, and for a moment, he looked far older than his thirteen years.

"Because I lost everything to them once," he said quietly. "Everyone I loved, everyone who mattered to me - they all died because I trusted the wrong people, because I believed that the adults in charge had my best interests at heart. I'm not ready to lose everything again."

He reached out and grasped Sirius's hands, his green eyes burning with desperate intensity.

"So please," he said, his voice barely audible. "Four days from now, after dinner in the Great Hall, I want you to kill me. Very publicly, very dramatically. And remember - you won't be killing me. You'll be killing Voldemort, the piece of him that's been living in my scar for thirteen years. Channel all your hatred for him, all your rage at what he did to James and Lily, what he did to you. Use that."

Present

The memory of that conversation weighed heavily on Harry's mind as he sat in the Great Hall, surrounded by the innocent chatter of his classmates. In just a few hours, the plan would be set in motion. Sirius would make his dramatic entrance, there would be chaos and screaming, and then...

And then Harry would die, at least as far as the rest of the world was concerned.

He looked at Ron and Hermione, really looked at them, trying to memorize every detail of their faces. Ron's freckles, scattered across his nose like constellations. Hermione's earnest brown eyes, always so quick to show her emotions. The way they both leaned toward him when they were worried, as if their physical closeness could somehow protect him from whatever was troubling him.

He would have to break their hearts tonight. He would have to make them watch him die, make them believe that Sirius Black - the man they thought was a dangerous murderer - had succeeded in killing the Boy Who Lived. They would blame themselves, would carry the guilt and grief for years to come.

But it was the only way to keep them safe. If Dumbledore ever suspected that Harry had somehow returned from the dead with knowledge of the future, Ron and Hermione would be the first people he would interrogate. And Harry knew all too well what Dumbledore was capable of when he felt threatened.

"I—I think so," Harry stammered in response to Ron's question about the curse, forcing his voice to shake with what he hoped sounded like genuine fear. "I don't want to hurt you. Please, stay away from me. Please."

The terror in his voice wasn't entirely fabricated. He was terrified - not of some imaginary curse, but of what he was about to put his friends through. The pain he was about to cause them would be very real, even if the reason for it was a lie.

Before either Ron or Hermione could respond, Harry bolted from his seat and fled the Great Hall, leaving behind the warmth and light and safety of the place that had been his first real home.

Behind him, he could hear Hermione calling his name, her voice high with worry and confusion. He could hear the scrape of benches as both his friends started to follow him.

But he didn't stop running. He couldn't. In a few minutes, Harry Potter would die, and everything would change forever.

The only question was whether any of them would survive what came next.

The winter evening cast long shadows across the Hogwarts grounds, the snow-covered landscape painted in shades of deep purple and silver under the darkening sky. The ancient castle loomed behind her, its countless windows glowing like warm amber jewels against the stone walls, but Astoria Greengrass felt none of that warmth as she stalked across the frozen grounds toward the Quidditch pitch.

Her breath came out in sharp puffs of white vapor, each exhalation a visible testament to her fury. The cold bit at her cheeks, turning them a bright pink that matched the anger burning in her chest, but she welcomed the sting. It was better than the suffocating atmosphere she'd just escaped from in the Great Hall.

Astoria kicked one of the larger stones jutting up from the snow-covered path, sending it skittering across the frozen ground with a satisfying crack. The sharp sound echoed across the empty grounds, but it did nothing to ease the frustration boiling inside her.

"Bloody hell," she muttered under her breath, her voice carrying more venom than she'd ever allowed herself to express in front of her family. "I don't understand them! No, that's a lie - I understand them perfectly, and they're complete pieces of shit!"

The words felt foreign on her tongue. She'd been raised to speak properly, to maintain the dignity befitting a pureblood daughter of the Greengrass family. But right now, surrounded by nothing but snow and silence, she allowed herself the luxury of honest emotion.

"I love them," she continued, speaking to the winter air as if it could provide the answers she desperately needed, "I love them to pieces, but they're still absolute pieces of shit!"

The contradiction tore at her heart even as she spoke it. How could you love people who made you feel ashamed of your own conscience? How could you care for family members who looked at you with disgust when you showed basic human decency?

As she approached the Quidditch pitch, the towering goal posts rising like skeletal fingers against the darkening sky, Astoria reflected on just how thoroughly her life had changed since September. Saying that her existence since starting Hogwarts had been difficult would be the understatement of the century.

She had been raised in the Greengrass household with very specific expectations. Her father, Cyrus Greengrass, had been an outright supporter of the Dark Lord during the war. Not just a sympathizer or a reluctant follower - an active, enthusiastic supporter who had genuinely believed in Voldemort's vision of wizarding supremacy. Her mother, Lydia, had been a reluctant participant, going along with her husband's beliefs more out of social pressure and fear than genuine conviction, but going along nonetheless.

Her elder sister Daphne had absorbed their father's teachings like a sponge soaking up water. By the time she reached Hogwarts, Daphne had her annoyance and disgust toward Muggleborns down to a fine art. She could deliver cutting remarks about "mudblood" worthiness with the precision of a surgeon's scalpel, and she wore her prejudice like a badge of honor.

It was honestly a miracle that Daphne's best friend from childhood, Tracy Davis, was a half-blood. Astoria hoped that perhaps that early friendship would plant the seeds of doubt that would later blossom into full rebellion against her family's beliefs.

But everything had changed when the Sorting Hat had placed her in Ravenclaw that past September.

The House of wit and learning had opened her eyes in ways she never could have anticipated. Surrounded by students who valued intelligence and creativity above blood status, Astoria had quickly discovered that Muggleborns weren't the inferior beings her family had painted them to be. They were brilliant, funny, kind, ambitious - they were exactly the same as everyone else.

Four months of genuine interaction with Muggleborn students had been enough to completely shatter the worldview she'd been raised with. She'd spent countless hours in the Ravenclaw common room, working on assignments with students like Miranda Clearwater, a Muggleborn who could solve Arithmancy equations faster than most purebloods could cast a simple Lumos. She'd laughed until her sides hurt at the jokes told by Stephen Cornfoot, whose Muggle father was apparently something called a "stand-up comedian." She'd been comforted through homesickness by Lisa Turpin, whose gentle wisdom had nothing to do with her blood status and everything to do with her generous heart.

These experiences had changed her, fundamentally and irrevocably. And unfortunately, her transformation hadn't gone unnoticed.

She'd been seen publicly hanging around with these Muggleborn students, laughing with them, studying with them, defending them when other students made snide comments. Word had quickly gotten back to her sister and, through Daphne, to her parents. The children of her father's former Death Eater associates - Theodore Nott, Blaise Zabini, Marcus Flint - had been particularly vocal about their disapproval.

Astoria had hoped desperately that her Christmas holidays would provide some respite, some opportunity to reconnect with her family and perhaps even help them see reason.

How naive she had been.

The memory of Christmas dinner still made her stomach churn with a mixture of anger and humiliation. The Notts had been invited over because her father had recently discovered that his "perfect little Daphne" and Theodore Nott had been carrying on some sort of romantic relationship. Cyrus Greengrass, ever the opportunist, had seen this as a chance to solidify the family's social position through a strategic betrothal arrangement.

The evening had started pleasantly enough. The Greengrass Manor dining room had been decorated with tasteful silver and green arrangements, the long mahogany table set with the family's finest china and crystal. House-elves had prepared an elaborate feast, and the conversation had been the sort of refined small talk that pureblood families specialized in.

But then Lucius Malfoy had arrived, unannounced and clearly agitated.

Astoria still remembered the way the temperature in the room had seemed to drop when Malfoy swept through the doors, his long platinum hair perfectly styled despite the obvious urgency of his visit. His pale eyes had been cold and calculating as he'd explained his predicament to her father.

"Cyrus," Malfoy had said in his smooth, cultured voice, "I find myself in need of a favor. This business with the hippogriff - it's become more complicated than anticipated. Dumbledore is rallying support in the Wizengamot, and I need every vote I can get to ensure that justice is served."

Her father had listened with the careful attention he always gave to matters of political importance. Astoria had watched his face, seeing the calculations running behind his eyes as he weighed the potential benefits and costs of involving himself in Malfoy's affairs.

"It's not just about the creature," Malfoy had continued, his voice taking on a more urgent tone. "It's about principle. If we allow Dumbledore to overturn a legitimate sentence handed down by the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures, what message does that send? That his word carries more weight than proper legal channels? That he can manipulate the system whenever it suits his purposes?"

"I understand your position, Lucius," her father had replied carefully. "But my influence in the Wizengamot is limited. What exactly are you asking of me?"

"I need you to use your connections, call in whatever favors you can. Speak to Parkinson, to Bulstrode, to anyone who might be wavering. Remind them that this is about more than just one hippogriff - it's about maintaining the proper order of things."

That was when Astoria had made her fatal mistake.

Unable to control her mounting annoyance at what she was hearing, she had spoken up without thinking.

"But what if Draco really was in the wrong?" she had said, her voice carrying clearly across the suddenly silent dining room. "What if he provoked the hippogriff? What if Professor Hagrid and Headmaster Dumbledore are telling the truth about what happened?"

The silence that followed her words had been deafening. Every adult at the table had turned to stare at her with expressions ranging from shock to outrage to disgust.

Lucius Malfoy's pale eyes had fixed on her with the intensity of a snake preparing to strike. "I beg your pardon, Miss Greengrass," he had said, his voice deadly quiet, "but are you suggesting that my son is a liar?"

Astoria's cheeks had burned with embarrassment and anger, but she had pressed on. "I'm suggesting that Draco can be... difficult. He's always looking for ways to cause trouble, especially for students he considers beneath him. It's entirely possible that he insulted the hippogriff and brought the attack on himself."

"Astoria!" her father had snapped, his voice sharp with warning.

But she had been beyond caring about propriety or family politics. "Everyone knows Draco is a spoiled brat who thinks the world revolves around him. Maybe if he had actually listened to Professor Hagrid's instructions instead of showing off, none of this would have happened!"

Theodore Nott had chosen that moment to join the conversation, his dark eyes gleaming with malicious satisfaction.

"This is exactly what I was telling you about, Mr. Greengrass," he had said, his voice dripping with false concern. "Astoria has been spending far too much time with the wrong sort of people at school. All those Muggleborn friends of hers are clearly having a negative influence on her judgment."

"What are you talking about?" Astoria had demanded, though she had a sinking feeling she already knew.

"Oh, come now," Theodore had continued with a nasty smile. "Everyone in Slytherin knows about your little friendship group. Miranda Clearwater, Stephen Cornfoot, Lisa Turpin - all Mudbloods, every one of them. And there you are, laughing and studying with them as if they were your equals."

"They are my equals!" Astoria had shot back, her voice rising despite her father's increasingly murderous expression. "They're brilliant and kind and worth ten of you!"

"Astoria Elizabeth Greengrass!" her father had roared, rising from his chair so quickly that his wine glass had toppled over, spilling dark red liquid across the white tablecloth like blood. "You will not speak that way in this house!"

But Theodore hadn't been finished. With the cruelty that only teenage boys seemed capable of, he had delivered his final blow.

"Face it, Astoria," he had said with obvious relish. "You're becoming a mudblood lover yourself. You're a traitor to your own blood, a disgrace to everything purebloods stand for. Maybe you should just marry one of your precious Muggleborn friends and complete your fall from grace."

Astoria had been about to launch herself across the table at him, propriety be damned, but her father's glare had stopped her cold. The look in Cyrus Greengrass's eyes had promised consequences far worse than anything Theodore Nott could dish out.

The rest of the evening had passed in tense silence, with Astoria sitting rigid in her chair while the adults continued their political discussions as if nothing had happened. But she had felt the weight of their disapproval pressing down on her like a physical force.

Later that night, after the Notts and Malfoy had finally left, her father had summoned her to his study. The room had been dark except for the flickering light from the fireplace, casting dancing shadows on the walls lined with ancient tomes and family artifacts.

"Sit," he had commanded, his voice colder than she had ever heard it.

Astoria had perched on the edge of one of the leather chairs facing his massive oak desk, her hands folded tightly in her lap to keep them from shaking.

"I am going to say this once, and only once," her father had begun, his grey eyes - so like her own - boring into her with terrifying intensity. "Your behavior tonight was unacceptable. Embarrassing our family in front of the Malfoys and the Notts, spouting off about blood equality like some sort of Muggle-loving radical - it ends now."

"But Father—" she had started to protest.

"I am not finished," he had cut her off sharply. "You will cease all contact with these Muggleborn students immediately. You will apologize to Mr. Malfoy for your disrespectful comments about his son. And you will remember that you are a Greengrass, with all the responsibilities and expectations that name carries."

Astoria had felt tears of frustration burning behind her eyes. "I can't just stop being friends with people because of their blood status. They haven't done anything wrong!"

Her father had leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper that was somehow more terrifying than any shout.

"Let me make something very clear to you, daughter. You will conform to this family's values, or you will cease to be part of this family. Disownment is not an empty threat - it is a very real consequence that has befallen other family members who forgot their place. Do I make myself understood?"

The threat had hit her like a physical blow. Disownment meant losing everything - her name, her inheritance, her family, her entire identity. She would be cut off completely, left to make her own way in the world with nothing but the clothes on her back.

Faced with that terrifying prospect, Astoria had nodded silently and retreated to her room, where she had spent the rest of the Christmas holidays in relative silence.

But Daphne hadn't been content to let the matter rest there.

Her sister had sought her out the next morning, finding her in the manor's conservatory where Astoria had been trying to lose herself in a book.

"You made quite the spectacle of yourself last night," Daphne had said without preamble, settling into the chair across from her with the graceful poise that had been drilled into both girls from birth.

"I spoke my mind," Astoria had replied quietly, not looking up from her book.

"You made a fool of yourself and embarrassed our entire family," Daphne had corrected sharply. "Theodore was right - you've been corrupted by those Muggleborn friends of yours. You've forgotten who you are, what you represent."

"Maybe I've finally figured out who I want to be," Astoria had shot back.

Daphne's laugh had been cold and brittle. "Oh, please. You're eleven years old, Astoria. You have no idea who you want to be or what the real world is like. These childish ideals about blood equality - they're just that. Childish. Wait until you see what happens when Mudbloods try to take positions that rightfully belong to purebloods, when they try to change our traditions and our way of life."

"Or maybe you'll realize that talent and character matter more than bloodlines," Astoria had countered, finally looking up from her book to meet her sister's cold blue eyes.

"You're pathetic," Daphne had said with genuine disgust. "You're a disgrace as a sister and as a Greengrass. You need to seriously rethink your life choices before you destroy yourself and take the rest of us down with you."

Now, standing alone on the snow-covered grounds with those words still echoing in her memory, Astoria felt the familiar surge of anger and frustration.

She had hoped - foolishly, perhaps - that being in different Houses would give her some respite from her sister's disapproval. But even at school, the conflict followed her.

Earlier that day, she had been walking to Ancient Runes with Stephen Cornfoot and Lisa Turpin when Theodore Nott had deliberately shoulder-checked Stephen in the corridor.

"Watch where you're going, Mudblood," he had sneered loud enough for everyone nearby to hear.

Before Astoria could respond, Stephen had just smiled sadly and continued walking, clearly used to such treatment. But Lisa had squeezed Astoria's arm, silently asking her not to make a scene.

Then, just minutes ago in the Great Hall, Daphne had outdone herself.

Astoria had been sitting at the Ravenclaw table with Miranda, Stephen, and Lisa, working on their Transfiguration homework while they ate. The conversation had been light and friendly - Miranda had been telling them about a letter from her Muggle grandmother, who apparently collected ceramic frogs and had sent pictures of her latest acquisitions.

They had all been laughing at Miranda's impression of her grandmother's enthusiasm when Daphne had walked past their table with Pansy Parkinson and Millicent Bulstrode.

"Honestly," Daphne had said in a voice pitched to carry, "some people have no sense of proper associations. Consorting with Mudbloods like they're actual people - it's embarrassing to watch."

The laughter at their table had died instantly. Miranda's face had gone pale, Stephen had looked down at his plate, and Lisa had reached over to squeeze Astoria's hand in warning.

But Astoria had felt something snap inside her chest.

"Excuse me?" she had said, rising from her seat with her wand already sliding into her hand.

Daphne had turned with exaggerated surprise, as if she hadn't realized her sister was sitting right there.

"Oh, hello, Astoria," she had said with false sweetness. "I was just making an observation about the declining standards of social interaction at this school. Some people seem to have forgotten the importance of associating with their own kind."

"My friends," Astoria had said through gritted teeth, "are worth more than you could ever hope to be."

"Your friends," Daphne had replied with a laugh like breaking glass, "are Mudbloods who don't belong in our world. The sooner you remember that, the better off everyone will be."

That was when Astoria had seriously considered hexing her own sister right there in the Great Hall, propriety and consequences be damned.

Instead, she had grabbed her things and fled, needing to get away before she did something that would get her expelled.

Which brought her to her current location, stomping around the Quidditch pitch in the gathering darkness, taking out her frustrations on any innocent stones that happened to cross her path.

The pitch itself was a study in winter desolation. The goal posts stood like ancient sentinels against the darkening sky, their metal surfaces glinting dully in the fading light. The stands were empty and somehow forlorn, snow piled in the corners and clinging to the wooden benches where enthusiastic students would sit during matches. The grass beneath the snow was dormant, waiting for spring to bring it back to life.

Astoria made her way to the center of the pitch, where the ground was more level and she could properly pace out her anger. The snow crunched under her boots with each step, the sound sharp and satisfying in the winter silence.

"What do you think?" she asked absentmindedly, addressing a snow owl that had been perched on the base of one of the goal post stands, apparently unbothered by her dramatic arrival. "I love my family, but I also love my friends. How am I supposed to choose between them?"

The yellow-eyed snow owl tilted its head to one side, studying her with the kind of ancient wisdom that owls seemed to possess. After a moment, it gave what could only be described as a shrug, spreading one wing slightly before settling back into its previous position.

The gesture was so perfectly dismissive, so utterly unconcerned with her emotional turmoil, that Astoria couldn't help but laugh despite her anger.

"Oh, brilliant," she said sarcastically, throwing her hands up in exasperation. "Thank you so much for that profound insight. 'Don't care' - truly, you should consider a career in counseling."

She had been turning to head back toward the castle, not wanting to worry Professor Flitwick or her friends (and yes, despite everything, she still worried about Daphne too), when she noticed a figure running across the grounds toward her.

At first, it was just a dark shape against the snow, but as it drew closer, she was able to make out more details. It was a student, definitely male, running with the kind of desperate urgency that suggested something was seriously wrong. His dark hair was flying behind him, and even from a distance, she could see the tension in his posture.

As he drew nearer, Astoria was able to identify him: Harry Potter, the famous Boy Who Lived, looking absolutely frantic as he sprinted across the frozen grounds.

She had heard the rumors about Potter that had been circulating since the Christmas holidays. Something about him threatening a portrait after being affected by one of the Black family curses - apparently cast by the escaped murderer Sirius Black himself. The story varied depending on who was telling it, but the general consensus was that Potter was becoming increasingly unstable and potentially dangerous.

Looking at him now, racing across the snow-covered grounds with wild desperation in his green eyes, Astoria could believe those rumors might have some truth to them.

Her first instinct was to simply ignore the Golden Boy and continue on her way back to the castle. Harry Potter's problems were his own, and she had quite enough drama in her life without getting involved in whatever crisis he was currently experiencing.

She had taken exactly three steps toward the castle when something large and black came barreling out of nowhere, nearly knocking her flat on her back.

"What the—" she started to exclaim, stumbling backward and raising her wand instinctively.

The thing that had almost bowled her over was enormous - easily the size of a bear, with thick black fur and intelligent eyes that seemed far too knowing for an ordinary animal. For a moment, she thought it might be some sort of magical creature that had wandered onto the grounds.

Then the creature began to change.

Astoria watched in fascinated horror as the animal's form shifted and elongated, fur receding and limbs reshaping themselves with liquid fluidity. Within seconds, where the massive dog had been, a man now stood.

Not just any man - Sirius Black, the notorious mass murderer who had escaped from Azkaban prison.

Her knees gave out immediately, terror shooting through her veins like ice water. She had seen pictures of Black in the Daily Prophet - the wild hair, the gaunt features, the eyes that seemed to burn with madness and malice. But seeing him in person was infinitely more terrifying than any photograph could convey.

He was tall and skeletal, his dark hair hanging in tangled mats around a face that might once have been handsome but was now carved hollow by years of imprisonment and torment. His robes were tattered and dirty, clearly stolen from some unfortunate victim. But it was his eyes that truly frightened her - grey eyes that held depths of pain and fury and something that looked disturbingly like desperate determination.

Those crazed grey eyes fixed on her face, and for a moment, it seemed like Black wanted to say something to her. His mouth opened slightly, and she caught a glimpse of what might have been confusion or even concern flickering across his features.

But before he could speak, Harry Potter's voice rang out across the pitch.

"Sirius Black!" Potter shouted, his voice carrying clearly in the cold air as he came to a halt several feet away from where Astoria was sprawled in the snow.

There was something strange about Potter's tone - anger, yes, but also something else. Something that sounded almost like... relief? But that couldn't be right. Why would anyone be relieved to encounter a dangerous escaped prisoner?

As Potter drew closer, Astoria noticed him sneak a glance in her direction, his green eyes widening with what looked like genuine horror when he saw her there. Then his gaze darted toward the castle, where Astoria now realized a small group of people had emerged and were running toward them across the grounds.

Even from this distance, she could make out the distinctive figures of at least two professors - Professor McGonagall's tartan robes were unmistakable, and beside her was what looked like Professor Snape's billowing black cloak. There were also what appeared to be two students, though she couldn't identify them from so far away.

"What a day this is!" Black suddenly cackled, his voice carrying the kind of manic glee that made Astoria's skin crawl. "I will finally be able to finish what my Master started!"

But even as the words left his mouth, Astoria couldn't shake the feeling that something was off about his performance. The craziness seemed forced somehow, as if he were playing a role rather than genuinely expressing madness. His posture was too controlled, his movements too calculated for someone supposedly consumed by murderous insanity.

Potter apparently didn't share her suspicions. With a snarl of pure fury, he whipped out his wand and immediately launched into action.

"Expelliarmus!" he shouted, the red light of the disarming spell streaking through the winter air toward Black.

"Stupefy!" followed immediately after, the stunning spell's scarlet beam cutting through the darkness like a bolt of lightning.

Black moved with surprising grace for someone who was supposed to be half-mad from years in Azkaban. He deflected both spells almost lazily, his own wand - where had he gotten a wand? - moving in fluid arcs that spoke of extensive training and natural talent.

"What are you trying to do?" Black mocked, his voice carrying clearly across the pitch. "Kill a mosquito? You'll have to do better than that if you want to avenge your parents, Potter!"

The taunt seemed to strike home. Potter's face contorted with rage, and Astoria could see his entire body trembling with emotion.

Black raised his wand and began casting in rapid succession, sending half a dozen spells streaking toward Potter. Even from her position on the ground, Astoria could tell that these weren't ordinary hexes - the magic felt dark and dangerous, carrying undertones that made her teeth ache and her magic recoil instinctively.

Potter managed to dodge the first three spells with impressive agility, throwing himself sideways and rolling through the snow to avoid the crackling bolts of malevolent energy. But the other three were coming too fast and from too many different angles.

"Protego!" Potter shouted, bringing up a shimmering shield just in time to intercept the remaining curses.

The impact was tremendous. Even from several yards away, Astoria could hear Potter grunt with effort as the dark spells crashed against his magical barrier. His feet slid backward in the snow, leaving deep furrows, and she could see his arms shaking with the strain of maintaining the shield against such powerful magic.

When the barrage ended and Potter finally let his shield drop, he was clearly exhausted. He hunched forward, one hand braced on his knee while the other kept his wand pointed steadily at Black. His breathing was coming in harsh gasps that formed clouds of vapor in the cold air.

"Tired already?" Black asked with another crazed cackle. "From just that little exchange? And to think that you're supposed to be the one who killed my Master! How disappointing."

He paused dramatically, raising his wand with theatrical flourish. Even knowing what was coming, Astoria wasn't prepared for the words that followed.

"Avada Kedavra!"

The Killing Curse erupted from Black's wand like a bolt of sickly green lightning, the most evil spell in existence racing toward Harry Potter with inevitable finality. Astoria screamed in absolute horror as the unforgivable curse struck its target, and Potter's body dropped to the snow-covered ground like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

The sound that tore from her throat was pure terror and disbelief. She had just watched someone die - not just anyone, but Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the symbol of hope for an entire generation of witches and wizards.

From the direction of the castle, she could hear other voices raised in anguish - "Harry!" and "Mr. Potter!" - as the approaching group of professors and students witnessed the unthinkable.

But Black wasn't finished with his performance.

"Bombarda!" he shouted, sending a bright blue explosion curse streaking toward the approaching rescue party.

The spell struck the ground just in front of the group, sending up a massive shower of snow, dirt, and magical energy. Astoria could see the professors throwing up hasty Protego shields to protect themselves and their students from the blast.

"Kreacher!" Black called out suddenly, his voice carrying an odd note of urgency that didn't quite match his previous theatrical madness.

Astoria felt the world lurch around her as the distinctive pull of apparition took hold. The last thing she saw was the snow-covered Quidditch pitch, the fallen form of Harry Potter, and the horrified faces of the professors racing toward them across the grounds.

Then everything dissolved into the uncomfortable sensation of being squeezed through a tube, and they were gone.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5

1994
London

Grimmauld Place

The ancient floorboards of Grimmauld Place groaned under the sudden weight of three bodies as Kreacher's apparition deposited them unceremoniously into the entrance hall. The wallpaper, a gaudy silver and green monstrosity depicting writhing serpents, seemed to mock their arrival with its perpetual movement in the flickering candlelight. Dust motes danced in the air, disturbed by their abrupt entrance, and the stale smell of a house long abandoned filled their nostrils.

Harry felt the familiar nauseating pull of magical transportation end and immediately doubled over, his knees hitting the worn Persian carpet with a dull thud. Every bone in his body ached as if he'd been trampled by a herd of hippogriffs, and his scar burned with a persistent, throbbing pain that made his vision blur at the edges.

"Bloody hell," he gasped, pressing his palms against the cold floor as waves of agony coursed through him. The aftereffects of the staged Killing Curse were far worse than he'd anticipated. His entire nervous system felt like it was on fire, every nerve ending screaming in protest.

"Sirius," Harry managed through gritted teeth, his voice hoarse and strained, "remind me to hex you into next week if I ever have such idiotic thoughts again." He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the spinning room and the persistent ringing in his ears.

But instead of Sirius's usual bark of laughter or a sarcastic retort, there was only a heavy silence that stretched far too long. When Harry finally forced his eyes open, squinting against the dim light cast by the ornate candelabras lining the hallway, he saw his godfather standing frozen near the doorway, his face pale as parchment.

"Pup," Sirius's voice was tight with barely controlled panic, "we have a problem. A big one."

Harry's stomach dropped, and it wasn't from the lingering effects of their magical transportation. "What do you mean?" He struggled to push himself up on his elbows, his arms shaking from the effort.

Sirius ran a trembling hand through his long, matted hair, his grey eyes darting nervously between Harry and something behind him. "Kreacher... he made a mistake. A bloody catastrophic mistake." His voice cracked slightly on the last word.

"What kind of mistake?" Harry's heart began to race, adding to his already considerable discomfort. "Sirius, you're scaring me. Just tell me what happened."

"He pulled someone else along," Sirius said quietly, his usual bravado completely absent. "A girl. She... she was there when we staged your death, and Kreacher mistakenly included her in the apparition."

The words hit Harry like a physical blow. Their plan – their carefully orchestrated, desperate plan – had been so foolproof in theory. After one full day of arguing, pleading, and outright begging, he had finally convinced Sirius to use his notorious reputation as an escaped convict in their scheme. The idea had been beautifully simple: Sirius would publicly cast the Killing Curse at Harry in full view of witnesses, appearing to murder the Boy Who Lived while actually destroying the horcrux fragment embedded in Harry's scar.

It should have worked perfectly. Harry would appear dead to the wizarding world, Dumbledore's manipulative hold over him would be broken, and most importantly, a piece of Voldemort's soul would be destroyed. They had accounted for everything – the location, the timing, even the angle of the curse to ensure maximum dramatic effect.

Everything except for an innocent bystander being caught in Kreacher's emergency apparition.

"Oh no," Harry breathed, horror washing over him in cold waves. "Oh no, no, no. This is bad, Sirius. This is really bad." He struggled to sit up, ignoring the protest from his battered body. "Who is she? Did you recognize her?"

Harry turned around, his movements slow and painful, and felt his blood turn to ice in his veins. There, crumpled on the dusty floor like a discarded doll, was a girl who couldn't have been more than eleven or twelve years old. Her small frame was unnaturally still, her face pale and peaceful in unconsciousness. But it was her features that made Harry's world tilt dangerously on its axis.

Raven-black hair fanned out around her head like a dark halo, and even in the dim candlelight, Harry could make out the delicate bone structure, the slightly pointed chin, the aristocratic nose. He knew this face. He knew it intimately, though he had never seen it so young, so unmarked by the trials that would come.

"Astoria," he whispered, the name falling from his lips like a prayer or a curse. "Astoria Malfoy née Greengrass."

He stared at the unconscious girl, his mind reeling with the implications. This was Draco's future wife. Scorpius's mother. A woman who, in his original timeline, had been kind to Harry despite their families' history. A woman who had died far too young, leaving behind a husband and son who loved her desperately.

And now she was here, in 1994, fifteen years before she was supposed to meet her future husband, lying unconscious on the floor of Grimmauld Place because of Harry's desperate gambit.

"You know her?" Sirius asked, his voice sharp with concern. He moved closer to the girl, his booted feet silent on the ancient carpet. "How do you know her, Harry? She's just a child."

Harry's throat felt dry as sandpaper. How could he explain without revealing the truth about his time travel? How could he make Sirius understand the magnitude of what they had done?

"She's..." Harry started, then stopped, his mind racing. "She's a Greengrass. Astoria Greengrass. I've... I've heard of her family. They're purebloods, Death Eaters."

Sirius knelt beside the girl, his expression softening despite the gravity of their situation. "She's so young," he murmured, his voice filled with the kind of pain that only someone who had lost their own childhood could understand. "What was she even doing at the Quidditch Pitch? I had spotted her, but we were already too in."

"I don't know," Harry admitted, though his mind was already working through the possibilities. Had she been visiting someone? Had she been in the wrong place at the wrong time?

Sirius reached out tentatively, his scarred fingers hovering just above the girl's forehead. "She's out cold," he murmured, and Harry could hear him muttering the incantation for a diagnostic charm under his breath. The tip of his borrowed wand glowed a soft blue as he waved it over Astoria's still form.

The results of the charm appeared in shimmering letters above her body, and Sirius's face grew even more grave as he read them. "Magical exhaustion, mild concussion, and..." He paused, his grey eyes meeting Harry's with concern. "She's been exposed to something dark. Something that's left traces in her magical signature."

Harry felt his chest tighten with guilt. "The blood curse," he said quietly. "She has terminal blood curse, if I’m not wrong."

"Merlin's beard," Sirius breathed, running both hands through his hair in agitation. "Harry, what have we done? We've dragged an innocent child into this mess, and now we find she’s has terminal curses..." He trailed off, unable to voice the possibilities.

Harry closed his eyes, feeling the weight of responsibility settle on his shoulders like a lead cloak. Every decision he had made since arriving in this time had led to this moment, and now an innocent girl was paying the price for his desperate gambit to change the future.

"Kreacher," Harry called out, his voice stronger than he felt. The ancient house-elf appeared with a soft pop, his tennis ball-sized eyes reflecting the candlelight as he bowed low.

"Master Harry calls for Kreacher?" The elf's voice was hoarse and reluctant, but there was something different in his tone – a grudging respect that hadn't been there before Harry had shown him Regulus's locket.

"Put her to bed in one of the rooms," Harry instructed, gesturing toward Astoria's unconscious form. "Make sure she's comfortable and safe. And then..." He paused, steeling himself for what came next. "While you're at it, bring me the locket. Regulus's locket. It's time to destroy it."

Kreacher's eyes widened, and for a moment, Harry thought he saw a flash of something that might have been hope cross the elf's ancient features. "Master Harry will destroy the locket that killed Master Regulus?"

"Yes," Harry said firmly, managing a small smile despite the circumstances. "I'll destroy it tonight."

Kreacher nodded vigorously, then moved to Astoria with surprising gentleness. He gathered her small form in his arms with the care one might show a sleeping infant, and with another soft pop, they disappeared.

Sirius had been watching this exchange with growing curiosity, his eyebrows raised in obvious confusion. "Since when does Kreacher listen to you without complaint? And what's this about a locket? Harry, there's clearly a lot you haven't told me."

Harry sighed, feeling suddenly exhausted by the weight of secrets and half-truths. "It's complicated, Sirius. There's so much you don't know, so much I haven't been able to tell you." He reached into his robes, his fingers closing around a simple wooden box. "But first, we need to deal with the horcruxes."

"Horcruxes? Plural?" Sirius's voice was sharp with alarm. "Harry, how many of these damned things are there?"

"Seven," Harry said quietly, pulling the box from his pocket and placing it carefully on the dusty floor between them. "Or rather, there were seven. We've just destroyed one – the piece that was in my scar. Now we need to deal with two more."

He opened the box with careful fingers, revealing the seemingly innocent circlet that lay within. Ravenclaw's diadem sat on the bare wood, its bronze surface dull in the candlelight, but Harry could feel the malevolent presence emanating from it like heat from a fire.

"Did you get the diadem?" Sirius asked, though his eyes never left the cursed object.

"Obviously," Harry replied, though there was no humor in his voice. "Took me three tries to find it in the Room of Requirement. Voldemort thought he was so clever, hiding it among all those discarded objects."

Kreacher chose that moment to return, appearing with his customary pop. In his gnarled hands, he held a heavy golden locket, its surface tarnished with age but still recognizable as the Slytherin family heirloom it had once been.

"Master Regulus's locket," Kreacher said solemnly, holding it out to Harry with something approaching reverence. "Kreacher has kept it safe, as Master Regulus commanded."

Harry took the locket carefully, feeling the immediate assault on his mind as the horcrux sensed his presence. Whispers of doubt and despair tried to worm their way into his thoughts, but he pushed them aside with the practiced ease of someone who had dealt with such attacks before.

He placed the locket next to the box containing the diadem and stepped back, his hand instinctively moving to his wand.

"Two horcruxes," Sirius said quietly, staring at the objects with undisguised revulsion. "How do we destroy them? I don't think the Killing Curse works on inanimate objects, even if they do possess fragments of living souls."

Harry nodded grimly. "You're right. We need something else. Something that can destroy magic itself." He paused, considering their options. "Basilisk venom would work, but I don't exactly have any lying around. And then there's Fiendfyre, but..."

"You want to cast Fiendfyre indoors?!" Sirius interrupted, his grey eyes wide with horror. "Harry, that's cursed fire! It's uncontrollable! You could burn down half of London!"

"Of course not," Harry snapped back, though he had to admit the thought had crossed his mind in his more desperate moments. "We need to destroy them tonight, Sirius. We don't know if Astoria will be able to handle the influence of two horcruxes. The longer they're here, the more dangerous it becomes for all of us."

He paused, an idea forming in his mind. It was risky – incredibly risky – but it might be their only option.

"Death!" Harry called out suddenly, his voice echoing in the confines of the ancient house.

Sirius jumped backward, his borrowed wand immediately in his hand, his face a mask of alarm and confusion. "Harry, what the hell are you—"

Before he could finish his question, the temperature in the room dropped precipitously. Frost began forming on the windows, and their breath became visible in small puffs of vapor. The candles flickered ominously, their flames dancing in a wind that couldn't possibly exist indoors.

And then she appeared.

Death materialized from thin air like a figure stepping out of the shadows themselves. She was exactly as Harry remembered her – tall and ethereal, with flowing white hair that seemed to move of its own accord and eyes the color of fresh snow. Her ballgown, an elaborate creation of white silk and silver thread, seemed to shimmer with its own inner light.

Sirius made a strangled sound in the back of his throat, his face going pale as parchment. His wand trembled in his grip, though Harry suspected it was more from shock than fear.

"Or we have her," Sirius managed to say, his voice barely above a whisper. He was staring at Death with the wide-eyed expression of someone witnessing something that shouldn't be possible, even in the wizarding world.

Death's unnaturally white eyes flicked to Sirius for a moment, and Harry saw his godfather shiver involuntarily at the contact. "Sirius Black," she said, her voice like the whisper of wind through a graveyard. "We meet again."

"You called me here for a purpose, Peverell. What is it you require?"

Harry gestured toward the two horcruxes. "I need to destroy them. Tonight. But I don't have basilisk venom, and Fiendfyre is too dangerous to use indoors."

Death glided closer to the objects, her ballgown rustling like autumn leaves. She studied them for a long moment, her expression unreadable. "I cannot take his soul pieces yet," she said finally, her voice carrying a note of regret. "They still exist in the plane of the living. Even though I am making myself visible to you, even though I can interact with you, Peverell, I cannot take anyone's soul on a whim. If it were so simple, I would have killed Herpo the Foul and Tom Riddle as soon as they created their first horcrux."

She turned to face Harry fully, her white eyes boring into his. "My power cannot directly interact with objects in your plane of existence. Only magic wielded by living beings can affect them here."

Harry felt understanding dawn on him like a slow sunrise. "You want me to use your magic to destroy them," he said slowly. "Death is the end of all things."

Death's lips curved in what might have been a smile, though it was impossible to tell if it was meant to be reassuring or terrifying. "Very good, Peverell. You begin to understand."

Harry closed his eyes, trying to center himself, trying to feel for the foreign magic that Death had spoken of during their first encounter in that strange realm of bones and black flames. He remembered the grey skies, the desolate landscape, the overwhelming sense of finality that had permeated everything.

Minutes passed as Harry searched within himself, trying to distinguish between his own magical core and the power that Death had somehow granted him. He could feel his own magic – warm and familiar, like a hearth fire on a winter night. But try as he might, he couldn't sense anything that felt foreign or different.

"I can't seem to find it," Harry said finally, opening his eyes in frustration. "I can feel my own magic clearly, but I can't sense anything that feels like yours."

Death looked at him with an expression that clearly said she had expected this outcome. "And why do you think that my magic would feel different from yours?" she asked, her tone taking on the quality of a teacher instructing a particularly slow student.

Harry blinked in confusion. "Because... because it's death magic? Because it's not mine originally?"

"Magic is magic, child," Death said patiently. "Yes, the natures and applications may differ, but at its core, magic is simply energy waiting to be shaped by will and intent. Living beings mold this energy into forms they can comprehend and utilize. Magic is just magic until you impose your intent upon it."

She gestured gracefully toward Harry's wand. "Do not your teachers instruct you to visualize your spells? Does not your silent casting depend entirely on visualization and intent? The words are merely a crutch, a way to focus the mind on what you wish to accomplish."

Harry and Sirius exchanged wide-eyed glances, the implications of Death's words sinking in slowly.

"So that means..." Sirius started, his voice uncertain. "So that means anyone could potentially use your magic? Any wizard or witch?"

Death's laugh was like the sound of wind chimes made of ice. "Death magic is not simply a matter of intent, Black. The Killing Curse, as you wizards have named it, is merely a fragment – a pale shadow – of what visualization in the realm of Death can accomplish. When you cast that curse, you channel your hatred, your desire to end a life. But there is so much more to Death than simply wishing someone would die."

She moved closer to Harry, her presence filling the room like a cold fog. "To truly wield the power of endings, one must understand not just destruction, but the necessity of it. The beauty of it. The mercy that can be found in a peaceful end."

Harry felt a chill that had nothing to do with the supernatural cold emanating from Death's presence. He remembered their first meeting, remembered the words she had spoken in that desolate realm.

"Death is the end of all things," he said slowly, the words coming to him as if from a half-remembered dream. "But death is also the beginning of all things. Everyone who is born will come to your embrace sooner or later."

Death nodded approvingly. "And?"

Harry closed his eyes, recalling more of that strange conversation. "I will die. Sirius will die. Kreacher will die." He opened his eyes and met Death's gaze steadily. "But not today. Today is one of Tom's days."

He raised his borrowed wand, pointing it at the two horcruxes, and tried to reach for that memory of black flame and endless grey skies. He tried to accept the power he had felt in Death's realm, to embrace the concept of endings.

But nothing happened.

The horcruxes sat there, untouched and unaffected, their malevolent presence unchanged. Harry could feel sweat beading on his forehead despite the supernatural cold in the room.

"Is something supposed to happen?" Sirius asked after a long, uncomfortable silence had stretched between them.

Death sighed, a sound like wind through an empty house. "Your core contains phoenix feather," she explained, her tone patient but tinged with disappointment. "Phoenix feathers symbolize rebirth after death. While this might seem to align with the true meaning of death, they are actually symbols of life – of life that refuses to end, of souls that will never truly come to me even when their bodies fail."

She gestured toward Harry's wand with one pale hand. "Phoenix are, in essence, natural horcruxes. They represent the antithesis of true death. You cannot channel my power through something that is fundamentally opposed to everything I represent."

Harry stared at his wand in dismay, understanding flooding through him. "That's why the Elder Wand contains thestral hair," he said suddenly, the pieces clicking into place. "Thestrals can only be seen by those who have witnessed death. They're connected to your realm in a way that phoenixes never could be."

Death's smile was genuine for the first time since her arrival, transforming her ethereal features into something almost warm. "Very good, Peverell. You are learning."

Harry turned to Sirius, who had been following this exchange with growing amazement. "Sirius, can I borrow your wand?"

Sirius blinked in surprise, then nodded slowly. "It's not really mine anyway," he admitted with a bitter laugh. "I nicked it off a guard when I escaped from Azkaban. Figured he wouldn't be needing it anymore."

He handed the wand over without hesitation, though Harry could see the concern in his grey eyes. Harry could feel the difference immediately – this wand felt different in his hand, less familiar but somehow more... responsive to what he was trying to accomplish.

Harry pointed the borrowed wand at the two horcruxes, closing his eyes and reaching once again for that memory of black flame and grey desolation. This time, he didn't try to find foreign magic within himself. Instead, he simply imagined the black fire he had seen in Death's realm – fire that consumed not just physical matter, but the very essence of things.

There was a small spark, barely visible, and then a stream of black flame erupted from the wand's tip. The fire was unlike anything Harry had ever seen – it didn't flicker or dance like normal flames, but moved with deliberate purpose, flowing like liquid darkness toward the two horcruxes.

The moment the black fire touched the locket and the diadem, two ear-piercing shrieks filled the room. The sound was like the screams of the damned, full of rage and terror and desperate, clawing desperation. Tom Riddle's mutilated soul fragments rose from the objects in streams of sickly green smoke, their forms writhing and twisting in obvious agony.

Death extended her hand, and a vortex of pure magical energy spiraled outward from her palm. The vortex passed harmlessly through all the furniture in the room, leaving everything untouched, but it seized the escaping soul fragments with inexorable force, drawing them toward Death's waiting grasp.

Harry collapsed to one knee as the supernatural magic finished its work, the borrowed power taking a severe toll on his already battered body. Every muscle in his frame ached as if he had been struck by lightning, and he could taste blood in his mouth where he had bitten his tongue.

Sirius was at his side in an instant, strong arms wrapping around Harry's shoulders to keep him from falling completely. "Easy there, pup," he said softly, his voice filled with concern. "I've got you."

Harry leaned gratefully into his godfather's support, his breathing labored and his vision swimming at the edges. The effort of channeling Death's power had been like trying to contain a hurricane in a teacup.

Death examined the two writhing soul fragments in her hand with an expression of cold satisfaction. "You performed better than I expected," she said to Harry, her voice carrying a note of approval. "You are still mortal, still bound by the limitations of flesh and blood. Channeling my magic will never be easy for you."

She gave the squirming souls a look of such pure, terrifying malice that even Sirius shuddered. "I believe these two deserve... special treatment," she said, her voice taking on a quality that made the temperature in the room drop even further. "They have caused so much suffering, have perverted the natural order for far too long. I think a few centuries of very personal attention from me would be... appropriate. And your artifacts are unharmed. Death also means not taking souls before their time."

And with that, she vanished, taking the soul fragments with her and leaving behind two personal artifacts of the Founders.

"I pity You-Know-Who's soul," Sirius muttered, helping Harry to his feet and supporting him toward a nearby couch. The ancient furniture groaned under their combined weight as they settled onto the dusty cushions.

"You know," Sirius continued, his voice thoughtful, "I've seen a lot of terrifying things in my life. Dementors, werewolves in full transformation, Bellatrix when she's really lost her temper. But that expression on Death's face? That was something else entirely."

Harry managed a weak laugh, though it came out more like a cough. "She doesn't forgive easily," he agreed. "And she really doesn't like people who try to cheat her."

Kreacher appeared with his usual pop, carrying a steaming mug of Pepper-Up Potion. The ancient elf approached Harry with something approaching gentleness, offering the potion without his usual grumbling or complaints.

"Master Harry has destroyed the dark objects," Kreacher said, and there was something in his voice that Harry had never heard before – gratitude. "Kreacher is... pleased."

Harry accepted the potion gratefully, downing it in one go despite its awful taste. Almost immediately, he felt some of his strength returning, though he was still far from fully recovered.

"Thank you, Kreacher," Harry said sincerely. "I know how much that locket meant to you. I know what it represented."

The elf's tennis ball-sized eyes filled with what might have been tears. "Master Regulus would be proud," he said quietly. "The dark object that killed him is finally destroyed."

After Kreacher disappeared again, Sirius turned to Harry with a mixture of pride and concern on his weathered features. "That was incredible, pup. Terrifying, but incredible. Though I have to ask – where did you learn to do that? And how do you know so much about these horcruxes?"

Harry was quiet for a long moment, staring into the dying embers of the fire that had destroyed the cursed objects. He knew that this moment had been coming, knew that he would eventually have to tell Sirius at least part of the truth.

"I've been waiting for the right time to tell you this," Harry said finally, his voice heavy with exhaustion and the weight of secrets. "I waited until we were out of Hogwarts, until we were somewhere safe where no one could overhear us."

Sirius leaned forward, his grey eyes intent and concerned. "Tell me what, Harry? You've been dropping hints and making cryptic comments for days now. What is it you're not telling me?"

Harry took a deep breath, steeling himself for what he was about to reveal. "The reason I know so much about the horcruxes, the reason I was able to plan this whole elaborate scheme, the reason I know things I shouldn't know..." He paused, meeting Sirius's gaze directly. "Sirius, I didn't meet Death by accident. I didn't just stumble into her realm during some random magical accident."

Sirius's expression grew even more serious, his hands clasping together tightly. "Go on."

"I tried to break one of the most fundamental laws of magic," Harry continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "I tried to travel through time. Not just a few hours with a Time-Turner, but years. Decades." He swallowed hard. "And Death... she wasn't too happy about it."

The silence that followed was deafening. Sirius stared at Harry for a long, long moment, his face cycling through a range of emotions – shock, disbelief, concern, and finally, a strange sort of understanding.

"Time travel," Sirius repeated slowly, as if testing how the words sounded. "You're telling me that you've been to the future?"

Harry nodded miserably. "The year 2025, to be specific. I lived through a war, Sirius. A terrible war where we lost so many people. Where we made so many mistakes that could have been avoided if only we had known..."

A small smile appeared on Sirius's face, surprising Harry completely. "Well," he said softly, "that explains a lot, doesn't it? The way you sometimes seem to know things you shouldn't, the way you talk about people like you've known them for years, the way you look at me sometimes like you're seeing a ghost."

He reached out and placed a gentle hand on Harry's shoulder. "Tell me everything, pup. We have all night, and after what I've just witnessed, I think I can handle whatever you have to say."

Harry felt a weight lift from his shoulders that he hadn't even realized he'd been carrying. "It's a long story," he warned.

"The best ones always are," Sirius replied with a grin that reminded Harry painfully of the man his godfather could have been, should have been, if circumstances had been different. "Start from the beginning. And don't leave anything out."

As Harry began to speak, telling the story of a future that would now never come to pass, the candles in Grimmauld Place burned lower, casting dancing shadows on the walls. Outside, London slept, unaware that the fate of the wizarding world had just shifted in ways that would echo through the years to come.

And upstairs, in a comfortable bed that Kreacher had prepared with unusual care, a young girl named Astoria Greengrass slept peacefully, her dreams undisturbed by the magnitude of the changes that had just been set in motion around her.

Astoria groaned as her senses returned to her in pieces, each awakening nerve ending sending sharp protests through her small frame. The dull ache that had settled into her bones felt like she'd been trampled by a herd of centaurs, and she stretched her limbs experimentally, wincing as muscles protested the movement. Had she fallen asleep curled up in some impossible position in the Ravenclaw common room? The soreness suggested she'd been unconscious far longer than a simple afternoon nap.

She shifted in the bed, seeking a more comfortable position to sink back into blissful unconsciousness, when suddenly her eyes snapped open like a portrait coming to life. The final memories before everything went black crashed into her mind with the force of a Bludger to the skull – the Quidditch Pitch, the flash of green light, Potter crumpling to the snow covered ground like a discarded rag doll, and then... nothing.

Her heart hammered against her ribs as she took in her surroundings with wide, darting eyes. This wasn't the familiar blue and silver sanctuary of her dormitory. The room around her was undeniably luxurious – the kind of opulence that spoke of old wizarding money and centuries of accumulated wealth. Rich mahogany panels lined the walls, their dark wood gleaming with the patina of age and careful maintenance. Ornate silver fixtures caught what little light filtered through the room, casting dancing shadows that seemed to writhe with a life of their own.

The bed beneath her was impossibly soft, draped in silk sheets that whispered against her skin like liquid moonlight. Deep emerald curtains hung from the four-poster frame, their fabric so fine it seemed to shimmer in the dim light. Yet despite the evident luxury, there was something inherently unsettling about the space – a darkness that seemed to seep from the very walls themselves, as if the room had witnessed too many secrets, too many whispered conversations in the dead of night.

What struck her most forcefully was the complete absence of windows. No cheerful morning light, no glimpse of the outside world – just walls that seemed to press inward with their windowless gaze. The air itself felt heavy, tinged with the scent of old parchment, candle wax, and something else she couldn't quite identify – something that made her skin crawl with inexplicable dread.

Her eyes swept the room frantically until they landed on a familiar sight that made her heart leap with relief. There, placed carefully on an antique side table with mother-of-pearl inlays, lay her wand. Her precious Ash wood and Thunderbird Tail Feather wand – eleven and three-quarter inches of stubborn, temperamental magic that had given Ollivander himself pause when he'd handed it to her that fateful day in Diagon Alley.

"Rather tricky, this one," the old wandmaker had murmured, his silver eyes twinkling with a mixture of fascination and concern. "Ash wood is loyal, but demands respect. Combined with Thunderbird tail feather... well, it will be powerful, Miss Greengrass, but it will test you at every turn. The wand chooses the witch, but sometimes it takes time for both to recognize the truth of that choice."

And oh, how right he had been. The wand had been nothing but trouble since her arrival at Hogwarts, responding to her magic with all the enthusiasm of a flobberworm faced with a particularly tedious Potions essay. Her first term grades had suffered tremendously in practical work, each failed spell feeling like a personal betrayal. The wand would spark and sputter, occasionally producing spectacular failures that left her classmates snickering behind their hands.

Professor Flitwick had been kind about it, his squeaky voice filled with understanding as he'd pulled her aside after yet another disastrous Charms lesson. "Don't lose heart, Miss Greengrass," he'd said, his tiny hand patting her shoulder with surprising warmth. "I've seen this before with particularly powerful wands. It's not rejecting you – it's testing you. When it finally recognizes your worth, your magical potential will be... quite remarkable, I suspect."

Even Professor McGonagall, stern as she was, had offered a rare moment of encouragement. "Patience, Miss Greengrass. Some of the most powerful witches and wizards in history struggled with temperamental wands in their youth. It will come."

But it was her father's words that echoed most clearly in her mind as she reached for the wand with trembling fingers. "Never be impatient with a difficult wand, Astoria," he'd said during one of their conversations in his study, surrounded by the dark tomes and artifacts that marked their family's ancient lineage. "A wand that challenges you is often preparing you for greater things. Your grandmother's wand took two years to fully bond with her, and she became one of the most formidable witches of her generation."

Astoria gripped her wand tightly, feeling the familiar warmth of the wood against her palm, the subtle vibration of the Thunderbird feather core responding to her magic. For once, it felt... cooperative. Perhaps fear had finally aligned their purposes.

Approaching the heavy oak door, she raised her wand with a steady hand and whispered, "Alohomora." The spell flowed from her wand like liquid silver, and she heard the satisfying click of tumblers falling into place. Her father's lessons echoed in her mind like a mantra of survival.

"First rule when visiting any of the Sacred Twenty-Eight families, Astoria," he'd said, his voice carrying the weight of centuries of pure-blood politics and the darker truths that came with it. "Never touch anything with your bare hands. Every doorknob, every piece of furniture, every seemingly innocent decorative object could be cursed to kill you in ways that would make the Cruciatus Curse seem like a gentle tickle. These families didn't survive this long by being trusting or careless. Paranoia is a virtue, and caution is what separates the living from the dead."

The door creaked open with a sound like old bones settling, and Astoria stepped silently into the hallway beyond. The corridor was just as opulent as the room she'd left behind – portraits lined the walls, their occupants thankfully asleep or absent, gilt frames gleaming in the light of floating candles that cast dancing shadows along the deep burgundy wallpaper. The carpet beneath her feet was thick enough to muffle her footsteps, woven with intricate patterns that seemed to shift and writhe in her peripheral vision.

And then the aroma hit her like a physical force, making her mouth water despite every logical thought screaming that she was in mortal danger. The scent was incredible – rich, savory, complex layers of herbs and spices that spoke of careful preparation and culinary expertise. Her stomach, which she hadn't even realized was empty, clenched with sudden hunger so intense it made her dizzy.

'Focus, Tori! Focus!' she screamed at herself mentally, her grip tightening on her wand until her knuckles went white. 'You are possibly in Black's house, and he has abducted you! He's a mass murderer, a servant of You-Know-Who, and you are completely at his mercy!'

But even as her mind raced with terror and survival instincts, she couldn't help but silently thank her father for those additional lessons he'd given her before her departure to Hogwarts. The ones he'd made her swear never to mention to her mother or sister, taught in the depths of the family vault where the wards were strongest and no one could overhear.

"These are not spells they will teach you at school, Astoria," he'd said, his usually warm eyes cold and serious as he'd demonstrated wand movements that seemed to twist reality itself. "They are curses that have kept our family alive for centuries, passed down from parent to child in times of greatest need. I pray to Merlin you never have cause to use them, but if you do... do not hesitate. Hesitation is death in our world."

She'd practiced those curses until her wand arm ached, until the movements became as natural as breathing, until she could cast them wandlessly in a pinch. Dark magic, some would call it, but her father had been adamant: "Survival is neither light nor dark, my dear. It simply is."

Moving like a ghost through the shadowy hallway, Astoria made her way toward the staircase, each step calculated to avoid the creaking boards that might betray her presence. The aged wood beneath the carpet groaned softly with the weight of centuries, and she found herself holding her breath with each footfall, praying to whatever deities might be listening that the house's bones wouldn't sing out her location.

As she descended, the voices became clearer, floating up from what was clearly the kitchen. The sound of actual conversation, rather than the monologue of a madman talking to himself, struck her as oddly... normal. Almost reassuring, if she could forget for a moment that one of those voices belonged to a man who had supposedly betrayed his best friends to their deaths.

"Another dish!" came a voice, bright with what sounded like genuine joy and enthusiasm. The tone was so at odds with what she expected from a deranged killer that it made her pause mid-step. That had to be Black – but he sounded... happy? Almost boyish in his excitement.

"Kreacher had restocked everything just yesterday!" replied a second voice, this one carrying the distinctive cadence and grammar patterns of a house-elf. The creature sounded long-suffering but not particularly distressed, as if this was a familiar routine rather than the ravings of a madman holding it captive.

Astoria's mind raced as she processed this information. 'So Black used his house-elf to transport us out of Hogwarts?' The realization hit her like a bolt of lightning. Of course! House-elves could apparate through Hogwarts' wards – it was one of the most basic facts about the castle's defenses, mentioned in passing in several of her textbooks. They served the castle itself, not any individual wizard, which meant they could come and go as needed for their duties.

She mentally face-palmed at her own temporary stupidity. 'Of course we are able to use our own house elves! Why can't someone use one to get past Hogwarts' defenses?! The wards are designed to keep out wizards and witches, not the magical creatures that maintain the castle!'

But this realization also brought a glimmer of hope. 'At least Black is busy eating,' she thought, her father's tactical lessons rising to the surface of her mind. 'If I can get the jump on him, catch him completely off-guard while he's relaxed and distracted, I might be able to incapacitate him long enough to find a way out of here and back to Hogwarts. The element of surprise is worth a dozen powerful spells.'

Her hand found the cold brass doorknob, and she took a deep, steadying breath. Through the slight gap at the bottom of the door, she could see the warm, golden light of the kitchen beyond, could hear the gentle clink of cutlery against plates, the soft bubble of something simmering on a stove. It all seemed so domestic, so peaceful – which made it all the more terrifying.

With a surge of Gryffindor-worthy courage that would have surprised her Ravenclaw housemates, Astoria threw open the door and stepped into the kitchen with her wand raised high. The sight that greeted her was exactly what she'd expected – a man sitting with his back to her, dark hair falling to his shoulders, completely relaxed and unprepared for attack.

A Blasting Curse would end this quickly and decisively. It was one of the spells her father had taught her, one of the ones that walked the line between acceptable magic and the truly unforgivable. In a life-or-death situation, he'd told her, there was no such thing as going too far.

"Confringo!" she shouted, putting every ounce of her magical power behind the curse. The spell erupted from her wand in a brilliant flash of fiery orange light, crackling with deadly energy as it streaked across the kitchen toward its target.

She watched in what felt like slow motion as Black's head snapped around, his eyes – startlingly familiar gray eyes that reminded her of old family portraits – widening in absolute horror as he registered the incoming curse. His hand flew to his pocket, desperately seeking his wand, but she could see he wouldn't be fast enough. The curse was barely two feet away from him when—

A ladle.

A simple, ordinary kitchen ladle flew through the air as if thrown by an invisible hand, positioning itself directly between Black and her Blasting Curse with impossible precision. The moment the wooden implement intercepted the spell's path, it began glowing with the distinctive blue-white light of a Protego charm, expanding into a shimmering shield that looked utterly absurd but functioned perfectly.

The Blasting Curse impacted the shield with a sound like thunder, and what should have been a devastating explosion that would have reduced half the kitchen to smoking rubble was instead contained and redirected. But that wasn't the end of it – before she could even process what had happened, a dragon's head made entirely of water materialized from thin air, jaws gaping wide as it swallowed the explosion whole. The magical fire that should have incinerated everything in a ten-foot radius disappeared into the watery maw with barely a whisper of steam, as if her most powerful curse was nothing more than an annoying spark.

The casual dismissal of her magic – magic that had taken her months to master, that represented some of the most advanced spellwork she was capable of – felt like a slap in the face. Someone had just treated her best effort like it was a first-year's misfired Lumos charm.

Before she could even begin to understand what had happened, she felt the familiar tug of an Expelliarmus spell crashing into her. Her wand was ripped from her grasp with enough force to make her fingers burn, and the spell's secondary effect sent her flying backward into a cabinet with bone-jarring impact. Her vision exploded into white-hot pain as her back connected with solid wood, and she crumpled to the floor clutching her sides, gasping for air that wouldn't come.

"Ma—! Greengrass!" came a startled voice, much closer than Black's position at the table should have allowed. Through the haze of pain, she heard the rapid sound of footsteps rushing toward her, and she forced her eyes open to find herself staring into the most impossible sight of her life.

Emerald green eyes. Eyes like polished jade, like the deepest forest pools, like the killing curse itself. Eyes she knew as well as her own reflection, because she'd seen them every day for months across the Great Hall, in Defense Against the Dark Arts class, in the corridors of Hogwarts.

Harry Potter's eyes. But Harry Potter was dead. She'd seen him die.

"Kreacher! Get some pain relieving and healing potions from our stock!" Black's voice commanded from somewhere behind the impossible boy kneeling beside her. She could hear the distinctive pop of house-elf apparition, but her entire world had narrowed to those familiar, very much alive green eyes staring at her with concern and... was that guilt?

"How are you alive?!" The words burst from her lips before she could stop them, her voice cracking with shock and disbelief. "Black killed you with the Killing Curse! I saw you die! I saw you fall!"

Another soft pop announced the house-elf's return, and a small, gnarled hand extended a crystal vial filled with an iridescent potion toward her. But Astoria found herself staring at it with deep suspicion, her father's warnings about trusting anything in the house of potential enemies echoing in her mind. The liquid could be anything – a poison, a truth serum, a sleeping draught, or worse.

"Take it. It isn't poisoned," Potter – impossible, dead, supposedly murdered Potter – interrupted her paranoid thoughts, his voice carrying a strange weight of authority that seemed far too mature for a fourteen-year-old boy. "We will discuss your haphazard ride along and my survival later."

Astoria felt a hysterical laugh bubble up in her throat. What was the worst that could happen now? She was disarmed, completely at the mercy of Sirius Black – a supposed mass murderer – and an apparently undead Harry Potter who shouldn't exist. Perhaps dying by poison would be an easier fate than whatever they had planned for her.

The potion slid down her throat like liquid warmth, and almost immediately she could feel it working, the sharp pain in her sides fading to a dull ache and then disappearing entirely. Her breathing eased, and the white-hot agony that had been radiating from her back settled into nothing more than a mild tenderness.

"Good! The breakfast is ready," Potter announced with jarring cheerfulness, actually clapping her on the back as if they were old friends rather than... whatever they were. "You have been out for the entire night!"

The casual normalcy of his tone, combined with the impossible fact of his existence, made her temper flare despite her precarious situation. "And you have been dead for the same amount of time," she snarked back, unable to keep the acidic comment from spilling out. "I shouldn't be surprised that Black dabbled in necromancy."

The sound that came from Black was so unexpected that it made her jump – a high, pitiful whine like a kicked puppy that had been denied its favorite treat. The sheer patheticness of it from a man she'd been taught to fear as one of the most dangerous dark wizards alive was so jarring that she found herself staring at him in bewilderment.

"Let's just cut back on our snarks, shall we?" Potter's voice had gone flat and dangerous, his green eyes fixing both her and Black with a stare that seemed to see right through them to their souls. There was something in that look that made her shiver – an ancient weariness that had no place in the eyes of a boy who should barely be old enough to take his O.W.L.S.

As he placed a plate of food in front of her at the table, she caught the aroma again and her stomach practically roared with hunger. Whatever he'd cooked smelled like heaven itself, rich and complex and absolutely nothing like the simple fare she'd expected from a teenage boy living rough with a fugitive.

"So," Potter said, settling into his own chair with the easy grace of someone completely comfortable in his surroundings, "which answers do you want first?"

"How are you alive?" The question burst from her lips before she could even consider what else she might want to know. "You don't seem like an inferius to me." She studied his face intently, looking for the telltale signs of reanimated dead – the pale, waxy complexion, the unnatural stillness, the lifeless eyes. But Potter's skin had a healthy flush, his eyes were bright and alert, and she could see the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

Potter chuckled, a sound of genuine amusement that sent another jolt through her already reeling worldview. "Have you read the story about the Three Brothers from Beedle the Bard?" he asked, his tone taking on the cadence of someone settling in to tell a long and complicated tale.

She frowned in confusion but nodded. Every wizarding child knew those stories – they were as fundamental to magical education as learning to hold a wand properly. But what could a children's fairy tale possibly have to do with Potter's impossible resurrection?

"The Peverells did exist," Potter continued, his voice dropping to a more serious register. "Potters are their descendants – which branch, though, I can't tell you now. Let's just say that Death and I have a working arrangement."

Before she could even begin to process the implications of that statement – Death? The actual personification of Death from the stories? – a sharp shriek cut through the air like a knife.

"Death!" The voice was unmistakably that of an owl, but owls weren't supposed to talk, and the single word was delivered with such perfect clarity and obvious intelligence that it made her blood run cold.

A magnificent snowy owl materialized in the kitchen with the distinctive crack of apparition, its feathers ruffled with what could only be described as indignation. Both Sirius and Astoria yelped in shock – house-elves could apparate, but owls? That was impossible. Meanwhile, Kreacher let out a terrified squeak and dove under the table, his large ears flattening against his skull.

"You will send people to their death if you keep doing that, Hedwig!" Potter admonished the owl with the exasperated tone of someone who'd had this conversation many times before. Astoria's memory supplied the name – yes, this was Potter's owl, the one that had delivered his mail throughout their time at Hogwarts. But she'd never seen any indication that the bird was anything more than an unusually intelligent pet.

"And since when can you apparate?" he added, his brow furrowing with what looked like genuine confusion. The owl puffed out her chest with unmistakable pride, as if she'd just mastered a particularly difficult piece of magic and was expecting praise for her achievement.

"I didn't know any owls could talk," Black remarked, blinking rapidly as if trying to determine whether he was dreaming or hallucinating. His voice carried a note of hysteria that suggested he was reaching the limits of how much impossible information he could process in one morning.

"They don't," Potter answered with a casual shrug that suggested talking, apparating owls were just another Tuesday in his life. "Death never mentioned that Hedwig was included in the arrangement we had, but she has taken to terrorizing Pettigrew and whoever happens to be in the vicinity when she's in a mood."

"Isn't Pettigrew dead?" Astoria asked, her voice climbing higher with each word as yet another impossibility was casually dropped into the conversation. "Didn't you blow him to smithereens, Black?"

The look that passed between Potter and Black was heavy with shared knowledge and old pain. Potter's expression darkened, and when he spoke, his voice carried a bitter edge that made him sound decades older than his supposed fourteen years.

"Pettigrew was our Secret Keeper," he said, and the simple statement hit the room like a physical blow. "Except the little shit had been a Death Eater almost immediately after he graduated from Hogwarts. You might know him better as Ron Weasley's rat, Scabbers. All the charges against Sirius – including the twelve Muggles who died in that explosion – are Pettigrew's doing."

Astoria's spoon, loaded with what had been a delicious bite of whatever Potter had prepared, stopped halfway to her mouth as her brain struggled to process this information. "Excuse me?" Her voice came out as barely a whisper. "Are you telling me that there was a Death Eater living in Hogwarts for three entire years, and no one knew about him? Not the Headmaster, not the teachers, not anyone?"

The implications were staggering. If what Potter was saying was true, then a servant of You-Know-Who had been living in the Gryffindor dormitory, had access to all the students, had been in a position to gather intelligence and report back to his master for years. The security breach was so massive, so fundamental, that it shook her faith in everything she'd believed about the safety of Hogwarts.

"Dumbledore knew," Potter responded, and those two words hit her like a physical blow. Her mind went completely blank, unable to process the casual way he'd just destroyed another pillar of her worldview.

She felt like she was standing at the edge of a precipice, staring down into an abyss that contained truths too terrible to contemplate. The world she'd grown up in, the simple narrative of good and evil that had shaped her understanding of the wizarding world, was crumbling around her with each revelation.

"Why didn't he do anything?" The words came out as barely a whisper, her voice hoarse with shock and dawning horror. If Dumbledore – the great Albus Dumbledore, defeater of Grindelwald, the most powerful wizard alive – had known about a Death Eater in Hogwarts and done nothing...

"Why does it matter to you?" Black's voice cut through her spiraling thoughts like a blade, harsh and accusatory. "Your father is a Death Eater anyway. Having your Master's minion so close to the Boy Who Lived must have been quite convenient for your family's cause."

The words hit her like a slap, and she felt her face flush with anger and humiliation. But before she could formulate a response, Potter's voice cracked through the air like a whip.

"Sirius." The single word carried such authority and warning that Black actually flinched. Potter's green eyes had gone hard as emeralds, fixed on his godfather with clear disapproval.

But Black glared back defiantly, his jaw set in stubborn lines. "I'm telling you, Harry, we should keep her as a hostage. At least Greengrass won't help You-Know-Who if he has some love for his daughter."

"We aren't doing that, Sirius," Potter countered, his voice carrying the finality of someone who was not going to be argued with. "She's a kid. I'm not dragging children into this mess. She's free to leave whenever she wants to, but only after she gives an Unbreakable Vow that she will never reveal that I'm still alive until after I choose to show myself publicly."

"She's a Death Eater spawn," Black retorted, his voice rising with frustration and what sounded like genuine fear. "You let her walk out of here now, and in a few years she'll come back with the Dark Mark burned into her arm, ready to kill us both on her master's orders."

"And then there will be no difference between Tom and us!" Potter roared, and suddenly the very air in the room became oppressive, thick with magical pressure that made it difficult to breathe.

Astoria gasped, her lungs working overtime as the atmosphere turned heavy as molasses. The magical energy radiating from Potter was unlike anything she'd ever experienced – raw, primal, and absolutely terrifying in its intensity. It pressed against her from all sides, making her skin crawl and her magic recoil in instinctive fear. Even Black, for all his supposed power and experience, was struggling, his face pale and strained as he fought for each breath.

The crushing presence disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared, leaving them all gasping and shaken. Potter was breathing hard, whether from anger or the effort of containing whatever he'd just unleashed, she couldn't tell. But both she and Black were looking at him with poorly concealed fear – that display of raw magical power was far beyond anything a fourteen-year-old should be capable of, even one with Potter's reputation.

"I'm sorry, Padfoot," Potter said, his voice tired and heavy with regret. "But you don't know how it feels to have a child targeted just to keep you under control."

Black's expression softened immediately, and he nodded with understanding that spoke of shared experiences and old wounds. "I know, pup. I know."

There was clearly more to this story, layers of meaning and history that she wasn't privy to. The way they looked at each other, the weight of their shared silence, suggested secrets and sorrows that went far deeper than anything she could guess at.

"I'm a disappointment to my father anyway," Astoria said with a shrug, surprised by how calm her own voice sounded. She took another spoonful of her breakfast, using the familiar motion to ground herself in the midst of all this chaos. "According to him, I shouldn't be fraternizing with Mudbloods who poison our society, and yada yada. Same old pure-blood nonsense that's been drilled into me since birth."

She paused, considering how much to reveal. These two had just casually shared earth-shattering secrets with her – perhaps it was time to offer some honesty in return.

"He gave me an ultimatum before I left for Hogwarts," she continued, her voice growing stronger with each word. "Be a proper pure-blood daughter who knows her place and follows the family line, or cease to be a Greengrass. And honestly? Between my insufferable sister Daphne and her snot-faced boyfriend Theodore Nott, I was already leaning toward choosing my own path."

Black looked at her skeptically, his gray eyes searching her face for signs of deception. "Black sheep of your family?" he asked, his voice carrying a droopy smirk that suggested he knew something about family disappointment himself. "Hard to believe, considering your bloodline."

"I believe her," Potter said quietly, his green eyes boring into hers with an intensity that made her squirm. She had the distinct impression that he was seeing far more than just her surface thoughts – wandless Legilimency, her mind supplied with a jolt of alarm. If he could read her mind without her knowledge, then every thought, every secret, every carefully hidden truth was potentially open to his inspection.

"Anyway," Potter continued, seemingly satisfied with whatever he'd found in her mind, "you are free to leave any time you wish. All I ask is an Unbreakable Vow that you'll never let anyone know about my survival, and you'll say that you escaped from Black after he held you captive in an abandoned manor in Little Hangleton."

"That's oddly specific," Black voiced what she was thinking, his brow furrowing with confusion.

"Well, there is the old Riddle Manor there," Potter said with a smirk that didn't reach his eyes, understanding dawning on Black's face like sunrise. Seeing her obvious confusion, Potter pulled out his wand – when had he retrieved it? – and wrote a name in glowing letters in the air: 'Tom Marvolo Riddle'.

"Isn't he our Head Boy from the 1940s?" Astoria asked, frowning as she tried to recall the details from the trophy room displays. "The one with the Special Services Award?" She had a vague memory of a photograph showing a handsome, dark-haired boy accepting some sort of commendation, but she'd never paid much attention to the old school records.

Potter nodded grimly and, with a casual wave of his wand, rearranged the floating letters to spell out: 'I Am Lord Voldemort'.

The revelation hit her like a physical blow. She stared at the glowing letters, her mind reeling as she processed the implications. The Dark Lord, the most feared wizard in recent history, the monster who had nearly destroyed their entire world... was nothing more than a Hogwarts student who had chosen a dramatic pseudonym?

"That wanker isn't even original!" Black complained, his voice filled with disgusted disbelief. "All that terror, all those deaths, and he couldn't even come up with a properly creative name for himself!"

"There you have our half-blood at best, Muggleborn at worst Dark Lord who preaches blood purity like it's a religious doctrine," Potter said with bitter amusement. "Son of a Muggle man and a witch who was probably a squib, given her magical abilities. Rather ironic, isn't it?"

Astoria sat there in stunned silence, her world crumbling piece by piece with each revelation. Everything she'd been taught, every assumption about blood purity and magical superiority, every foundational belief of her upbringing was being systematically destroyed by simple, factual information.

"Why doesn't Dumbledore do anything about this?" she asked in a whisper, her voice barely audible even in the quiet kitchen. "He surely knows Tom Riddle's true identity, doesn't he?"

Potter nodded sadly, his expression growing even more grim. "He does know, but he has... different priorities. Did you know that during the 1880s, Grindelwald and Dumbledore were lovers? That should give you some idea about our revered Headmaster's long-term plans."

Black's expression suggested he already knew this particular piece of information, his face resigned to the bitter truths they were sharing.

"How can you be so sure about any of this?" Astoria asked, her voice climbing with desperation. She needed some anchor, some way to verify these earth-shattering claims before her entire worldview collapsed completely.

"That's... a complicated question to answer," Potter said carefully, his eyes growing distant as if he were seeing something far beyond the kitchen walls. "But I would know, because I've seen what happens if Dumbledore is left unchecked to pursue his goals."

"Are you some kind of Seer?" The question burst from her lips as she tried to make sense of his cryptic statements and impossible knowledge.

"Maybe," Potter shrugged, but there was something in his tone that suggested the truth was far more complex than he was willing to share. "Anyway, Sirius and I have some business at Gringotts that we need to handle quietly. We can drop you off at Diagon Alley if you're willing to give us that Unbreakable Vow."

Astoria sat back in her chair, her mind racing as she considered her options. She could go back to her family, pretend this conversation had never happened, try to slip back into her old life and old assumptions. She could return to Hogwarts, to her friends and her classes and the comfortable illusion of safety that the castle provided.

But she knew, with the terrible clarity that comes with unwanted truth, that she could never simply forget what she'd learned here. Her father's casual conversations about the Dark Lord's inevitable return, conversations she'd half-listened to while focusing on her homework, now took on new and terrifying significance. If Potter was right – and her instincts told her he was – then she would eventually be forced to choose sides in a war that was far more complicated than she'd ever imagined.

"I know that the Dark Lord is going to return," she said finally, her voice steady despite the turmoil in her thoughts. "I've heard enough from my father's conversations to know that his death wasn't permanent. And your... tone during this entire discussion just confirms it."

She paused, gathering her courage for what she was about to say next.

"If you're planning to take him down – really take him down – then I want to help you," she said, the words coming out in a rush before she could second-guess herself. "My father already considers me a disgrace to the family name. Let him think I'm dead. I barely know my siblings anyway – Miranda, Stephen, and Lisa are practically strangers to me. I can handle disappearing from their lives."

"I am not taking a child with me across Britain and mainland Europe while we hunt down Dark wizards," Potter stated firmly, his voice carrying the authority of someone who had made this decision long ago. "I will not be responsible for child endangerment, no matter how willing the child might be."

"You are a child yourself," Astoria shot back, her voice gaining strength as frustration overrode her fear. The absurdity of being lectured about safety by someone who was supposedly her own age – and who had just casually mentioned hunting Dark wizards across multiple countries – was not lost on her.

Potter looked like he wanted to argue, his jaw working silently as he searched for words. When he finally spoke, his voice carried that same weary quality that made him seem far older than his apparent years. "My circumstances are... different."

"And I'll be forced to choose sides and then killed for making the wrong choice," Astoria countered, her voice rising with each word as the full implications of her situation crystallized in her mind. "Do you honestly think I can just forget that our resident Dark Lord is a half-blood preaching blood purity as if he were the purest wizard to ever draw breath? That I'll be able to stay with my family without constantly antagonizing them with this information burning in my mind?"

She stood up abruptly, her chair scraping against the stone floor as her composure finally cracked. "My father may not kill me outright – family blood still means something, even to him – but that doesn't put him above using the Cruciatus Curse to teach me proper respect for our family's allegiances. And if Malfoy or the Dark Lord himself decide I know too much, they won't think twice about making an example out of me."

Her hands were shaking now, whether from anger or fear she couldn't tell. "I might be eleven years old, Potter, but I'm not naïve. I've been raised in this world, surrounded by these people and their casual cruelties my entire life. I know exactly what happens to inconvenient little girls who ask too many questions or hold dangerous knowledge."

The kitchen fell silent except for the gentle bubbling of something on the stove and Kreacher's nervous muttering from under the table. Potter and Black exchanged a long, meaningful look that spoke of shared experiences and difficult decisions.

"We could Obliviate her," Black offered quietly, his voice lacking any real conviction. It was clearly a suggestion born of desperation rather than genuine belief in its wisdom.

Potter shook his head immediately, his expression grim. "If any competent Legilimens attempts to read her mind, they'll find obvious gaps where memories should be, and that will raise far more questions about her story – and about you – than we can afford. We're betting everything on the world assuming that you killed me, that Greengrass here was an unfortunate witness who got caught up in events, and that she managed to escape on her own."

He paused, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair in a gesture of frustration. "Obliviating her is quite possibly the worst choice we could make if we want to hide our tracks. A missing memory is like a beacon to anyone who knows how to look for such things."

That was an oddly professional and well-reasoned argument, Astoria noted with growing unease. Potter spoke about covering tracks and avoiding detection with the casual expertise of someone who had far too much experience with such matters. What exactly had happened to transform the Boy Who Lived into someone who thought like a seasoned operative?

Potter looked at her intently for a long moment, his green eyes boring into hers with that uncomfortable intensity that suggested he was seeing far more than she wanted him to see. She had the distinct impression that he was weighing her words, her motivations, perhaps even her soul itself against some internal scale that would determine her fate.

"I'm not giving an Unbreakable Vow," Astoria said firmly, cutting through whatever internal debate was raging behind those emerald eyes. "If you send me back to that world, I'll be dealing with Pettigrew still running around Hogwarts, Dumbledore playing whatever twisted game he's involved in, and Merlin knows which other Dark Lords are hiding in the nooks and crannies of our supposedly safe school."

Her voice grew stronger, more determined, as she laid out her reasoning. "You're asking me to walk back into a den of vipers with my eyes closed, pretending I don't know that half the serpents are wearing masks. That's not survival – that's suicide with extra steps."

"I'm not risking child endangerment!" Potter snapped, his carefully maintained composure finally cracking. "I won't have another child's blood on my hands!"

"You are a child!" Astoria retorted, matching his volume and intensity. "A presumed dead child living with a supposed mass murderer, planning to take on two Dark Lords before you even reach your majority! One missing child should be the least of your concerns on that particular list of insanely dangerous life choices!"

The accusation hung in the air between them like a physical thing, heavy with implications and uncomfortable truths. Potter's face cycled through several emotions – anger, frustration, something that might have been guilt, and finally a weary resignation that seemed to age him years in the span of seconds.

He stayed quiet for a long moment, his eyes distant as if seeing possibilities and consequences that existed far beyond the walls of the kitchen. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried the weight of absolute finality.

"Fine," he ground out through gritted teeth, the single word sounding like it had been torn from somewhere deep in his chest. "But you are confined to this place until further notice. Kreacher will look after you, make sure you have everything you need."

He paused, fixing her with a stare that could have melted steel. "And if you do anything – anything at all – to compromise our safety or our mission, I will personally ensure that you regret that decision for whatever brief time you have left to contemplate it. Do I make myself absolutely clear?"

Astoria felt a chill run down her spine at the cold promise in his voice, but she nodded firmly. "Crystal clear. I understand the terms."

"Good," Potter said, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "Because this isn't a game, Greengrass. The people we're dealing with don't give second chances, they don't show mercy to children, and they certainly don't care about your good intentions or brave heart."

He stood up from the table, his movements carrying a fluid grace that spoke of training and experience far beyond his apparent years. "Welcome to the war that never ended. Try not to get yourself killed on your first day."

Chapter Text

Chapter 6

1994
Hogwarts

The Great Hall stood in stark contrast to its usual warmth and grandeur. The enchanted ceiling, normally a source of wonder, now reflected the deep purple-black of the pre-dawn sky, punctuated by dying stars that seemed to mirror the despair hanging heavy in the air. The four House tables had been pushed aside haphazardly, creating a makeshift meeting space in the center where mismatched chairs formed an uneven circle. The golden glow from the floating candles cast long, dancing shadows across the stone walls, making the ancient tapestries seem to writhe with a life of their own.

Hermione sat hunched in one of the hastily arranged chairs, her usually pristine robes wrinkled and stained with dirt from the evening's chaos. Her bushy hair had escaped its usual restraints, wild strands framing her pale face like a lion's mane. Dark circles rimmed her red-rimmed eyes, and her hands trembled slightly as she clutched a cold cup of tea that Professor McGonagall had pressed into her palms hours ago. The porcelain cup rattled against the saucer with each involuntary shake of her fingers.

She kept glancing toward the High Table, where the most powerful wizards in magical Britain engaged in what could only be described as a barely controlled argument. Director Amelia Bones stood rigid, her monocle catching the candlelight as she gestured sharply at Minister Fudge. Her usually impeccable auburn hair showed signs of the night's stress, with several strands having escaped her severe bun. The green robes of her office seemed almost black in the dim light, making her appear more intimidating than usual.

Minister Cornelius Fudge, in contrast, looked disheveled and overwhelmed. His lime-green bowler hat sat askew on his balding head, and his pinstriped robes were wrinkled from hours of pacing and gesturing. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the castle's winter chill, and his usual politician's composure had cracked, revealing the frightened man beneath.

Between them stood Albus Dumbledore, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the ancient stones. His usually twinkling blue eyes were cold and calculating behind his half-moon spectacles, and his silver beard, normally so carefully maintained, showed signs of agitation. His phoenix-feather wand rested in his right hand, not quite pointed at anyone, but not quite lowered either. The tension in his shoulders was visible even beneath his midnight-blue robes adorned with silver stars.

Slightly apart from the arguing trio, the Unspeakable who had introduced himself simply as Croaker stood like a statue. His plain black robes seemed to absorb the light around him, making him appear as a void in the room. His face was completely impassive, revealing nothing of his thoughts, but his dark eyes moved constantly, cataloging every detail, every gesture, every word spoken.

At the far end of the hall, away from the political storm, a scene of private grief unfolded. Professor McGonagall knelt beside Lady Greengrass, who had finally allowed her carefully maintained composure to crumble. The woman's elegant dress robes, clearly hastily thrown on over her nightclothes, were now wrinkled from her collapsed posture. Her perfectly styled blonde hair had come undone, and tears streamed down her aristocratic features as her body shook with silent sobs.

Lord Cyrus Greengrass stood nearby, his face a mask of barely controlled fury and fear. His expensive dragon-hide boots clicked against the stone floor as he paced, his hands clenched so tightly that his knuckles had gone white. The Dark Mark on his left forearm, hidden beneath his sleeve, seemed to burn with phantom pain as he contemplated his daughter's fate at the hands of another of his former master's servants.

Professor Snape's black robes billowed around him as he spoke in low, urgent tones to Lord Greengrass. His sallow face was even more severe than usual, his black eyes glittering with an emotion that might have been concern or calculation. His long, greasy hair hung like curtains around his face as he leaned in to speak privately with the distraught father.

Hermione's gaze drifted to Ron, who slouched in the chair beside her, his face pale and streaked with dirt. His red hair stuck up at odd angles, and his freckles stood out starkly against his ashen skin. He hadn't spoken in over an hour, simply staring at his hands as if they held answers to questions he was afraid to ask.

The events of the evening played over and over in her mind like a horrible, unending nightmare. She berated herself again for letting Harry leave the Great Hall alone, for not insisting they go with him despite his protests. She cursed Sirius Black for his madness, for his cruelty, for taking away the person who had become like a brother to her.

A few hours ago…

Despite their protests, Harry had left the Great Hall, practically running toward the entrance. She and Ron had exchanged worried glances before hurrying to find Professor McGonagall.

They had immediately gathered Professor McGonagall and Professor Snape to go after Harry. Professor Lupin had been notably absent—again—though Hermione suspected it was due to his lycanthropic condition. The full moon was approaching, and he'd been increasingly unreliable in recent weeks.

Headmaster Dumbledore had calmly informed them that Harry had likely gone to the Quidditch Pitch to clear his head, but had declined to join the search party, saying that Harry would be fine after the curse's effects wore off. His casual dismissal had bothered her even then.

They had almost reached the Quidditch Pitch when disaster struck. A large black dog had burst from the bushes, tackling someone to the ground before transforming into the gaunt, wild-haired form of Sirius Black.

"What a day this is!" Black had cackled, his voice carrying the kind of manic glee that made her skin crawl. "I will finally be able to finish what my Master started!"

Harry had reacted immediately, his emotions running high as he launched an Expelliarmus followed by a Stupefy. The spells had barely affected Black, who had retaliated with half a dozen Dark curses that made the air itself seem to recoil.

Harry had dodged and shielded desperately, but even with his expanded magical reserves, the effort was draining him visibly.

"Tired already?" Black had asked with another crazed cackle. "From just that little exchange? And to think that you're supposed to be the one who killed my Master! How disappointing. Avada Kedavra!"

The green light had struck Harry, and he had fallen like a marionette with its strings cut. Black had noticed their approach and sent a Bombarda at the ground before them, sending chunks of earth and stone flying.

By the time Professors McGonagall and Snape had lowered their protective shields, Black had vanished, taking both Harry's body and his unknown victim with him.

Headmaster Dumbledore had appeared moments later with a sharp crack of Apparition, his robes billowing dramatically as he materialized beside them. His face had been grave as he surveyed the blast crater and the scattered debris, his blue eyes dim with what might have been genuine sorrow—or carefully crafted regret.

"Too late," he had murmured, his voice carrying across the grounds. "I feared this might happen."

Professor McGonagall had rounded on him immediately, her Scottish accent thick with emotion. "Albus, ye said he would be fine! Ye said the curse would pass!"

"I miscalculated, Minerva," Dumbledore had replied solemnly, though something in his tone suggested the admission came too easily. "Sirius's madness runs deeper than I anticipated."

Snape had said nothing, but his dark eyes had bored into the Headmaster with unconcealed suspicion.

Dumbledore had instructed the two Professors to search the surrounding area for any magical traces while he escorted Ron and Hermione back to the castle. The walk had been conducted in heavy silence, broken only by Ron's occasional sniffles and her own attempts to process what they had witnessed.

Upon reaching the Great Hall, Dumbledore had immediately summoned Professors Flitwick and Sprout. The diminutive Charms professor had arrived with his usual quick, bird-like movements, but his cheerful demeanor had evaporated the moment he saw their faces. Professor Sprout had appeared moments later, dirt still clinging to her robes from the greenhouses, her motherly face creased with concern.

"I need you both to conduct an immediate count of all students," Dumbledore had instructed gravely. "Check against your House registries. Leave no one unaccounted for."

"Albus, what's happened?" Professor Flitwick had squeaked, his voice higher than usual with worry.

Dumbledore had drawn himself up to his full, imposing height, his voice carrying clearly across the Great Hall. "Sirius Black has infiltrated the castle grounds. He has murdered Harry Potter and abducted another student."

The words had hung in the air like a physical blow. Professor Sprout had gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, while Professor Flitwick had stumbled backward as if struck.

"Murdered?" Sprout had whispered, her voice barely audible. "Our Harry?"

"They witnessed it," Dumbledore had replied, his voice heavy with apparent grief and giving a glance to a visibly shaking Ron and her. "The Killing Curse. There was nothing to be done."

The Great Hall had erupted into chaos as the news spread. Students who had been finishing their evening meals suddenly found themselves caught in a whirlwind of whispers, gasps, and outright wails of despair. The sound echoed off the ancient stone walls, creating a cacophony of grief that seemed to shake the very foundations of the castle.

At the Gryffindor table, Neville Longbottom had gone completely white, his round face crumpling as tears began to flow freely. "No," he had whispered repeatedly, "not Harry, not Harry." Seamus Finnigan had put a comforting arm around him, though the Irish boy's own face was streaked with tears.

Dean Thomas had stood abruptly, his chair clattering to the floor. "This is madness!" he had shouted. "Harry can't be dead! He's Harry Potter!"

At the Hufflepuff table, Hannah Abbott had dissolved into sobs, her blonde pigtails shaking as her shoulders heaved. Susan Bones had sat in stunned silence, her face pale as she processed the news about her own family's connection to the investigation that would surely follow.

The Ravenclaw table had fallen into an eerie quiet, the students there processing the information with their characteristic analytical minds, though several of the younger students had begun crying softly.

Even the Slytherin table, usually so composed and aloof, had been affected. Draco Malfoy had gone absolutely white, his usual sneer replaced by an expression of genuine terror. His hands had trembled as he gripped the edge of the table, and for once, he had seemed like nothing more than a frightened thirteen-year-old boy.

"Father always said Black was completely mad," he had whispered to his companions, his voice lacking its usual drawl. "But this... to kill Potter..."

Pansy Parkinson had actually moved closer to him, seeking comfort, while Crabbe and Goyle had looked around nervously, as if expecting Black to emerge from the shadows at any moment.

Professor Flitwick and Professor Sprout had worked with remarkable efficiency despite the chaos, quickly organizing the prefects from each House to conduct the count. The Gryffindor prefects had moved through their table systematically, checking each student against their mental roster.

"All present except for a few seventh years in the library," Percy Weasley had reported, his voice tight with barely controlled emotion. His usual pompous demeanor had cracked, revealing the scared young man beneath.

The Hufflepuff count had proceeded similarly, with Cedric Diggory coordinating the effort despite his own obvious distress. "A few students are in the greenhouses," he had reported, "but Professor Sprout confirms they're accounted for."

The Slytherin table had been the most organized, unsurprisingly. Their prefects had conducted the count with military precision, and Malfoy had stood to deliver their report with forced composure. "All Slytherin students present and accounted for, Professor."

But when it came to the Ravenclaw table, Professor Flitwick's expression had grown increasingly troubled as the minutes passed. He had moved through the blue and bronze section with growing agitation, checking and rechecking his mental roster.

"One of our first years isn't here," he had announced, his high voice carrying a note of panic. "I need to check the dormitories and common areas immediately."

Without another word, the tiny professor had practically flown from the Great Hall, several seventh-year Ravenclaw prefects hurrying after him.

While Professor Flitwick conducted his search, Professors Snape and McGonagall had returned from the grounds, their faces grave and their robes bearing evidence of their thorough investigation.

"Any traces?" Dumbledore had asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.

"Nothing," McGonagall had replied curtly, her lips pressed into a thin line. "It's as if they simply vanished into thin air."

Snape had said nothing, but his black eyes had continued to study Dumbledore with that same suspicious intensity.

An hour later, Professor Flitwick had returned to the Great Hall, his usually cheerful face drawn with worry and exhaustion. The silence that had fallen over the assembled students was deafening as they waited for his report.

"Astoria Greengrass is nowhere to be found," he had announced, his voice barely above a whisper. "I've checked every nook and cranny of Ravenclaw Tower, the library, the common rooms, even the astronomy tower. She's simply... gone."

The effect of this announcement had been immediate and explosive. Ron had leaped to his feet, his face flushed with anger and grief. "She must be working with Black!" he had shouted, his voice cracking with emotion. "How else would he know where to find Harry? She's been helping him all along!"

"How dare you!" The voice had come from across the Hall, where Daphne Greengrass had risen from the Slytherin table. Her usually composed features were twisted with outrage and fear. "My sister would never work with one of the Dark Lord's cronies! Never!"

The moment the words left her mouth, the temperature in the Great Hall seemed to drop several degrees. Susan Bones had been the first to react, her face paling as she pointed an accusing finger at Daphne.

"You just proved Ron's point!" Susan had called out, her voice carrying clearly across the stunned silence. "Only Death Eaters and their families call You-Know-Who by that title!"

The accusation had hit like a thunderbolt, and suddenly the Great Hall had erupted into chaos once again. Students from Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw had turned toward the Slytherin table with expressions ranging from suspicion to outright hostility.

"I knew it!" Dean Thomas had shouted. "The Greengrass family has always been dark!"

"Their father bought his way out of Azkaban!" Seamus had added. "Just like Malfoy's!"

The Slytherin students had found themselves on the defensive, with several of them standing to face the accusations. The tension in the room had become palpable, like the charged air before a thunderstorm.

"Enough!" Dumbledore's voice had boomed across the Hall, magically amplified and carrying the full weight of his authority. The Sonorus charm had made his words echo off the stone walls with such force that several students had actually taken a step backward. "I will not have accusations and chaos in this hall during such a trying time!"

The silence that had followed had been immediate and complete, broken only by the occasional sniffle or whispered prayer.

Professor McGonagall had stepped forward, her face set in determined lines. "Albus, we need to contact the Department of Magical Law Enforcement immediately. This is beyond what Hogwarts can handle alone."

For a moment, Dumbledore had hesitated, and Hermione had caught something in his expression—reluctance, perhaps, or calculation. But then he had nodded slowly.

"Very well, Minerva. Send word to Amelia Bones."

The Headmaster's office had become a cramped center of activity as the night wore on. The circular room, usually spacious and serene with its spinning silver instruments and sleeping portraits of former headmasters, now felt claustrophobic with the number of people coming and going.

Hermione and Ron had been among the first to be questioned, seated in the uncomfortable chairs facing Dumbledore's massive desk. The phoenix Fawkes had been unusually quiet on his perch, his golden feathers lacking their usual brilliant luster. Even the portraits had seemed subdued, their painted eyes following the proceedings with grave interest.

Dumbledore had taken their statements with careful precision, his long fingers steepled as he listened to their account. His questions had been probing but gentle, and Hermione had found herself watching his face for any sign of the manipulation Harry had been concerned about.

"Tell me about Harry's behavior today," Dumbledore had said, his blue eyes fixed on them intently. "Did he seem... different to you?"

"He was questioning things," Hermione had replied carefully. "Questioning you, specifically. He seemed angry, confused."

"And we were fearing of, Mr. Weasley?" Dumbledore had turned to Ron. "Harry spoke of it affecting his views on people?"

Ron had shifted uncomfortably. "Yeah, he's been having these episodes. He keeps mumbling to himself, Hedwig is always sticking close to him, like she didn't leave his side for nearly the entire time since Boxing Day. You said it was something from the Black family, some kind of mind curse."

Dumbledore had nodded slowly. "Indeed. The Black family has a long history of such dark magic. I fear Sirius has been working on Harry's mind for some time, preparing him for tonight's events."

The Floo had flared green just as they finished their account, and suddenly the office had been filled with the commanding presence of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Amelia Bones had stepped through first, her monocle glinting as she surveyed the room with sharp eyes. Her team of Aurors had followed, their red robes a stark contrast to the office's warm wood tones.

Minister Fudge had arrived with his usual entourage of assistants and secretaries, immediately making the space feel even more cramped. His lime-green bowler hat had seemed almost garish in the subdued lighting of the office.

"Director Bones," Dumbledore had greeted formally, rising from behind his desk. "Minister Fudge. Thank you for coming so quickly."

"Cut the pleasantries, Dumbledore," Amelia had replied curtly. "I want to speak to the witnesses immediately."

When they had identified themselves as Harry Potter's best friends and primary witnesses to the attack, both Amelia and Fudge had wanted to question them personally. The interrogation had been thorough and exhausting, with both officials asking the same questions from different angles, searching for inconsistencies or missed details.

"Describe the spells Black used," Amelia had demanded, her quill scratching furiously across her parchment.

"Dark curses," Hermione had replied, struggling to remember the exact sequence. "They made the air feel... wrong. Evil. Harry could barely shield against them, and his magic is much stronger than it used to be."

"Stronger how?" Fudge had interjected, his political instincts making him focus on potential threats.

"His magical core expanded," Ron had explained. "When he had his first episode with the curse. Dumbledore said it was a side effect."

This had led to more questions about Harry's condition, and eventually to Dumbledore's reluctant admission about the Christmas morning incident.

"The boy clutched his chest and collapsed during breakfast," Dumbledore had explained to the growing audience. "He screamed as if in unbearable agony, and then white magic began pouring from him. His eyes turned completely white and began to glow like stars. When he finally lost consciousness, we found that his magical core had expanded significantly."

"And the Dementors?" Fudge had pressed. "What was their reaction?"

"They fled," Dumbledore had admitted. "Every single Dementor stationed around the school grounds retreated as far as they could while still maintaining their perimeter. They have refused to come within a thousand yards of Potter since that morning."

This revelation had prompted an immediate call to the Department of Mysteries, and within the hour, the Head Unspeakable had arrived. Croaker had questioned them extensively about Harry's episodes, his personality changes, and his growing power. Ron had started to say something at one point but had stopped himself, leaving Hermione wondering what he had been about to reveal.

The arrival of Lord and Lady Greengrass had brought a new dimension to the crisis. Lady Greengrass had maintained her composure initially, her aristocratic breeding evident in every line of her posture. But when the full reality of her daughter's abduction had sunk in, her careful control had begun to crack.

"Where is my daughter?" she had demanded, her voice tight with suppressed hysteria. "What has that madman done with my little girl?"

Lord Greengrass had been more direct in his anger, immediately confronting both the Minister and the Headmaster.

"This is unconscionable!" he had raged, his expensive robes swirling around him as he paced. "How could you allow a convicted murderer to infiltrate the school? My daughter's blood is on your hands!"

The accusations had flown thick and fast, with Dumbledore trying to maintain his calm authority while Fudge had grown increasingly flustered under the barrage of criticism.

The Aurors in the meantime had sent teams out to track down possible traces left behind by Black. Everyone soon had come back to the Great Hall, as the office was getting cramped by the number of people coming in and exiting.

A couple hours later, one of the Auror teams had returned with a theory that Black had escaped using house-elf apparition, one of the glaring loopholes of Hogwarts policies. A specific instrument later, an entry and an exit trace of elf apparition had been confirmed.

Amelia Bones had asked if the goblins would be up to giving a list of Black properties to launch a search. Minister Fudge had said that he would do that the first thing in the morning, while Dumbledore had said that the goblins were a tricky bunch, and maybe wouldn't give the information up so easily, and that he should go and talk to them.

Now, hours later, the political storm had reached its crescendo in the Great Hall. Hermione watched as the argument between Director Bones and Dumbledore grew more heated by the minute.

"You've been manipulating this situation from the beginning, Albus!" Amelia was saying, her voice carrying clearly across the vast space. Her monocle had been polished so many times during the night that it gleamed like a miniature spotlight. "Your casual dismissal of the danger, your refusal to involve proper authorities, your mysterious knowledge of Black family curses—it all points to a level of involvement that goes beyond mere headmaster duties!"

Dumbledore's response was measured, but there was steel beneath his calm tone. "I have acted in the best interests of the students under my care, Amelia. My knowledge of the magical arts extends beyond what most consider normal, but that does not make me complicit in Sirius Black's crimes."

"Doesn't it?" Amelia shot back, stepping closer to the tall wizard. "You knew about Potter's condition, about these episodes, about the expanding magical core. You knew the Dementors were avoiding him. Yet you allowed him to wander the grounds alone, knowing full well that Black was somewhere nearby!"

Minister Fudge had been trying to mediate, but his attempts were growing increasingly desperate. Sweat continued to bead on his forehead despite the castle's chill, and his hands shook slightly as he gestured between the two arguing parties.

"Please, please," he said, his voice pitched higher than usual. "We must focus on finding the missing girl and... and dealing with Potter's... situation. Arguing amongst ourselves serves no purpose!"

"The Minister is right," Croaker spoke for the first time in hours, his voice flat and emotionless. "The Department of Mysteries will be conducting its own investigation into the Potter boy's condition and any connection it might have to recent events. Until then, speculation serves no one."

Across the hall, the scene around the Greengrass family was equally tense. Professor Snape was speaking in low, urgent tones to Lord Greengrass, their conversation clearly intense despite its subdued volume.

"The Dark Mark has been dormant for years," Snape was saying, his voice barely audible. "But Black's actions tonight... they suggest coordination, planning. Someone is pulling the strings."

Lord Greengrass's face had gone pale. "You think the Dark Lord has returned? But that's impossible! Potter killed him!"

"Did he?" Snape's black eyes glittered dangerously. "Or did something else happen that night in Godric's Hollow? Something that created the connection between Potter and the Dementors, something that would explain his recent... episodes?"

Professor McGonagall continued to comfort Lady Greengrass, whose careful composure had completely crumbled. The elegant witch was now sobbing openly, her perfectly styled hair disheveled and her expensive robes wrinkled from her collapsed posture.

"My baby," she kept repeating through her tears. "My little Astoria. What if he's already... what if she's..."

"Hush now," McGonagall murmured, her own Scottish accent thick with emotion. "We'll find her, Katherine. The Aurors are already beginning their search. We'll bring her home."

But even as she spoke the comforting words, McGonagall's expression was grim. Everyone in the room knew the statistics about victims of Dark wizards. The longer Astoria remained missing, the less likely she was to return alive.

The Auror teams had been returning periodically throughout the night with their findings. One team had confirmed the theory about house-elf apparition being used to escape the castle grounds, while another had found traces of Dark magic at the Quidditch Pitch that suggested the use of several illegal curses.

As the eastern windows of the Great Hall began to show the first pale hints of dawn, Hermione found herself wondering if they would ever see either Harry or Astoria alive again. The events of the night had shattered her world, destroying her faith in the safety of Hogwarts and the wisdom of those who were supposed to protect them.

She glanced at Ron, who was still staring at his hands, and wondered what he had been about to say during Croaker's questioning. What did he know that he hadn't shared? What secret was he keeping, even now, in the aftermath of their best friend's murder?

The arguments continued around them, the adults shouting and accusing while two young lives hung in the balance. And somewhere out there, in the cold January darkness, Sirius Black had what he wanted—revenge against the Boy Who Lived, and a innocent girl whose only crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

As the first rays of sunlight began to filter through the enchanted ceiling, Hermione closed her eyes and tried not to think about what horrors the new day might bring.

The pre-dawn London air bit at their faces as Harry and Sirius approached the gleaming white facade of Gringotts Wizarding Bank. The January frost had painted delicate patterns across the marble columns, and their breath formed silver clouds in the bitter cold. Harry pulled the Invisibility Cloak tighter around both of them, the familiar weight of the silky fabric a comfort against the morning chill.

"Remember, pup," Sirius whispered, his voice barely audible even in the pre-dawn quiet, "one wrong move in there and we'll be decorating their walls with our entrails. Goblins don't forgive, and they certainly don't forget."

Harry nodded grimly, his emerald eyes scanning the ornate bronze doors that towered above them. The twisted serpents and dragons carved into the metal seemed to watch their approach with knowing eyes. This was indeed the only place where their carefully constructed covers could crumble to dust—where the truth of Harry Potter's supposed death might be exposed before they could accomplish what they'd set out to do.

Back at Grimmauld Place, Astoria waited under Kreacher's watchful eye. The ancient house-elf had been given strict instructions that bordered on threats: the girl was not to touch a single cursed object in that damned house. Her blood curse was already a ticking time bomb—adding more dark magic to the mix would be catastrophic. Harry's jaw clenched at the thought. Grimmauld Place was dangerous enough without additional complications.

Sirius had already begun his transformation, his human form melting and reshaping with practiced ease. Within moments, a large black dog stood where the escaped convict had been, panting slightly from the exertion. Harry adjusted the Invisibility Cloak to accommodate his godfather's new form, and together they waited.

The bronze doors creaked open with the first rays of sunlight piercing through London's perpetual winter gloom. Harry's heart hammered against his ribs as they slipped inside, the warmth of the marble interior a stark contrast to the freezing morning air. The main hall of Gringotts stretched before them like a cathedral of wealth—high vaulted ceilings disappeared into shadow, while chandeliers cast dancing patterns of light across the polished floor.

Goblins scurried about their morning preparations, their sharp voices echoing off the walls as they discussed exchange rates and vault security. Harry forced himself to breathe steadily as he and Sirius made their way toward the back of the bank, where the Director's office lay hidden behind layers of bureaucracy and goblin protocol.

The office corridors were narrower than the main hall, lined with portraits of stern-faced goblin ancestors whose painted eyes seemed to track their invisible passage. Torches flickered in iron sconces, casting writhing shadows that made Harry's skin crawl. Every footstep, even muffled by the Cloak, sounded thunderous in his ears.

They reached the Director's office just as an imposing goblin approached from the opposite direction. This had to be him—Director Ragnok. He was flanked by four heavily armed guards, their ceremonial spears gleaming with more than mere decoration. These weapons had tasted blood, Harry was certain of it.

The goblin's face was a map of scars and weathered lines, speaking of centuries of hard-won battles and political maneuvering. His dark eyes held an intelligence that was both calculating and dangerous. When he reached for the ornate door handle, Harry and Sirius seized their opportunity, slipping through the gap as silently as shadows.

The office was a testament to goblin culture—a careful balance between opulence and warfare. Gold gleamed from every surface, but it was the weapons that dominated the space. Ancient swords hung crossed on the walls, their blades still sharp enough to split hairs. Battle-axes rested in stands of polished oak, while maces and morning stars created a deadly constellation around the room's perimeter. A massive war hammer, easily as tall as Harry himself, held place of honor behind the Director's desk.

Ragnok settled into his chair—a throne, really, carved from a single piece of black granite and inlaid with silver runes that seemed to pulse with their own inner light. He began reviewing a stack of parchments, his quill scratching across the surface with mechanical precision.

Harry exchanged a meaningful look with Sirius, whose canine form was tense with barely controlled anxiety. This was it. The moment of truth. Harry's mouth felt dry as parchment as he prepared to speak.

"Director," Harry called out, his voice steady despite the terror clawing at his chest.

Ragnok's head snapped up, his quill freezing mid-stroke. For a heartbeat, confusion flickered across his features before his expression hardened into something that could cut glass. His dark eyes swept the apparently empty office with predatory intensity.

"Who the bloody hell are you?" Ragnok snarled, his voice carrying the weight of centuries of authority. "And how in the depths of the ninth circle did you get into my office?" The goblin's hand moved with lightning speed to the ceremonial dagger at his belt, the blade singing as it cleared its sheath.

Harry swallowed hard, tasting copper. "There are... circumstances that require the utmost discretion, Director. I give you my word—my solemn oath—that neither I nor my companion mean you any harm."

The silence that followed was deafening. Ragnok sat motionless as a statue, not even breathing, his calculating gaze fixed on the space where Harry's voice had originated. The office's torches seemed to flicker more violently, as if responding to the tension crackling in the air.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Ragnok spoke. "Very well," he said, his voice carrying the deadly calm of a drawn bowstring. "But understand this clearly, invisible ones—if I detect even the faintest whisper of hostile intent after giving your word, I will personally ensure that your heads become the newest decorations for my wall. The screaming will be... memorable."

Sirius, still in his dog form, gave Harry a subtle nod. The coast was as clear as it was going to get. With trembling fingers, Harry pulled the Invisibility Cloak from over their heads.

Ragnok's eyebrows shot toward his receding hairline as Harry Potter materialized before him. But when Sirius began his transformation back to human form, the goblin's expression shifted to something approaching shock.

"Sirius!" Harry exclaimed, alarm coloring his voice as his godfather's human form solidified. "What are you doing? This could—"

"Relax, pup," Sirius interrupted, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. A familiar smirk played at the corners of his mouth—the same devil-may-care grin that had gotten him into trouble at Hogwarts decades ago. "Director Ragnok here knows perfectly well that I'm innocent. How else do you think I managed to purchase that Firebolt for you?" He jerked his thumb toward the goblin with casual confidence.

Ragnok's expression remained carefully neutral, but Harry caught the slight softening around his eyes. "Lord Black," the goblin said with formal politeness. "I see you've brought your godson along for this... adventure. I assume you've managed to explain the truth about your unjust imprisonment to him?"

Harry felt his world tilt slightly off its axis. "Wait," he said, his voice rising with incredulity. "You knew? You knew he was innocent this entire time?" His hands clenched into fists at his sides. "Then why—why didn't anyone do anything? Why has he been living like a hunted animal?"

Ragnok leaned back in his throne, his expression growing grim. "Gringotts served as the executor of your parents' wills, Mr. Potter. Both James and Lily Potter left detailed testaments that clearly exonerated Sirius Black and identified Peter Pettigrew as the true Secret Keeper. Unfortunately, those wills were sealed by direct order of the British Ministry of Magic."

Harry felt a familiar rage building in his chest, the same fury that had consumed him in the Department of Mysteries. "Let me guess," he said through gritted teeth, "Albus bloody Dumbledore was behind it?"

The tiniest hint of a smile ghosted across Ragnok's weathered features. He nodded once, sharply. "The Goblin Nation notified the Ministry repeatedly that the wills were being illegally suppressed. As the head of an Ancient and Noble House, your family's affairs should have been beyond the Ministry's reach. Do you think it's mere coincidence that the Ministry never raided the homes of suspected Death Eaters? They knew the legal complications that would arise. But somehow, when it came to your parents' wills..." He shrugged eloquently.

"But surely you should be at Hogwarts, Mr. Potter?" Ragnok continued, his brow furrowing with confusion. "The school term is well underway, and I was under the impression that attendance was rather... mandatory."

Harry and Sirius exchanged another look—a complex dance of communication that spoke of shared secrets and dangerous plans. Ragnok observed this byplay with growing exasperation.

"Oh, for the love of—" The goblin pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. "If whatever scheme you two have cooked up lands the Goblin Nation in hot water with the Ministry, I will personally use your heads as Quaffles and your limbs as Beater bats. Are we clear on that point?"

The formal pretense had completely dropped from Ragnok's manner, replaced by a bluntness that somehow made Harry feel more at ease. He decided to match the goblin's directness with his own bombshell.

"I asked Sirius to publicly execute me with the Killing Curse," Harry stated flatly.

The silence that followed was profound enough to make Harry's ears ring. Ragnok slowly opened his eyes, fixing Harry with a stare that could have melted steel.

"I beg your pardon?" Ragnok said, his voice deadly quiet. "Would you care to elaborate on why such a... drastic measure was deemed necessary? And when, precisely, did this execution supposedly take place?"

Harry's hand moved unconsciously to his scar, the lightning bolt mark that had defined his life for as long as he could remember. "Voldemort accidentally created a Horcrux when he tried to kill me as a baby. It was anchored here," he tapped his forehead, "in my scar. And Sirius... Sirius killed me yesterday evening."

The chronometer on Ragnok's desk ticked steadily into the expanding silence. The goblin stared at Harry as if he'd suddenly sprouted a second head.

"Let me see if I understand this correctly," Ragnok said slowly, enunciating each word with careful precision. "You are telling me that you were struck with the Killing Curse yesterday. The same curse that somehow failed to kill you as an infant. How in the name of all that's sacred and profitable are you sitting in my office having a conversation? The first time was miraculous—but twice?" His voice rose with each word until he was nearly shouting.

Sirius visibly flinched, his face going pale as memory crashed over him like a physical blow. Harry could see his godfather's hands trembling slightly as he relived those terrible moments from the previous night.

"The curse destroyed the Horcrux fragment instead of my soul," Harry explained quietly. Then, drawing on reserves of strength he'd only recently discovered, he closed his eyes and reached for that connection—that terrifying, exhilarating link to something vast and ancient and utterly beyond mortal comprehension.

The sensation was like plunging into an arctic lake. Cold beyond description flooded through his veins, and suddenly he could see—truly see—the network of death that connected all living things. Bones and shadows danced at the edges of his vision, and the overwhelming presence of Death itself pressed against his consciousness like a physical weight. The black flames that consumed even the soul. The bones of the dead.

When Harry opened his eyes, they were no longer the familiar emerald green that had marked him since birth. Instead, they blazed with an otherworldly white light—the color of fresh snow, of bleached bone, of the space between stars.

Ragnok stumbled backward, his chair scraping against stone as primitive fear overrode centuries of composure. His face had gone ashen, and Harry could hear the goblin's rapid breathing echoing in the suddenly oppressive office.

"Bloody hell," Ragnok whispered, his voice filled with the kind of awe usually reserved for religious experiences. "The legends... I thought they were just stories told to frighten children."

Recognition dawned in the goblin's ancient eyes. He knew the Potter genealogy better than most—after all, Gringotts kept meticulous records of all their clients' bloodlines. The marriage of Iolanthe Peverell to Hadrian Potter had been noted in their records, but the magical inheritance had seemed dormant for so many generations that everyone assumed it had been lost forever.

Yet here stood Harry Potter, his eyes blazing with the white fire of Death itself—the same power that had made the Peverell brothers legends and nightmares in equal measure.

Harry gasped and staggered slightly as the connection became too much to maintain. The white fire faded from his eyes, leaving them their normal green once more, though they now held shadows that hadn't been there before. The strain of channeling that ancient power was enormous—like trying to contain an ocean in a teacup.

"Lord Peverell," Ragnok breathed, his voice filled with newfound respect and no small amount of fear. "How may the Goblin Nation serve you?"

Sirius looked stunned by the dramatic shift in Ragnok's demeanor. "Well," he said dryly, "that was certainly a quick change of attitude. I don't suppose you'd care to explain what just happened?"

Ragnok's expression grew solemn, and when he spoke, his voice carried the weight of ancient history. "There are verses we learn as children, Lord Black. Old warnings passed down through generations of my people: 'Beware those who had eyes of white. They lived for Death, they fought for Death. Death ran in their veins like quicksilver and starlight. The boon of the Peverells was also their curse—and the curse of any who sought to claim the Hallows. Beware a Peverell who greets Death as a friend. Beware when a Peverell walks among you, for they may choose to protect you... or damn you to Death's cold embrace.'"

The blood drained from Sirius's face as the implications sank in. He'd always known the Peverell family was special—their connection to the Deathly Hallows was hardly a secret among the old pureblood families. But to see that power manifest in his godson, to witness those terrifying white eyes and to know what goblins thought of them…

"Bogrod!" Ragnok shouted suddenly, making both Harry and Sirius jump. "Cancel all my appointments for the remainder of the day!" His voice carried the absolute authority of someone accustomed to instant obedience.

The office door cracked open slightly, but before the unfortunate goblin could peer inside, Ragnok continued in a voice that could freeze lava. "And Bogrod? If I catch so much as a glimpse of your beady little eyes trying to spy on this meeting, I'll turn them into Golden Snitches and use your brain for Bludger practice. Are we perfectly clear on that point?"

"Y-yes, Director!" came the terrified response from beyond the door. "Crystal clear, sir!"

The door slammed shut with such force that dust drifted down from the ceiling. Ragnok turned his attention back to Harry, his manner now respectful but still carrying an edge of wariness.

"Now then, Lord Peverell," Ragnok said, folding his hands on his desk. "What exactly brings you to my office? What service can Gringotts provide?"

Harry met the goblin's gaze steadily. "I need to know the protocol for retrieving a dark object from one of your vaults. Something that needs to be... handled with extreme care."

"Which vault are we discussing?" Ragnok asked, though his tone suggested he already suspected the answer wouldn't be pleasant.

"The Lestrange vault," Harry replied. "Bellatrix Lestrange has Helga Hufflepuff's cup stored there. It's been corrupted—turned into one of Voldemort's Horcruxes."

A vein began throbbing visibly in Ragnok's forehead, and his knuckles went white where he gripped the edge of his desk. "That twisted, psychotic harpy stored a soul fragment in my bank?" His voice rose to a roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the building. "BOGROD! Get your worthless hide in here this instant!"

The door flew open so quickly it was a miracle it didn't come off its hinges entirely. A trembling goblin practically fell into the office, his eyes wide with terror.

"B-bring me Helga Hufflepuff's cup from the Lestrange vault immediately," Ragnok snarled. "Handle it as if it were the most vile, corrupted, dangerous object in existence—because that's exactly what it is. And while you're at it, bring me Sharpaxe's head. It's time we made an example of what happens to those who permit such abominations into our vaults."

Bogrod paled even further, if such a thing were possible. "R-right away, Director!"

As the terrified goblin scurried away, Ragnok turned back to Harry. "The Lestrange family will lose everything," he said with grim satisfaction. "Every last Knut will be confiscated. Half will go to the Goblin Nation as reparations for this insult, and the other half..." He looked expectantly at Harry.

Harry waved his hand dismissively. "Split it between the Longbottoms and the other victims of Bellatrix's cruelty. I have more gold than I could spend in ten lifetimes, and I won't exactly be in a position to make purchases while I'm on the run."

Ragnok's eyebrows rose sharply. He knew exactly how much wealth the Lestrange family possessed—as one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, their generational riches were substantial, even if they couldn't compare to the Black or Potter fortunes. For Harry to dismiss such a sum so casually...

"What do you mean, 'on the run'?" Ragnok asked carefully.

Harry's expression darkened, and for a moment, the shadows around his eyes seemed to deepen. "I can't hunt down and destroy Voldemort's remaining Horcruxes if I'm trapped at Hogwarts playing the role of dutiful student. Dumbledore has this ridiculous notion that the only way to defeat Voldemort is to let the madman kill me himself—something about a prophecy and self-fulfilling fate."

Ragnok studied Harry's face with the shrewd eye of someone who had spent centuries reading people's true intentions. "You're not telling me everything," he observed quietly. "I didn't become Director of Gringotts without perfecting the ability to see through lies and half-truths. What aren't you saying?"

Harry hesitated, weighing his options. How much could he trust this goblin? Then Ragnok spoke again, and his words carried a warmth that surprised Harry.

"Professor Flitwick writes to me regularly," Ragnok said unexpectedly. "Did you know he's my great-nephew? He's mentioned you in nearly every letter since you started at Hogwarts—always with the highest praise for your character and courage. Filius has excellent judgment when it comes to people. If he believes in you, then so do I."

The revelation that Professor Flitwick was related to Ragnok shouldn't have been surprising—many goblins had integrated into wizarding society over the centuries. But it did explain the Director's shift in attitude and willingness to help.

Harry took a deep breath and met Ragnok's eyes. "Grindelwald and Dumbledore were partners before their public falling out, weren't they?"

Ragnok nodded slowly. "It was one of the biggest scandals before Dumbledore finally entered the war against Grindelwald. Many questioned his delayed response, given their... history." He paused, studying Harry's expression, and then understanding dawned like a thunderclap. "Dragon's balls and phoenix fire," he whispered in horror. "Please tell me you're not suggesting what I think you're suggesting."

Harry's grim nod confirmed his worst fears.

"That manipulative goat-loving bastard is running a neo-Grindelwald operation right under everyone's noses!" Ragnok exploded, slamming his fist on the desk hard enough to make the golden ornaments jump. "How could I have been so blind? All those reports from Eastern Europe, the strange patterns of unrest..."

"Yugoslavia," Harry said quietly, and Ragnok's head snapped toward him with laser focus.

"The world thinks the chaos there is due to ethnic tensions among the muggle populations," Harry continued. "But it's the same pattern that emerged during Grindelwald's rise to power, isn't it? Wizards blending into muggle society, pulling strings from behind the scenes, escalating conflicts that would have remained manageable."

Ragnok's expression grew increasingly grim as he processed this information. "Our intelligence sources have been reporting exactly that—normal-looking wizards disappearing into muggle communities and somehow influencing events from within. We haven't been able to identify who's coordinating it, but now that you mention it, the methodology is remarkably similar to Grindelwald's early operations."

"And the beauty of it is that we can't directly connect any of this to Dumbledore," Harry added bitterly. "He's too smart to leave visible ties to whatever organization he's running. His public image as the defeater of Grindelwald provides perfect cover."

"What makes you so certain Dumbledore is behind it?" Ragnok asked, though his tone suggested he was already being convinced.

Harry's eyes filled with a pain so raw and profound that Ragnok actually flinched. When Harry spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.

"Because I've seen it. I've seen what happens when his plans come to fruition."

The weight of those words—and the absolute certainty with which they were spoken—settled over the office like a burial shroud. Ragnok found himself believing without question, though he couldn't explain why.

"If you're planning to expose Dumbledore, you'll need ironclad protection," Ragnok said finally. "You cannot be seen as Harry Potter, and Lord Black here certainly can't show his face in public. The entire European mainland will need to provide cover for your operations."

"We're planning to use muggle hair dyes and contact lenses to change our appearances," Harry said.

A sharp knock interrupted them. "Director Ragnok!" Bogrod's voice carried through the door, shaky with effort. "I have the cup and Sharpaxe's head as requested. But sir... there are visitors. The DMLE Director, the Minister for Magic, and the Chief Warlock are all demanding to see you immediately."

Harry and Sirius exchanged alarmed glances. This could be disastrous—if any of those three suspected what was really happening...

Ragnok rose from his throne with predatory grace. "Tell them they can bloody well wait their turn," he snarled, walking to the door. "Unless they fancy spending the rest of their careers working in our deepest mines with nothing but their teeth for tools." He paused at the threshold. "Oh, and Bogrod? Put Sharpaxe's head on public display in the main hall. Let it serve as a reminder of what happens to those who permit soul fragments into my bank. And bring me that cursed cup—carefully."

"That seemed rather hostile," Sirius observed with a shiver as Ragnok returned to his desk.

"One of those three visitors helped create this mess in the first place," Ragnok said grimly. "Another is a coward who thinks danger will disappear if he simply ignores it long enough. And the third, for all her intelligence and good intentions, is willfully blind to the corruption right under her nose." His expression softened slightly as he looked at Harry and Sirius. "You two, on the other hand—a man who escaped the inescapable prison just to protect his godson and seek justice for his murdered friends, and a Peverell lord who's trying to prevent another continental war. You have more integrity in your little fingers than those three have in their entire bodies."

When Bogrod returned with the cup, even wrapped in protective cloths, Harry could feel the malevolent presence radiating from it like heat from a forge. Ragnok visibly winced as the first waves of the Horcrux's mind-affecting properties washed over him.

Harry took the cup and casually tossed it into the air, catching it with practiced ease. Ragnok stared at him in amazement.

"I'll take care of Daddy Issues here in a more private setting," Harry said, pocketing the Horcrux as if it were nothing more dangerous than a chocolate frog.

"Your casual attitude toward objects that could drive men mad is both impressive and terrifying," Ragnok muttered. Then his expression grew thoughtful. "I have an idea for your undercover operations. Something that will keep Dumbledore off balance without putting you at direct risk."

Harry raised an eyebrow expectantly.

"Claim your rightful place as Head of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Peverell," Ragnok explained. "Make the Potters a cadet branch and absorb all their wealth into the Peverell holdings. This will ensure that after your supposed death, no one can access any Potter accounts, and you'll be able to legally execute your parents' wills through Gringotts rather than the Ministry."

Understanding dawned on Sirius's face. "That's brilliant," he said, stroking his stubble thoughtfully. "Dumbledore prides himself on knowing everything. A Peverell lord materializing out of thin air, blocking all Potter accounts and executing wills that Dumbledore tried to suppress? It'll drive him absolutely mad with curiosity and paranoia."

Harry nodded slowly. "And the entire Wizengamot will be in an uproar. A mysterious Lord Peverell making political moves but never showing himself publicly..."

Ragnok smiled—a truly frightening expression on a goblin's face. He opened his desk drawer and withdrew a small velvet box, placing it gently in front of Harry. "The Peverell Lordship ring. Normally I would warn against attempting something as foolish as trying to claim the ring of the family that was mad enough to make a deal with Death itself. But given your earlier display of those rather distinctive white eyes..."

Harry snorted with dark amusement. "Yes, they were complete idiots. But their idiocy might just give us the tools we need to save the world from another Grindelwald-style war."

He opened the box with reverent care. Inside, nestled in pristine purple velvet, lay a ring of stunning craftsmanship. The symbol of the Deathly Hallows dominated the design—the wand, stone, and cloak rendered in precious metals. But it was the details that took Harry's breath away: thestrals with glowing white eyes pranced up the sides of the cloak's triangle, all of it set within a disc of black opal that seemed to contain entire universes in its depths.

As Harry slid the ring onto his right index finger, he felt it reach out with ancient magic, testing his worthiness. For a moment that stretched into eternity, the ring evaluated his magical signature, his bloodline, his very soul. Then, with a sensation like coming home after a long journey, it accepted him.

The thestrals' eyes flared with white flame—the same otherworldly fire that had blazed in Harry's own eyes moments before. They seemed alive, recognizing him as kin, acknowledging his connection to Death itself.

Another knock sounded. "Director Ragnok, Potter Account Manager Ripclaw is here with the documents you requested."

"Send him in," Ragnok commanded.

A goblin dressed in an impeccably tailored miniature tuxedo entered and promptly froze upon seeing Sirius and Harry. His mouth fell open in shock.

"Stop gaping like a flobberworm and get over here," Ragnok snapped irritably. "We have work to do."

"But—but Chief Warlock Dumbledore just told the entire staff that Mr. Potter was murdered by Sirius Black!" Ripclaw stammered, pointing between them with a shaking finger.

"If he were an Inferius, would I have called for financial documents, you daft creature?" Ragnok roared. "Now get your brain in gear and listen carefully. I need you to draft a document stating that following the tragic death of Heir Potter, Lord Peverell has exercised his ancient rights to absorb the entire Potter fortune into Peverell holdings. Furthermore, Lord Peverell is overruling the Ministry's illegal seal on the wills of James and Lily Potter and will be executing them in full. Make sure there are no loopholes that can be exploited to overturn this decision."

Ripclaw blinked owlishly. "There's a Lord Peverell? But that House has been extinct for centuries!"

"It was extinct until approximately ten minutes ago," Ragnok said dryly, pointing at Harry, who held up his hand to display the ring. "Now stop asking questions and start writing."

Two minutes of frantic but neat scribbling later, the document was complete. Ragnok handed Harry a blood quill, then noticed his godson's instinctive flinch.

"Just sign as Lord Peverell—no given names," Ragnok advised, filing away Harry's reaction to the blood quill for future consideration. "And try to disguise your handwriting."

Harry nodded and signed the document in uneven italic script that bore no resemblance to his usual writing. Ragnok reviewed it carefully before sliding it into his desk drawer. He then tapped the two sealed wills once, creating perfect copies and handing them to Harry.

"You can read these later in private," Ragnok explained. "Since you've absorbed the Potter wealth, the wills' contents cannot be executed without your explicit approval. You can modify specific provisions if you see fit."

Harry pocketed the wills with a small, grateful smile.

"Now, given that we have three increasingly impatient guests in my lobby, I'll drop the anti-Apparition wards around Gringotts for exactly thirty seconds," Ragnok said. "That should give you enough time to escape before they realize what's happening. If you need anything in the future, owl me directly. May your enemies fall and may you rise victorious, Lord Peverell."

"May your gold flow to towering heights, Director Ragnok," Harry replied formally, causing the goblin to grin with genuine pleasure.

Two sharp cracks echoed through the office as Harry Potter and Sirius Black vanished into the morning air.

"Apparition at thirteen years old?" Ragnok mused aloud, genuinely impressed. "The boy continues to surprise." His expression grew serious as he turned to Ripclaw. "Things have become very complicated, and what happened here today cannot be remembered by anyone except me."

Ripclaw nodded gravely. "I understand completely, Director."

"Obliviate," Ragnok said simply, snapping his fingers. Ripclaw staggered slightly as his memories rearranged themselves. "Return to your duties."

The memory-modified goblin nodded blankly and left the office. Ragnok waited until his footsteps faded before calling out again.

"Bogrod! Send in our distinguished Ministry guests. They've waited quite long enough, and I suspect this conversation is going to be very... interesting."

Albus Dumbledore's long fingers drummed against the arm of his chair in the Gringotts waiting area, his usually serene composure marred by a deepening frown. The ornate marble lobby stretched around them, filled with the usual bustle of early morning banking, but something felt fundamentally wrong. His pale blue eyes, normally twinkling with benevolent mischief, were sharp and calculating as they surveyed their surroundings.

The first anomaly had struck him immediately upon their arrival. Director Ragnok was in a private meeting—at this ungodly hour of the morning, no less. The goblin director was notorious for his rigid schedule, accepting personal meetings only with the Minister for Magic, the Director of Magical Law Enforcement, and the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. Everyone else could conduct their business through intermediaries or wait for scheduled appointments that were booked months in advance.

"This is highly irregular," Dumbledore murmured to his companions, his weathered hands adjusting his half-moon spectacles. "Ragnok doesn't deviate from protocol without significant cause."

Minister Cornelius Fudge shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his lime-green bowler hat clutched nervously in his lap. Beads of perspiration dotted his forehead despite the cool morning air. "Perhaps it's just routine business, Albus. You know how these goblins are—secretive about everything."

Amelia Bones sat rigidly upright, her sharp eyes missing nothing as they swept the lobby. Her graying hair was pulled back in its customary severe bun, and her scarred hands rested on her knees with military precision. "Nothing about this morning has been routine, Cornelius. A murder at Hogwarts, and now this mysterious meeting. The timing is too convenient to be coincidental."

Before anyone could respond, a group of goblin guards rushed past them with alarming urgency. The lead guard carried an ornate box covered in protective runes—the kind used to contain the most dangerous and corrupted magical objects. But it was what the second guard bore that made Dumbledore's blood run cold: the severed head of another goblin, its dead eyes staring accusingly at nothing.

The sight sent a chill through the usually bustling lobby. Conversations died mid-sentence as wizards and witches pressed themselves against the walls, giving the grim procession a wide berth. The metallic scent of blood mixed with the sterile smell of marble and gold, creating an atmosphere of barely controlled chaos.

"Sweet Merlin's beard," Fudge whispered, his face going from pink to deathly pale in an instant. "What in blazes is going on here?"

Amelia rose from her chair, her hand instinctively moving toward her wand. Years of Auror training had taught her to recognize the signs of serious trouble, and every instinct she possessed was screaming warnings. "That's an execution box," she said grimly. "Someone violated goblin law in the most serious way possible."

As the procession disappeared into the depths of the bank, Amelia approached the nearest available goblin clerk. The creature was visibly shaken, his normally professional demeanor cracked by whatever crisis was unfolding.

"Excuse me," Amelia said, flashing her DMLE credentials. "We have urgent business with Director Ragnok. How long might we expect to wait?"

The goblin's eyes widened as he recognized her authority, but his response made Fudge's face turn an alarming shade of purple. "The Director asked me to relay his exact words, ma'am: 'Tell those three to wait their fucking turn, lest they want to get themselves banned or worse—working with their teeth in our mines.'"

"HOW DARE HE!" Fudge exploded, leaping to his feet so quickly that his bowler hat tumbled to the floor. "I am the Minister for Magic! I don't wait for anyone, especially not some jumped-up goblin with delusions of grandeur!" Spittle flew from his lips as he ranted, his face now resembling an overripe tomato. "I'll have his position! I'll shut down this entire establishment! The nerve! The absolute, unmitigated gall!"

Dumbledore closed his eyes and took a steadying breath, tuning out Fudge's increasingly hysterical tirade. The Minister's blustering was not only embarrassing but potentially dangerous—insulting the goblins on their own territory was political suicide of the highest order. More concerning was the growing certainty that this morning's events were connected to Harry Potter's supposed death.

The second red flag appeared in the form of Ripclaw, the Potter Account Manager, hurrying through the lobby with obvious distress written across his features. The goblin's usually immaculate appearance was disheveled, his small hands trembling as he clutched a leather portfolio to his chest.

Dumbledore rose smoothly and intercepted the goblin with practiced ease. "Mr. Ripclaw," he called out, his voice carrying its usual grandfatherly warmth. "A moment of your time, if you please."

The goblin skidded to a halt, his large eyes darting nervously between Dumbledore's face and the direction of Ragnok's office. "Chief Warlock Dumbledore, I—I really must—the Director is expecting—"

"I understand you're in a hurry," Dumbledore said gently, but there was steel beneath the kindness and gave a succinct rundown of event from last night. "However, given the tragic events at Hogwarts last night, I thought you might provide some insight into the current... situation."

Ripclaw's face crumpled with genuine grief. "Oh, sir, it's horrible! Poor Mr. Potter—just a child, really—murdered in cold blood by that madman Black!" Tears actually formed in the goblin's eyes.

"Indeed, most tragic," Dumbledore murmured, his mind racing. "I assume your meeting with Director Ragnok concerns the Potter estate? Standard procedure for when Ancient Houses face... extinction?"

"I believe so, sir, though I must confess I'm not entirely certain of the details," Ripclaw replied, wiping his eyes with a small handkerchief. "There have been some... unusual developments this morning. Very unusual indeed. But I really must go—the Director does not appreciate tardiness."

As the goblin scurried away, Dumbledore felt the third and most ominous warning bell chiming in his mind. Something was happening behind those closed doors, something that could potentially unravel carefully laid plans that had taken years to orchestrate.

Finally, after what felt like hours but was likely only thirty minutes, the ornate doors to the inner sanctum opened. A goblin guard emerged and gestured curtly for them to follow.

Ragnok's office was exactly as imposing as always—a careful balance of luxury and barely contained violence. Ancient weapons lined the walls like sleeping predators, while piles of gold caught and reflected the flickering torchlight. Behind his granite throne, Ragnok sat with the bearing of a king holding court, his scarred hands folded atop his desk with deceptive calm.

"Gentlemen, Director Bones," Ragnok greeted them with formal politeness as they settled into the chairs arranged before his desk. "How may Gringotts be of service this morning?"

Amelia leaned forward, ready to launch into their rehearsed explanation, but Ragnok smoothly cut her off before she could speak.

"Yes, I am already aware of Mr. Harry Potter's unfortunate demise," he said matter-of-factly, as if discussing the weather. "My Potter Account Manager has been here regarding that very matter."

Dumbledore felt a flicker of surprise cross his features. This was moving far too quickly, far too smoothly. Goblins were notorious for their bureaucratic delays, especially when it came to the sensitive matter of transferring extinct House holdings to Ministry control. The McKinnon account had taken seven years to resolve after Voldemort's followers had wiped out that entire family line.

"So you've initiated the standard procedures for transferring the Potter accounts to Ministry oversight?" Dumbledore asked carefully, probing for information. "That's... remarkably efficient of you, Director."

The smile that spread across Ragnok's weathered features was predatory in its satisfaction. Every warning bell in Dumbledore's considerable experience began clanging simultaneously. That smile promised trouble of the most devastating kind.

Without a word, Ragnok opened his desk drawer and withdrew a single sheet of parchment. He slid it across the polished surface with deliberate ceremony, like a duelist presenting his choice of weapons.

Dumbledore's face went ashen as he read the elegantly scripted document. The words seemed to dance mockingly before his eyes: absorption of Potter accounts into Peverell holdings, the command to release the wills of James and Lily Potter, and at the bottom, a signature he had prayed never to see again—the flowing script of House Peverell.

"Tell me this is some sort of joke," Fudge mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper as he stared at the parchment over Dumbledore's shoulder. His hands were shaking so badly he could barely hold the document steady.

The blood was pounding in Dumbledore's ears as panic threatened to overwhelm his carefully maintained composure. "Lord Peverell has no legal right to release sealed wills," he ground out through clenched teeth, his voice carrying an edge that could cut glass. "Those documents were sealed by direct order of the Wizengamot for reasons of national security."

But even as he spoke, he knew his argument was legally worthless. If a true Peverell heir had emerged—something that should have been impossible—then the implications were catastrophic for everything he had worked to achieve.

Ragnok's smile widened, showing far too many sharp teeth. "House Potter has always been a cadet branch of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Peverell," he replied with obvious relish. "As such, Lord Peverell has every right to assert authority over his family's subsidiary holdings. Goblin law is quite clear on this matter."

With theatrical flair, Ragnok slid two more documents across the desk toward Amelia. The official seals of James and Lily Potter were clearly visible, their red wax still bearing the crisp impressions of their family rings.

The smile Ragnok directed at Dumbledore was a masterpiece of malicious satisfaction, clearly conveying the message: 'You dug this grave, old man. Now lie in it.'

Dumbledore steeled himself for the inevitable explosion. The secrets contained in those wills could destroy everything he had built, every carefully constructed narrative that had allowed him to guide the wizarding world toward what he believed was the greater good.

Amelia's voice, when it came, was barely recognizable—a low, dangerous growl that seemed to emanate from the very depths of her soul. "Dumbledore." She didn't even look up from the parchments as she continued reading, but her hands were trembling with barely controlled rage. "You knew. For thirteen fucking years, you knew that Sirius Black was innocent of betraying the Potters. You knew it was Peter Pettigrew who sold them out to Voldemort."

Fudge's confused protest cut through the suddenly oppressive atmosphere. "What? What are you talking about, Amelia?" He lunged for the wills, practically ripping them from her hands in his desperation to understand.

Dumbledore felt the world tilting beneath his feet, but he maintained his composure through decades of practice. "Amelia, you must understand, there were circumstances—complexities that required—"

The sharp crack of palm meeting cheek echoed through the office like a gunshot. Dumbledore's head snapped to the side, his half-moon spectacles flying across the room to shatter against the stone wall. The taste of blood bloomed in his mouth where his teeth had cut his tongue.

For a moment, the silence was absolute. Fudge stared at Amelia as if she had suddenly sprouted horns and breathed fire. Ragnok's eyebrows had climbed nearly to his receding hairline, and there was something approaching genuine respect in his ancient eyes as he regarded the DMLE Director.

Dumbledore slowly turned his head back to face his attacker, one hand rising instinctively to touch his reddening cheek. Behind his now-unshielded eyes, rage flickered like lightning in storm clouds—a brief glimpse of the terrible power that lay beneath his grandfatherly facade.

'Calm down,' he told himself with iron discipline. 'CALM DOWN! She's just a child who cannot see the greater picture, who doesn't understand the sacrifices necessary for the greater good.' The internal mantra was one he had repeated countless times over the decades, a way of justifying actions that others might consider unforgivable.

But Amelia was far from finished with her verbal assault. She rose from her chair like an avenging angel, her scarred face twisted with righteous fury. "To hell with your understanding! To hell with your excuses and your manipulations! We are drowning in this mess because of your criminal negligence!" Her voice rose with each word until she was practically screaming. "We have a dead child and a kidnapped child, all at the hands of a man who might have been innocent—a man driven to madness by thirteen years of unjust imprisonment in the most hellish place on earth!"

Ragnok, who had been following the exchange with the fascination of someone watching a particularly explosive firework display, suddenly looked confused. "I beg your pardon, Director Bones, but did you say a kidnapped child?"

Amelia nodded grimly, some of her fury giving way to professional concern. "Sirius Black didn't just murder Harry Potter and steal his body. He also kidnapped Astoria Greengrass during his escape from Hogwarts. The girl is barely eleven years old, and she's been in the hands of a madman for nearly twelve hours now."

At his desk, Ragnok carefully kept his expression neutral while internally cursing Harry Potter and Sirius Black with every profanity he had learned in two centuries of life. The idiotic pair had failed to mention the rather crucial detail that they had accidentally kidnapped the daughter of one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight families. This was the kind of oversight that could start wars between magical families, the kind of political nightmare that could bring down governments.

But as he watched Dumbledore's face cycle through a rainbow of emotions—shock, rage, calculation, and something that might have been fear—Ragnok decided the entertainment value was worth the eventual headache. A desperate, confused Dumbledore, flailing about without any real knowledge of the mysterious Lord Peverell's identity or intentions, would be absolutely delicious to observe.

Let the old manipulator stew in his own paranoia for a while. After decades of pulling strings from the shadows, perhaps it was time for Albus Dumbledore to experience what it felt like to be a puppet dancing to someone else's tune.

Fudge's voice cracked as he finally processed the full implications of the wills he held. "Amelia, these documents... they clearly state that Peter Pettigrew was the Secret Keeper, not Sirius Black. They provide detailed testimony about the switch made at the last minute." His face was now completely drained of color. "Dear Merlin, what have we done? What have we allowed to happen?"

The Minister's bowler hat lay forgotten on the floor as he stared at Dumbledore with growing horror. "You knew all of this, didn't you? You've known for over a decade that we imprisoned an innocent man, and you said nothing?"

Dumbledore straightened in his chair, drawing upon reserves of authority and gravitas that had served him well for over a century. "The situation was far more complex than these documents suggest," he began, his voice regaining some of its usual commanding resonance. "There were considerations of magical theory, prophecy, and strategic necessity that—"

"STRATEGIC NECESSITY?" Amelia's roar cut him off mid-sentence. "You destroyed a man's life, orphaned a child, and let a traitor escape justice for your strategic necessity? What possible justification could there be for such monstrous behavior?"

The old wizard's pale blue eyes hardened to chips of winter ice. "Sometimes, Director Bones, those in positions of true responsibility must make choices that others cannot understand. The greater good occasionally requires sacrifices that—"

"Don't you dare," she snarled, her wand now in her hand though she didn't remember drawing it. "Don't you dare lecture me about sacrifice and responsibility. I've been fighting dark wizards since before you started playing your twisted games. I've lost friends, family, pieces of my own soul to protect people. But I never—NEVER—sacrificed innocent lives for some nebulous 'greater good.'"

Ragnok found himself genuinely impressed by the witch's passion and moral clarity. He had always respected Amelia Bones for her integrity and competence, but watching her tear strips off the supposedly untouchable Albus Dumbledore was a sight to behold.

"Furthermore," Amelia continued, her voice dropping to a deadly whisper that was somehow more terrifying than her shouting, "the revelation of Black's innocence means that every single decision made regarding Harry Potter's care and protection was based on false premises. Every risk he was exposed to, every danger he faced, every moment of misery in his short life—all of it could have been avoided if the truth had been known."

The words hung in the air like an executioner's blade, and Dumbledore felt something cold and sharp settle in his chest. The carefully constructed narrative that had justified his choices for over a decade was crumbling before his eyes, and with it, any claim to moral authority he might have possessed.

Fudge was now hyperventilating, his political instincts screaming about the magnitude of the scandal that was about to engulf his administration. "This is going to destroy us," he wheezed. "When the public learns that we've been holding an innocent man in Azkaban for thirteen years while the real traitor walked free... The Wizengamot will demand resignations. The press will crucify us. My career, my reputation..."

"Your career?" Amelia spun toward him with renewed fury. "Your bloody career? There's a child out there in the hands of what we now know might be a victim of our justice system, driven mad by over a decade of psychological torture, and you're worried about your political future?"

The office fell silent except for the crackling of torches and Fudge's labored breathing. Ragnok leaned back in his throne, savoring the chaos that was unfolding before him. This was turning out to be far more entertaining than he had anticipated.

Dumbledore slowly rose from his chair, suddenly looking every one of his hundred and twelve years. The proud set of his shoulders was gone, replaced by a weariness that seemed to bow his tall frame. "If you'll excuse me," he said quietly, "I believe there are urgent matters that require my immediate attention."

"Oh no," Amelia said, her voice carrying the authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed without question. "You're not walking away from this, Albus. Not this time. You're going to sit right there and explain exactly how an innocent man spent thirteen years in hell while you played chess with people's lives."

The old wizard's eyes flashed with something dangerous, but before he could respond, a new voice cut through the tension.

"If I may interrupt," Ragnok said smoothly, "there are some practical matters that need to be addressed immediately. The emergence of Lord Peverell has created certain... complications that will require careful handling."

All three turned toward him, though their expressions ranged from confusion to outright hostility.

"What kind of complications?" Amelia demanded.

Ragnok smiled his predatory smile once more. "Well, for starters, the absorption of the Potter holdings into House Peverell means that every contract, every agreement, every arrangement made on behalf of Harry Potter is now subject to review by his new liege lord. This includes, but is not limited to, his placement with his relatives, his Hogwarts enrollment, and any magical protections or wards that may have been established."

The color drained from Dumbledore's face as the implications hit him like a physical blow. If Lord Peverell chose to challenge any of the decisions made regarding Harry's upbringing...

"Additionally," Ragnok continued with obvious relish, "House Peverell is one of the founding families of the Wizengamot. Lord Peverell, should he choose to take his ancestral seat, would wield considerable political influence. He could, for instance, call for investigations into any decisions made by previous administrations regarding his family's interests."

Fudge made a small whimpering sound and collapsed back into his chair.

"But surely," Dumbledore said desperately, "surely this Lord Peverell, whoever he is, would be reasonable. Would understand that the decisions made were in everyone's best interests..."

Ragnok's laugh was like the sound of grinding stone. "Oh, I suspect Lord Peverell will be very interested indeed in reviewing the choices made on behalf of his family. Very interested indeed."

The office fell silent once more as the full scope of their predicament began to sink in. Somewhere out there was a political figure with the power to destroy them all, and they didn't even know who he was.

Dumbledore closed his eyes and tried to think, tried to plan, tried to find some way to salvage the situation. But for the first time in decades, Albus Dumbledore found himself playing a game where he didn't know the rules, didn't know his opponent, and was already several moves behind.

The puppet master had become the puppet, and the strings were in the hands of a ghost.

Chapter Text

Chapter 7

1994
London

Harry and Sirius appeared back with a sharp crack in the dimly lit living room of Grimmauld Place, the sound echoing off the faded wallpaper and dusty surfaces. The musty smell of the old house immediately assaulted their nostrils, a stark contrast to the crisp winter air they'd left behind at Gringotts. Harry instinctively patted his pocket once to check if the horcrux was still safe, the cold metal of the locket pressing reassuringly against his palm through the fabric.

"We need to leave," Harry remarked, his voice tight with urgency as he turned to face Sirius, the firelight casting dancing shadows across his determined features. "Now."

Sirius furrowed his brows, his grey eyes reflecting confusion and a hint of concern. "What's the rush, Harry? We just got back from—"

"Director Bones will definitely try to get a list of Black properties from Director Ragnok," Harry interrupted, running a hand through his already disheveled black hair. "And as much as he would like to divert them from us, he will have no other choice but to give them the locations of various Black properties to trace down Astoria. Ragnok may be sympathetic to our cause, but he won't risk the bank's neutrality for long."

The heavy oak door of the living room creaked open with a protesting groan, admitting a slightly sleepy figure. Astoria shuffled in, her previous Ravenclaw robes replaced with something more casual—a soft woolen sweater that was clearly too large for her eleven-year-old frame and comfortable trousers that Kreacher had somehow procured from Merlin knew where. Her dark hair was tousled from sleep, and she rubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand like a drowsy child.

"What time is it?" she asked through a yawn that made her look even younger than her eleven years. "And who's trying to trace me down?" Her voice carried that particular blend of confusion and wariness that came from being suddenly awakened to discussions of danger.

"About ten," Harry replied matter-of-factly, as if the time was far more important than the looming threat. The casual way he dismissed her second question made her blink in surprise. "You slept again after eating breakfast early this morning. You needed the rest after yesterday's events."

Astoria's expression sharpened despite her sleepy state. "You didn't answer my second question, Potter."

"Director Bones was at Gringotts," Harry continued, his green eyes growing darker with concern. "Probably asking for various Black properties and possibly planning to tear their wards down systematically until she finds what she's looking for. We plan to leave you here where it's safe."

"We do?" both Sirius and the newly appearing Kreacher asked in unison, their voices laden with confusion. The ancient house-elf had materialized beside the doorway with barely a sound, his bulbous eyes darting between the three occupants of the room.

Astoria raised a practiced eyebrow that would have put Professor McGonagall's most intimidating expressions to shame. The look was so perfectly executed and so mature for her young face that it seemed almost comical, yet somehow managed to convey exactly how unimpressed she was with Harry's unilateral decision-making.

"Oh, absolutely not," she said, her voice taking on a dangerously sweet tone that Harry was beginning to recognize as a warning sign.

Before anyone could react or even process what was happening, Astoria dashed forward with surprising speed and agility, launching herself at Sirius and clinging to him like a determined koala. Her small arms wrapped around his waist with surprising strength, and she buried her face against his robes with dramatic flair.

"I'm not leaving you," she declared, her voice muffled against Sirius's chest but still perfectly audible. She turned her head just enough to shoot Harry a glare that could have melted steel, her brown eyes flashing with defiance and hurt. Then, in a display of emotional manipulation that was both impressive and slightly disturbing in someone so young, she shifted her expression completely as she tilted her face up toward Sirius. Her eyes grew wide and luminous, her lower lip trembling slightly in a perfect imitation of a lost puppy.

Harry's left eyebrow began to twitch with barely contained annoyance as he watched this theatrical display. The girl was eleven years old and already more manipulative than half the Slytherins he'd known in his original timeline. It was both admirable and terrifying.

Sirius, meanwhile, looked down at the small girl attached to his midsection and then up at Harry with pleading eyes that practically screamed 'help me.' His usual confidence had completely evaporated under the dual assault of Astoria's puppy-dog expression and her surprisingly strong grip. The expression on her face was pushing his non-existent sternness to its absolute limit, and Harry could see him wavering like a leaf in a strong wind.

"Sirius," Harry said warningly, recognizing the look on his godfather's face. "Don't you dare give in to—"

"But Harry," Sirius began weakly, "look at that face. How can anyone say no to that face?"

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose hard enough to leave marks, feeling a headache building behind his eyes. "Sirius, she's manipulating you. Can't you see that?"

"I am not manipulating anyone," Astoria protested indignantly, though she didn't loosen her grip on Sirius. "I'm simply making my position clear through non-verbal communication."

"Right," Harry said dryly. "And I suppose the sudden shift from death glare to adorable child was completely unconscious?"

Astoria's cheeks flushed slightly pink, but her chin lifted defiantly. "I have no idea what you mean."

Kreacher, who had been watching this entire exchange with the sort of fascination usually reserved for watching a particularly dramatic Quidditch match, cleared his throat pointedly. "Master Harry, if Kreacher may suggest—"

"You do know," Harry interrupted, choosing to ignore Kreacher for the moment and focus on the more pressing matter of one stubborn eleven-year-old, "that we can just stun you and leave you here, right?"

The transformation in Astoria's expression was instantaneous and dramatic. The lost puppy look vanished as if it had never existed, replaced by a glare so fierce that the temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. She slowly turned to face Harry fully, her grip on Sirius never loosening.

"Was Malfoy right about you being daft, Potter?" she hissed, her voice dripping with venom that sounded completely wrong coming from someone who barely reached Sirius's chest. "Because right now, you're making a pretty convincing case for his assessment."

Harry's eyes flashed dangerously. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me perfectly well," Astoria continued, her voice rising with each word. "I just told you a few hours ago that my family is basically the wannabe Dark Lord's lapdogs. My father would sell his own soul if he thought it would gain him an ounce of favor with Voldemort. And even if I wanted to stay with my Muggleborn friends—which I do, by the way, because they're infinitely better company than the purebloods my parents try to force on me—my father won't think twice about 'disciplining' me for my choices."

The way she said 'disciplining' made Harry's blood run cold. He knew exactly what that meant in families like the Greengrasses.

"And I," Astoria continued, her voice growing stronger and more passionate with each word, "in my right conscience after learning that the supposedly superior Voldemort is basically a half-blood hypocrite, will find it very hard to stay quiet about that little fact. Would you like to see me dead, Potter? Because that's exactly what will happen if you leave me to face my father's 'discipline' while armed with that particular piece of information."

Harry couldn't suppress the flinch that ran through him at her words. He knew the discipline would definitely involve the Cruciatus Curse, possibly for extended periods. The image of this fierce, intelligent eleven-year-old girl writhing under that particular torture made his stomach churn violently.

Suddenly, unbidden, a memory surfaced from his original timeline. Draco, years later, mentioning in passing during one of their tentative conversations that Astoria didn't have many friends for most of her time at Hogwarts. That she had been lonely, isolated by her family's expectations and her own inability to conform to their ideals. The sadness in Draco's voice when he'd spoken about his wife's childhood had been genuine and heartbreaking.

Harry couldn't, in his conscience as well as out of respect for the remarkable woman Astoria Greengrass had become in his original timeline, leave her to that fate. The girl standing before him, clinging to Sirius with desperate determination, deserved better than the isolation and pain that awaited her if they abandoned her now.

Harry sighed deeply, feeling the weight of responsibility settling on his shoulders like a familiar, heavy cloak. He turned toward Kreacher, a plan already beginning to form in his mind despite his reservations.

"Kreacher," he said slowly, "do you know of any properties that have never been registered by the previous Lords of House Black? Somewhere that wouldn't appear on any official records that Director Bones might access?"

The ancient house-elf's bulbous eyes grew thoughtful for a moment before he shook his head with obvious regret. "No, Master Harry. The Black family has always been very thorough in their record-keeping, even for the most secret of properties. Kreacher knows of no such place."

Harry nodded, having expected as much. He turned to Sirius, who was still trapped in Astoria's koala-like embrace and looking increasingly uncomfortable with the weight of her expectant gaze.

"Sirius," Harry said carefully, "did the Potters have a Manor? Like the Blacks and Longbottoms?"

The animagus's face immediately brightened, relief flooding his features as if Harry had just thrown him a lifeline. "There is," he said, nodding eagerly. "Potter Manor. That's where your grandparents lived before their deaths, and then your parents moved there after they married. When they came to know about the prophecy, they went under the Fidelius Charm and moved to Godric's Hollow, because as much protection as the Potter Manor had—and it had considerable protections, Harry, layers upon layers of ancient magic—Voldemort had proven capable of bringing down similar wards before. He'd wiped out entire families in their ancestral homes. The Bones and McKinnons paid that exact price."

Astoria's grip on Sirius tightened involuntarily, and Harry could see her gulp as she received a healthy dose of fear about exactly why Voldemort had been so universally terrifying. The casual way Sirius spoke about entire families being wiped out seemed to drive home the reality of their situation in a way that abstract discussions of danger hadn't quite managed.

Harry nodded grimly, the familiar weight of knowledge about Voldemort's capabilities settling in his chest. "Did we have any house-elves there? Because we need the location of the manor, but we can't risk going back to Gringotts. Not with Director Bones potentially watching every goblin transaction."

Sirius raised his eyebrows with an expression that managed to convey both amusement and mild offense. "Harry, you do realize that I spent nearly all my summers there since starting Hogwarts, right? Your grandparents practically adopted me. I could navigate that manor blindfolded."

Harry's mouth formed a perfect 'o' of understanding, feeling somewhat foolish for not making that connection immediately.

Seeing Astoria's confused gaze darting between them, Sirius's expression softened as he explained further. "The Potters took me in every summer, every holiday. They became more family to me than my actual blood relatives ever were. Charlus and Dorea Potter treated me like a second son, and when James came along, well..." Sirius's smile became more genuine. "Let's just say we got into enough trouble to keep the house-elves busy for decades."

"All right then," Harry said, decision crystallizing in his mind. "I suggest we leave immediately. Director Bones may come tearing down the door at any moment, and I'd rather not be here to explain why we're harboring a supposed kidnapping victim."

Sirius nodded and carefully extracted himself from Astoria's grip, placing gentle but firm hands on her shoulders. "Come on then, both of you. Time to see your ancestral home, Harry."

With that, he grabbed both children by the shoulders and disapparated with the familiar sharp crack that seemed to echo in the sudden silence they left behind.

The trio materialized in what was clearly a grand foyer, though one designed with tasteful restraint rather than ostentatious display. The space was tall and well-decorated, with gleaming marble floors that reflected the warm light from floating candles suspended near the high ceiling. Rich mahogany paneling covered the lower half of the walls, while the upper portions were painted in warm cream tones that made the entire space feel welcoming despite its impressive size. A sweeping staircase curved gracefully upward, its bannister carved with intricate designs that seemed to move subtly in the flickering candlelight.

The foyer was undoubtedly impressive, but there was a modesty to it that spoke of old money confidence—the kind that didn't need to shout about its wealth to make an impression. Still, Astoria, drawing on the historical accounts her family had always kept about the various old families, had no doubts that the ancestral Potter Manor lacked nothing in terms of true opulence. It was simply more subtle about displaying it.

From those same family records, she knew that the Potters, while never flaunting their wealth in the vulgar manner of the newer rich families, were wealthy beyond most people's comprehension. Filthy rich, as the crude expression went. No one outside the family knew exactly how much money they possessed, but considering that they were linked by blood and marriage to the Peverells—arguably the oldest magical family in Britain, with roots stretching back to the time of the Founders themselves—they could easily dwarf the Black and Malfoy fortunes, which those families flaunted at every opportunity.

The Potters had simply never felt the need to prove anything to anyone.

Barely a second had passed after their arrival when there was another sharp crack, and a well-dressed house-elf materialized in the center of the foyer. Unlike Kreacher's ragged appearance, this elf wore pristine robes in deep blue with silver trim, and her posture spoke of dignity and long service. Her large eyes immediately landed on Sirius and Harry, and Astoria watched in fascination as those eyes filled with tears that began streaming down the elf's cheeks.

"Master Harry! Master Sirius!" the elf called out in a voice thick with overwhelming emotion before launching herself forward to hug both of them around their mid-sections with surprising strength.

"Minie!" Sirius called out fondly, his own voice betraying deep affection and relief. He immediately knelt down to return the embrace properly.

Harry, clearly less familiar with this level of emotional display from house-elves, patted the elf's back somewhat awkwardly, though his expression was gentle and touched.

"Where were you, Master Harry!" Minie cried hysterically, her words tumbling over each other in her distress. "I tried reaching out to you so many times over the years! I searched and searched, but I could never find you! For so many years, I thought... I thought..." She dissolved into fresh sobs that shook her small frame.

"And I knew—I KNEW—you could never betray Master James!" she continued, her voice rising with passionate conviction. "I knew they were telling lies when they said that you betrayed Master James and Mistress Lily to the Dark Lord! You loved them like they were your own family! Lady Dorea would be so disappointed with me!" The elf's voice broke completely as she wailed, "I failed to protect everyone she held dear! I failed Master James, and Mistress Lily, and you, and little Master Harry!"

The raw grief and guilt in the elf's voice was heartbreaking to witness. Astoria found herself blinking back tears of her own, moved by the obvious depth of love and loyalty this creature had for the family she'd served.

"It's all right, Minie," Sirius said soothingly as he remained kneeling, his voice taking on a gentleness that Astoria hadn't heard from him before. "You tried your best, and that's what matters. No one could have predicted what happened, and no one could have prevented it. You have nothing to feel guilty about." He patted the elf's back with infinite patience as her sobs gradually subsided.

Turning slightly toward Harry while keeping one comforting hand on Minie's shoulder, Sirius explained, "She is the Potter Manor head house-elf and was your grandmother Dorea's personal elf for over thirty years. While you lived here as a baby, she often took care of you, and she took care of me when I ran away from my family before that. She's practically family."

The warmth and respect in Sirius's voice when he spoke about the elf was unmistakable, and Astoria filed this information away. It said something significant about both the Potter family and Sirius himself that they inspired such devotion and treated their elves with such obvious affection.

"It's very nice to meet you, Minie," Harry said sincerely, kneeling beside Sirius and offering a brief but genuine hug to the elf. "I'm sorry you've been worried about me. That must have been terrible for you."

Minie looked up at him with shining eyes, reaching up to touch his face gently as if to assure herself he was real. "Oh, Master Harry, you have your father's kind heart and your mother's gentle soul. And you've grown so tall and strong!"

After a moment of emotional reunion, Minie seemed to notice Astoria's presence for the first time. The elf's large eyes fixed on her with curious intensity, and her head tilted to one side in a gesture that was almost birdlike.

"Is she our new Mistress, Master Harry?" Minie asked with the sort of innocent directness that only children and house-elves seemed capable of.

The effect of this question was immediate and dramatic. Astoria's face turned a brilliant shade of red that clashed spectacularly with her dark hair, the blush spreading from her cheeks all the way to the tips of her ears. She opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again, apparently rendered speechless by the blunt question and its rather significant implications regarding her relationship with Harry.

Sirius, meanwhile, completely lost his composure. He fell backward onto the marble floor as laughter seized him, great whooping guffaws that echoed off the high ceiling of the foyer. He clutched his sides as he rolled slightly, tears of mirth streaming down his face.

"Oh, Merlin!" he gasped between laughs. "Minie, you haven't changed a bit! Still asking the questions that matter most!"

Harry, in stark contrast to both Astoria's embarrassment and Sirius's amusement, kept his expression completely stoic and matter-of-fact. "She is a friend who will be staying here for the unforeseeable future due to some rather complicated circumstances," he explained calmly, as if discussing the weather.

Minie's expression immediately shifted, and she looked in Sirius's direction with a look of profound unimpressive that could have withered flowers. Her eyes narrowed dangerously, and her voice took on a tone that would have made Professor McGonagall proud.

"Did you kidnap someone again, Sirius?!" she snarled, dropping all formality and addressing him with the exasperated tone of someone who had clearly dealt with this sort of thing before.

The effect on Sirius was instantaneous and comical. He immediately stopped laughing and scrambled backward across the marble floor as if the small house-elf had suddenly burst into flames. Terror replaced amusement on his features as he tried to create as much distance as possible between himself and Minie's disapproving glare.

"Again?" both Harry and Astoria asked together, their voices perfectly synchronized in their perplexed amazement at both the wording and Sirius's dramatic reaction.

"Do you know Mister Remus?" Minie asked, her attention shifting to the two teenagers. When they both nodded, she continued with the tone of someone recounting a familiar and exasperating tale. "Master James and Sirius had basically kidnapped him during the summer before their sixth year, bringing him here without his own consent because he was too scared to face Master Charlus and Lady Dorea because of his lycanthropy. The boy was convinced they would throw him out or worse if they discovered his condition."

She paused to shoot another withering look at Sirius, who had now managed to scramble behind a decorative pillar and was peering around it like a child hiding from an angry parent.

"And I'm assuming," Minie continued with dangerous sweetness, "that you've done something similar again, Sirius?"

When Sirius failed to reply, apparently hoping that staying silent would somehow make him invisible, Minie's expression grew even more disappointed. The look of maternal disapproval she directed at him was so profound that Sirius actually whimpered and seemed to shrink further behind his pillar.

"You are grounded for the next two months!" Minie declared with the authority of someone who had clearly enforced such punishments before.

"I'm a grown man!" Sirius protested weakly, his voice cracking slightly with indignation and panic.

"Chronologically, perhaps," Minie retorted without missing a beat, "but emotionally you're still the same reckless boy who thought it would be amusing to enchant all the suits of armor to perform a synchronized dance routine during your grandmother's tea party with the Sacred Twenty-Eight wives. Therefore, you will be treated accordingly."

She then turned to Harry with a pleading expression that made her look almost desperate. "Please tell me you didn't help him with this particular scheme. I'm not sure I'll be able to keep my sanity intact for much longer if I have to deal with another James-and-Sirius partnership. The first time nearly drove me to request a transfer to a nice, quiet family of accountants."

"That was intense," Astoria commented with barely suppressed amusement, her earlier embarrassment forgotten in the face of this entertaining domestic drama.

"You have no idea," Minie replied seriously. "I have personally raised an infant James Potter and a runaway teenage Sirius Black, often simultaneously. You simply cannot comprehend the horrors that Lady Dorea, Master Charlus, and I witnessed over those years. Be eternally grateful that Master Sirius has managed to develop at least some minimal sense of maturity in his advanced age."

This comment caused Astoria's lips to twitch upward in a smile that she tried unsuccessfully to hide behind her hand.

"I'll tell you everything later, Minie," Harry promised, looking directly into the elf's large eyes with obvious sincerity. "I promise we'll sit down and I'll explain everything that's happened and why we're here. But right now, we need to focus on keeping everyone safe."

Seeing the genuine honesty in Harry's expression, Minie nodded slowly, though her posture remained somewhat stiff with lingering disapproval. "Very well, Master Harry. I can see that whatever foolishness occurred, you were operating under dire circumstances."

Harry nodded gratefully, relief evident on his face.

"Can you arrange for some proper clothes for us?" he asked, gesturing to his wrinkled Hogwarts uniform shirt and trousers, and then to Astoria's borrowed makeshift dress. "We left rather suddenly and didn't have time to pack properly."

Minie's professional demeanor immediately reasserted itself as she turned to Astoria with a measuring gaze. "I'll send Thosre to you later today, Miss. You can tell him your specific preferences for style, color, and fabric, and he'll arrange for a complete wardrobe to be delivered. He's quite skilled at determining what will suit young ladies best."

She then turned back to Harry with the same professional attention. "He'll also purchase your formal dress robes and any casual clothes you might need, Master Harry. Simply provide him with your requirements and he'll see to everything."

"And," Harry added carefully, "can you please also prepare several courses of Nutrient Potions and Nourishment Potions for both Sirius and myself? We'll both need them." His voice carried a weight that suggested this request was more serious than casual supplementation.

Minie's eyes immediately narrowed with concern as she studied both Harry and Sirius more carefully, noting details she had missed in her initial emotional reunion. "Of course, Master Harry. I'll prepare the strongest formulations available and have them ready within the hour."

"Thank you, Minie," Harry said with genuine gratitude. "That would be incredibly helpful."

The elf nodded briskly and gestured for them to follow her deeper into the manor. "Come then, let me show you to the main living area where you can rest comfortably."

She led them through a wide doorway into what was clearly the manor's primary living room. The space was large and beautifully appointed, but like the foyer, it managed to convey luxury through quality and taste rather than ostentation. Plush velvet sofas in deep burgundy were arranged around a magnificent fireplace that dominated one wall, its marble surround carved with intricate designs that seemed to tell the story of the Potter family history. Afternoon sunlight streamed through tall windows, filtering through sheer curtains to cast gentle, dancing patterns across the Persian rugs that covered the polished wooden floors.

The room exuded an atmosphere of understated elegance and warmth, from the softly glowing enchanted table that served as a centerpiece to the portraits of previous Potter family members that lined the walls. Unlike the screaming portraits at Grimmauld Place, these paintings seemed peaceful and welcoming, their subjects occasionally nodding or smiling at the newcomers.

"Minie has definitely taken after Aunt Dorea too much," Sirius whimpered as the house-elf bustled away to attend to their requests, leaving them alone in the beautiful but intimidating room.

For the next several hours, Sirius took on the role of tour guide, leading Harry and Astoria through the expansive manor while regaling them with stories of his youth. The house was enormous—Harry quickly realized it was nearly three times as large as Grimmauld Place—with countless rooms, hidden passages, and architectural marvels that spoke of centuries of magical construction and renovation.

As they walked through grand ballrooms and cozy libraries, past studies lined with ancient tomes and conservatories filled with exotic magical plants, Sirius would frequently stop to point out locations of particular significance.

"This is where James and I accidentally turned all of Aunt Dorea's prize-winning roses purple for an entire summer," he said, gesturing toward a formal garden visible through tall windows. "She made us tend them by hand—no magic allowed—until we figured out how to reverse the color-change charm."

"And here," he continued as they passed an elegant music room, "is where James first attempted to serenade Lily through the Floo network during Christmas holiday. Unfortunately, he hadn't realized that the connection would amplify his voice to roughly three times normal volume. Half the neighborhood heard him warbling off-key love ballads at two in the morning."

Astoria looked mildly horrified at some of the tales of destruction and chaos that had apparently been regular occurrences during James and Sirius's teenage years. "How did your grandparents survive having both of you here?" she asked in amazement.

"Patience, strong nerves, and a very well-stocked potions cabinet," Sirius replied with a grin that held no trace of shame whatsoever.

By the time they finished their comprehensive tour of the manor, the sun was beginning to set, painting the sky in brilliant oranges and purples visible through the many windows. Harry was feeling somewhat overwhelmed by the sheer size and grandeur of his family home, while also being deeply moved by the obvious love and care that had gone into every detail of its maintenance.

As they returned to the main living area, an elf that Harry hadn't seen before appeared beside them with the quiet efficiency that seemed to be a hallmark of Potter house-elf service.

This elf was notably different from Minie—younger, with sharper features and robes in forest green with gold trim that marked him as having a different role within the household hierarchy. His posture was respectfully attentive as he approached them.

"Thosre was asked by Minie to ask for Miss Astoria's and Master Harry's garment choices," the elf said, tilting his head slightly in a gesture that managed to convey both deference and professional competence.

Harry nodded and gestured toward Astoria, who had been listening to Sirius's latest tale about accidentally flooding the manor's east wing during an ill-conceived attempt to create an indoor lake for a pet Grindylow. "Why don't you go first?" he asked, his tone casual but carrying an undertone that suggested this wasn't merely about clothing logistics. "I have something I need to discuss with Sirius."

Astoria, despite her young age, was perceptive enough to catch the subtle implication that whatever Harry needed to discuss was private and decidedly not for her ears. Her expression flickered with curiosity and perhaps a hint of hurt at being excluded, but she nodded quietly with the sort of mature acceptance that seemed to characterize much of her behavior.

"Of course," she said simply, turning to follow Thosre as he gestured toward what appeared to be a drawing room off the main corridor. "I suppose I should learn about proper wizarding fashion anyway."

As their footsteps faded down the hallway, Harry exchanged a meaningful look with Sirius. The older man's expression immediately grew serious, recognizing the gravity in Harry's green eyes. Without a word, they quickly made their way upstairs, their footsteps muffled by the thick Persian runners that covered the polished wooden stairs.

The Lord's study was located at the end of a corridor lined with portraits of distinguished-looking Potter ancestors, each of whom nodded respectfully as Harry passed. The heavy oak door opened at Sirius's touch, revealing a room that was clearly the heart of Potter family business and decision-making.

Sirius gave a deeply nostalgic smile as he looked around the familiar space, his grey eyes growing distant with memory. The room was adorned with rich mahogany furniture that gleamed in the light from tall windows, and the air was filled with the comforting smell of old books, aged leather, and the faint traces of pipe tobacco that seemed to have soaked into the very walls over decades of use. This was a place where important decisions had been made, where family business had been conducted, and where he and James had been scolded many times by Charlus Potter for their various transgressions.

He could still picture those scenes with perfect clarity: himself and James standing before the large mahogany desk like defendants before a judge, while Charlus sat on the opposite side in the high-backed leather chair, looking at them with that particular mixture of paternal annoyance and barely suppressed amusement that had characterized so many of their childhood punishments. The man had possessed an almost supernatural ability to maintain his stern facade while his eyes twinkled with the sort of fondness that made it clear the scoldings were more about principle than genuine anger.

"Minie!" Harry called, his voice carrying an undertone of urgency that immediately dispelled the peaceful atmosphere of reminiscence.

The house-elf appeared instantly in the empty space in the middle of the study, her materialization so swift and silent that it was clear she had been expecting this summons. Her expression immediately shifted from curious anticipation to cautious wariness as she took in the seriousness radiating from Harry's entire bearing.

"Master Harry," she greeted formally, though her voice carried the warmth of genuine concern. She studied his face with the sort of penetrating gaze that suggested decades of experience reading the moods and needs of the Potter family. "I have a feeling you'll need to sit down for this conversation."

Harry's lips twitched upward in the faintest ghost of a smile despite the gravity of the situation. He might not have known his grandmother Dorea very well in this timeline, but if she had influenced this elf to develop such perceptive wisdom and gentle humor, she must have been truly remarkable. The thought brought him a moment of bittersweet comfort.

Taking his rightful place in the chair behind the imposing desk—a seat that felt both foreign and strangely familiar—Harry gestured for Sirius to take one of the comfortable chairs facing him. Minie remained standing beside the desk in a position that somehow managed to convey both respect and readiness to offer support or advice as needed.

With careful precision, Harry began to explain everything he had revealed to Sirius the previous night. He spoke of his first defeat of Voldemort and the discovery of the horcruxes, his life in the aftermath of that initial victory, and the gradual revelation of how thoroughly he had been manipulated. His voice grew harder as he described the disaster of what he had come to think of as the Obscurus Order—Dumbledore's secret organization designed to control every aspect of the wizarding world's future, with Harry as an unwitting puppet at its center.

He explained Dumbledore's role in orchestrating events, the careful manipulation of his relationships and choices, and the way the old man had systematically destroyed every chance Harry had ever had at genuine happiness or independence. His voice carried particular venom as he described how Dumbledore had arranged for the deaths of everyone Harry had ever cared about, all in service of some greater good that somehow never seemed to benefit anyone but Dumbledore himself.

Finally, he spoke of his time travel back to his third year and the dramatic circumstances of his apparent death at Sirius's hands—an event that had freed him from Dumbledore's control and given him this unprecedented opportunity to change everything.

Throughout the entire recollection, Minie's large eyes had grown progressively narrower, her expression shifting from shock to disgust to a cold, dangerous anger that transformed her usually gentle features into something truly intimidating. By the time Harry finished speaking, the house-elf looked as though she would personally hunt down Dumbledore and introduce him to some very creative and painful punishments.

"Master Charlus and Lord Arcturus had always distrusted that man on principle alone," Minie commented when Harry had finished, her voice carrying a satisfaction that suggested she had been vindicated in a long-held suspicion. "They used to say that anyone who accumulated that much political power while maintaining a facade of humble servitude was either a saint or a serpent, and they had serious doubts about his qualifications for sainthood."

She paused, her expression becoming thoughtful and calculating. "What are your plans now, Master Harry? You're finally free of Dumbledore's manipulations, and you have a significant head start on both Riddle and the old fool."

Harry's jaw clenched as he considered the question, his hands forming unconscious fists on the desk's polished surface. "As much as I would personally prefer to deal with Tom quietly and without fanfare, he needs to be killed publicly to properly terrorize the families that support him. Fear is the only language they understand, and his public death will shatter their confidence in the Dark Lord's supposed immortality."

He paused, mentally reviewing their current strategic position. "We've already destroyed four of his seven horcruxes, and I have another one with me right now— Hufflepuff's Cup. We can retrieve another one from the Gaunt Shack without much difficulty, which means only Nagini would remain. Once she's dealt with, Tom becomes mortal and vulnerable."

"We have a more immediate problem," Sirius interjected, his expression growing troubled as he considered their tactical situation. "We need wands, and proper ones at that."

Harry's brows furrowed in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"Your Peverell magic will not work properly through your Phoenix and Holly wand," Sirius explained patiently. "That wand was chosen for the boy you were, not the man you've become or the power you now wield. Beyond that, it still carries the Ministry's Trace, which makes it completely unsuitable for our purposes. I don't have my wand at all, obviously, since I've been in Azkaban for the past twelve years. And the wand you used last night to destroy those two horcruxes has been rendered completely useless."

He paused, running a hand through his hair in a gesture that reminded Harry painfully of James Potter. "I suspect that no wand core other than Thestral tail hairs can properly channel the raw magic that accompanies Death itself. The forces you're wielding now are simply too powerful and too fundamentally connected to mortality for conventional cores to handle."

"Additionally," Sirius continued with growing urgency, "Astoria can't safely use her current wand either. While the Potter Manor has excellent protective wards, it isn't hidden under a Fidelius Charm because of its sheer size and the complexity that would entail. The activation of her wand's Trace could still potentially be tracked to this location if the Ministry decides to conduct a thorough search."

Minie nodded grimly, her expression indicating that she had been thinking along similar lines. "I wouldn't suggest approaching Ollivander for new wands," she said with a thoughtful frown. "He's far too famous and well-connected to the Ministry. You would be spotted and reported within hours of entering his shop, regardless of any disguises or false identities you might attempt to use."

She paused, her eyes taking on the calculating gleam that Harry was beginning to associate with her more devious suggestions. "If you truly need a wand with a Thestral tail hair core, you'll need to find Gregorovich. He and Ollivander are the only two wandmakers in Europe with the experience and knowledge necessary to properly handle such an unusual and dangerous core material. More importantly, Gregorovich operates with considerably more discretion than his British counterpart."

Her expression grew more confident as she continued. "He'll also be able to remove the Traces from both your current wand and Miss Astoria's without leaving any evidence that the process was ever performed. It's a specialized skill that requires both technical expertise and a willingness to work outside official Ministry channels."

Harry sat quietly for several long moments, his mind racing through possibilities and complications. The silence stretched until he finally spoke, his voice carrying the weight of difficult decisions.

"I'll put up a Fidelius Charm on the manor before lunch. I'll be almost magically spent but I can with my reserves," he said decisively. "The ritual will be complex given the size of the property, but it's necessary for our long-term security. The question is finding Gregorovich, and I'll admit I have no idea where to begin that search. I had only heard his name mentioned in passing during my original timeline, and he was later killed by Tom during his obsessive hunt for the Elder Wand."

Harry's expression grew darker as he remembered that particular piece of future history. "Tom tortured him for information before murdering him, which means we need to reach him before that becomes an issue. But I don't have the first clue about his current location or how to make contact without exposing ourselves."

Minie's lips twitched upward in what might have been the beginning of a smile, and a particularly dangerous gleam appeared in her large eyes—an expression that somehow managed to be both helpful and slightly terrifying.

"Master Charlus maintained an extensive network of contacts throughout continental Europe from his days fighting in Grindelwald's war," she said with obvious satisfaction. "Unlike many British wizards, he understood the importance of maintaining international relationships and sources of information. He stayed in regular correspondence with many of these contacts until the day he died, and some of those connections remain active even now."

She paused dramatically, clearly enjoying the moment. "I'll ask Deitre to reach out to them on your behalf. He was Master Charlus's preferred elf whenever he needed to accomplish something that required absolute discretion and complete deniability. If anyone can locate Gregorovich and arrange a meeting that won't attract unwanted attention, it would be him."

Harry felt a genuine smile cross his features for the first time since their conversation had begun. "I appreciate the help enormously, Minie. Having access to those kinds of resources makes this infinitely more manageable."

"I live to serve the Ancient and Noble House of Peverell, formerly Potter, Master Harry," she said with a small but dignified bow that somehow managed to convey both respect and fierce loyalty. "Your success is my success, and your enemies are my enemies."

Her expression brightened slightly as she continued. "And that reminds me of something else I should mention. I'll also need to guide you through the estate's magical creature sanctuary when time permits. It's quite extensive and contains some truly remarkable specimens that your family has protected for generations."

Harry's brows furrowed in confusion. "Sanctuary? I wasn't aware we had one."

"Master Sirius can't show you himself," Minie explained with a pointed glare in Sirius's direction that made the man visibly cringe. "Master Charlus permanently banned him from the sanctuary after he nearly instigated a three-way battle between the Thestrals, the Hippogriffs, and the Thunderbird by trying to determine which species would win in a hypothetical combat situation."

Sirius had the grace to look thoroughly ashamed as he turned his head away and tried to make himself smaller in his chair. "In my defence," he mumbled weakly, "I was only fifteen and genuinely curious about comparative magical creature combat capabilities."

"You nearly got yourself killed and traumatized half the creatures in the sanctuary," Minie retorted with the sort of exasperated fondness that suggested this was a very old argument. "Master Charlus spent weeks repairing the damage to both the physical enclosures and the creatures' emotional well-being."

Harry shook his head in exasperation, though he couldn't entirely suppress his amusement at this latest revelation about his godfather's capacity for chaos. He found himself genuinely looking forward to exploring the sanctuary and meeting the magical creatures his family had protected.

The prospect brought back bittersweet memories of his original timeline, where he had missed the opportunity to properly explore his inheritance. After turning seventeen, he had been too consumed with hunting horcruxes to claim his Lordship properly, and then his dramatic destruction of Gringotts to retrieve Hufflepuff's Cup had resulted in the goblins absorbing all accounts connected to him into their holdings as reimbursement for what they had considered an act of terrorism against their institution.

Hogwarts

The Gryffindor tower felt suffocatingly quiet in the pale afternoon light that filtered through the frost-covered windows. The usual sounds of students chattering in the corridors were absent—Professor McGonagall had dismissed classes for the day after the horrific events of the previous night. The very stones of Hogwarts seemed to mourn.

Hermione sat rigid on her four-poster bed, her knees drawn up to her chest, staring at the wall where shadows danced like specters. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw it again—the sickly green flash, Harry's body crumpling to the ground with a finality that made her stomach lurch. The sound of Sirius Black's maniacal laughter still echoed in her ears, a sound that would haunt her nightmares for years to come.

She had tried to sleep. Merlin knew she had tried. But the moment her eyelids grew heavy, Harry's body has appeared behind them.

Her hands trembled as she pushed herself off the bed. She couldn't stay here, drowning in her own thoughts. She needed Ron—needed someone who understood, someone who had witnessed the same horror.

The corridors felt endless as she made her way to the boys' dormitory. Her footsteps echoed hollowly, each sound seeming to whisper Harry's name. When she reached the familiar door, her hand hesitated on the handle. Beyond this door lay Harry's bed, his belongings, his absence made tangible.

She took a shuddering breath and pushed the door open.

Ron sat hunched on his bed, still wearing the same clothes from the night before—robes wrinkled and stained with tears.

His ginger hair hung limply around his face, and his usually bright blue eyes were dull and red-rimmed. He was staring at Harry's bed with the intensity of someone trying to will their friend back into existence.

Harry's bed was perfectly made—the house-elves had been through, straightening the covers with their usual efficiency. But somehow, the neatness made it worse. It looked like a shrine, a memorial to someone who would never again mess up those sheets or leave his glasses on the nightstand.

"Couldn't sleep?" Ron's voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.

Hermione shook her head slowly, her throat too tight to speak. The simple question broke something inside her, and she felt fresh tears spill down her cheeks.

"I see him dying," she murmured, the words scraping against her throat like broken glass. "Over and over again. The light, the way he just... fell. Like a puppet with its strings cut."

Ron's face crumpled, and he gulped hard, his Adam's apple bobbing with the effort of holding back his own sobs. He shifted slightly on his bed and patted the space beside him with a hand that shook.

Hermione crossed the room on unsteady legs and sank down beside him. The mattress dipped under their combined weight, and Ron immediately wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her against his side. She melted into the embrace, pressing her face against his shoulder as her carefully constructed composure finally shattered.

"Me too," Ron responded, his voice breaking. "I keep thinking—what if I had stopped him from leaving the Great Hall? What if I had informed the Professors faster? What if I had run faster when I saw Black standing over him? Could I have saved him?"

His words came out in a rush, each 'what if' like a dagger twisting in both their hearts. "I just keep thinking it over and over again, like if I think about it enough, I can change what happened. But I can't, can I? He's really gone."

Hermione nodded against his shoulder, her tears soaking into his robes. "Me too," she whispered, her voice muffled. "I keep thinking about all the spells I know, all the books I've read. There had to be something—some charm, some potion, some way to bring him back. But there isn't, is there? Not from the Killing Curse. Not from death."

Her lower lip trembled violently as the reality hit her anew. "He didn't deserve to die so young, Ron. His relatives treated him so badly his whole life—locked him up, starved him, made him feel worthless. And when he finally found happiness here at Hogwarts, with us, it gets ripped away. He was good and kind and brave, and Black killed him!"

Her voice rose to a near-shriek, raw with anguish. "All for that monster! For Voldemort, who killed Harry's parents right in front of him when he was just a baby, and then tried to kill him too. Harry was a thousand times better than Black or Voldemort could ever hope to be, and now he's dead while they're still breathing!"

Ron's own eyes filled with tears as memories flooded back—Harry's infectious laugh when Ron taught him wizard's chess, the way his face lit up during their first Quidditch match, how he'd risked his life for Ginny in the Chamber of Secrets without a moment's hesitation.

"Remember how excited he got about the simplest things?" Ron said, his voice thick with emotion. "Like when he first tried Chocolate Frogs, or when he found out about wizard photos moving. He'd never had a real birthday party before he met us. He'd never had friends before. And now..."

He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. They sat in silence for a moment, both lost in memories of their friend who would make no more.

"I sometimes imagine finding Black," Hermione whispered, her voice taking on a dangerous edge that Ron had never heard before. "I imagine cornering him somewhere dark and making him pay. I imagine using the Cruciatus Curse on him, making him scream the way Harry must have screamed. I want to make him beg for death—a merciful death I'd never give him."

The words came out in a rush, and Ron's eyes went wide with shock. This was Hermione—kind, compassionate Hermione who cried over injured creatures and spent her free time starting organizations to free house-elves. To hear such brutal honesty, such raw desire for vengeance from her, was jarring.

"Am I an evil person to think like that?" she asked, pulling back to look at him with eyes that seemed much older than her fourteen years. "Does wanting to hurt him make me just as bad as he is?"

Ron considered this for a long moment, imagining himself standing over Sirius Black, wand raised, watching him writhe in agony. The image should have horrified him—his mother had always taught him that Dark Magic was evil, that good wizards didn't use Unforgivable Curses. But all he felt was a fierce satisfaction.

"I imagine that too sometimes," he admitted quietly. "I imagine making him suffer for what he did to Harry, for what he put us through. If that makes us evil, then I guess we're both evil. But I don't care anymore. Some people deserve to suffer."

They stayed like that for what felt like hours, holding each other as grief and rage warred in their hearts. The afternoon light gradually faded, casting long shadows across the dormitory. Finally, Hermione slowly untangled herself from Ron's arms and stood up.

"Where are you going?" Ron asked softly, reaching out as if to pull her back.

Hermione's face had transformed, her tear-stained features now set with grim determination. "To the library. When I face Black—and I will face him—I don't intend to lose. I won't let him hurt anyone else the way he hurt Harry."

Ron frowned, a chill running down his spine at the cold certainty in her voice. "Hermione, you can't always defend against Dark Magic. Even Dumbledore couldn't save Harry from the Killing Curse."

She paused at the foot of Harry's bed, her hand resting on the wooden post. When she looked back at Ron, her expression was blank, emotionless—and somehow that was more terrifying than her earlier tears.

"Then why not learn to use it ourselves?" she said simply. "Black isn't going to show us mercy, is he? He murdered our best friend in cold blood. Why should we limit ourselves to defensive spells when he won't hesitate to kill us?"

The words hung in the air like a curse themselves. Ron stared at her, his mouth falling open in shock and horror. Dark Magic—the very thing they'd been taught to avoid, to fear, to fight against. His mother's voice echoed in his mind, all her warnings about the corruption that came with using the Dark Arts.

But then another voice cut through those teachings—Harry's voice, screaming in anger before falling silent forever, Harry's face when he returned with Ginny from the Chamber and his selfless response. Harry's voice, which they would never hear again because a Dark wizard had used the most unforgivable curse against an innocent boy.

Ron stood up slowly, his legs shaking. "I'll join you then," he said, his voice steady despite his fear.

In the shadows beneath Harry's bed, a small brown rat cowered in confusion and terror. This wasn't how things were supposed to go. Sirius was supposed to come for him—for Peter Pettigrew, the real traitor. Not for Harry Potter. Nothing was making sense, and Peter's survival instincts screamed at him to run, to get as far away from this place as possible before anyone discovered the truth.

The rat scurried toward a crack in the wall, desperate to escape the epicenter of a tragedy he had never intended to cause. Behind him, two children stood in a room that smelled of grief and growing darkness, planning their descent into the very evil they had once sworn to fight.

And in that moment, Hogwarts felt a little less like a sanctuary and a little more like the beginning of something terrible.

Chapter Text

Chapter 8

Peverell Manor (Formerly Potter Manor)
1994

The grandfather clock in the entrance hall chimed six times as Harry made his way down the ornate wooden staircase, his bare feet silent against the polished steps. The manor's interior was a study in understated elegance—rich mahogany panels lined the walls, adorned with portraits of long-dead Potters whose eyes seemed to track his movement with curious interest. Crystal chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceilings, their facets catching the early morning light that streamed through tall, diamond-paned windows.

Harry stifled another yawn as he reached the bottom of the stairs. The events of the past few days—the staged death, the time travel, the overwhelming responsibility of his new identity—had left him exhausted despite a full night's rest. He and Minie had agreed on this early hour for his introduction to the sanctuary animals, knowing that many magical creatures were most active during the dawn hours.

The dining room doors were already ajar, and Harry could hear the soft rustle of newspaper pages from within. He pushed them open to reveal a scene that made him pause in mild surprise.

Astoria Greengrass sat at the long dining table, looking impossibly small in the high-backed chair. Her dark brown hair fell in gentle waves past her shoulders, catching the morning light with hints of auburn that Harry hadn't noticed before. She was completely absorbed in reading the Daily Prophet, a spoonful of what appeared to be Muggle cornflakes halfway to her mouth, forgotten in her concentration. The bowl before her was fine bone china, decorated with delicate blue roses—probably worth more than all the meals he'd eaten at Privet Drive combined.

"Good morning!" Harry called out, his voice carrying easily across the spacious room.

Astoria startled, her spoon clattering against the bowl as she looked up. Her eyes—brown with those peculiar green edges that seemed to shift in the changing light—widened slightly before she swallowed her mouthful hastily.

"Oh! Good morning, Harry," she replied, hastily dabbing at the corner of her mouth with a pristine white napkin. "I didn't hear you coming down."

"Barefoot," Harry explained with a sheepish grin, wiggling his toes against the cool marble floor. "Old habit from the Dursleys. They didn't appreciate being woken up."

Astoria's expression softened with sympathy, but she didn't comment on his relatives. Instead, she gestured to the newspaper spread before her. "You might want to read this," she said, her voice carrying a mixture of amusement and concern.

Before Harry could respond, there was a soft pop, and Minie appeared beside the table. The house-elf was immaculately dressed in a crisp white pillowcase that had been fashioned into a toga-like garment, with the Potter crest—now the Peverell crest—embroidered in gold thread across the chest.

"Good morning, my Lord," Minie said with a respectful bow. "Minie hopes you slept well."

Harry settled into the chair across from Astoria, the leather cushions sighing softly under his weight. The table was massive, clearly designed to seat at least twenty people, making their small group seem almost intimate despite the formal setting.

"I did, thank you, Minie," Harry replied warmly. He still felt awkward about being addressed so formally by someone who was clearly older and wiser than himself, but he'd learned not to argue about it. "What would you like to have for breakfast?"

Harry paused, suddenly aware of how different his life had become in just a few short days. At Hogwarts, breakfast meant grabbing whatever was available from the Great Hall's abundant spread. At the Dursleys', it meant whatever scraps he could prepare for himself without waking anyone. This was entirely new territory.

"Some toast with baked beans and tea?" he asked tentatively, as if unsure whether such a simple request was appropriate for a manor house.

Minie's face brightened with what might have been approval. "Of course, my Lord. The finest white bread, beans in a rich tomato sauce with herbs from the garden, and perhaps Earl Grey tea with honey?"

"That sounds perfect," Harry said, touched by the elf's attention to detail.

Minie nodded briskly before disappearing with another soft pop.

"You're up early," Astoria commented, taking another spoonful of her cereal. The normalcy of the Muggle brand seemed oddly comforting in the opulent surroundings.

Harry raised an eyebrow, confused by her tone. "Is that unusual?"

"Well," Astoria said with a small smile playing at her lips, "the three of you were customarily late for breakfast at Hogwarts. Ron especially—he'd stumble into the Great Hall looking like he'd been dragged through a hedge backward, usually just as the mail owls were arriving."

Harry couldn't help but chuckle. "Ron loves his sleep. I think he'd hibernate through winter if he could."

Astoria snorted delicately behind her hand, a sound that was decidedly unladylike but entirely genuine. "Hermione would probably drag him out of bed with a Mobiliarbus charm if he tried."

The mention of his friends brought a brief shadow across Harry's features. He wondered what they were doing now, how they were coping with the belief that he was dead. But the melancholy was quickly replaced by curiosity as Astoria's expression grew more serious.

"Speaking of which," she said, sliding the Daily Prophet across the polished table toward him, "they're planning your funeral. Though most of them seem more concerned with being angry at Lord Black for supposedly stealing your body for 'nefarious purposes.'"

Harry accepted the newspaper, noting how the parchment crinkled softly under his fingers. The headline was printed in the Prophet's characteristic bold, dramatic font:

THE BOY-WHO-LIVED FINALLY RESTS By Rita Skeeter

We bring heartbreaking news to our patrons all across magical Britain. Two nights ago, Harry James Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the boy who freed us from the tyranny of You-Know-Who, was killed by the Azkaban escapee and the very person who sold out the Potters to their doom, Sirius Orion Black.

Two professors, Professor Minerva McGonagall and Professor Severus Snape, alongside two unnamed students, bore witness to this heinous crime, as well as the subsequent theft of our fallen hero's body and the kidnapping of an innocent student.

This was the official statement given by Headmaster Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, who has chosen to withhold the names of key witnesses for their protection. However, we at the Daily Prophet have always promised our devoted customers nothing but the truth, and after receiving several anonymous tips from reliable sources, we can now reveal the identities of those unnamed students.

The witnesses to this tragedy were none other than the Boy-Who-Lived's closest friends: Ronald Bilius Weasley, youngest son of the well-known Weasley family, and Miss Hermione Jean Granger, the brilliant Muggle-born witch who has stood by Potter's side throughout his years at Hogwarts. The student kidnapped by Black has been confirmed to be Miss Astoria Julia Greengrass, youngest daughter of the Ancient and Noble House of Greengrass.

Our sources have also shed disturbing light on the events leading up to this murder. Rumors circulating among Hogwarts students suggest that the Boy-Who-Lived had been cursed by Black on the morning of the Yule celebrations, a curse that caused him to grow increasingly erratic in his behavior. Reports indicate that Potter's condition deteriorated to such an extent that he viciously attacked the Guardian portrait of Gryffindor House, an unprecedented act of violence that shocked students and staff alike.

While the precise details of how Black managed to plan and execute this murder within the supposedly impregnable walls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry remain shrouded in mystery, we can confirm through multiple sources within the Ministry of Magic that a full funeral ceremony will be held for Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived and the last of the Potter line. The ceremony will take place on Hogwarts grounds in a closed service, though Ministry officials are considering opening portions of the event to the public given the magnitude of Potter's sacrifice for our world.

Minister Cornelius Fudge issued the following statement: "The loss of Harry Potter is a tragedy that extends far beyond the walls of Hogwarts. He was a symbol of hope for our entire community, and we will ensure that he receives the honor and recognition he deserves, even in death."

The search for Sirius Black and Miss Greengrass continues, with Auror teams working around the clock to apprehend the escaped convict and rescue the kidnapped student. Anyone with information regarding their whereabouts is urged to contact the Ministry immediately.

Turn to page 4 for exclusive interviews with Hogwarts students who witnessed Potter's final days, and page 7 for Minister Fudge's full statement on increased security measures in response to Black's infiltration of the school.

Harry set the paper down with a thoughtful expression, drumming his fingers against the table's surface. "It will be held in Godric's Hollow," he said quietly.

Astoria frowned, her delicate features creasing in confusion. "But the article says—"

"The rumor about it being held at Hogwarts is deliberate misdirection by Dumbledore," Harry interrupted, his voice carrying a certainty that seemed beyond his thirteen years. "Even with all his manipulation and scheming, Dumbledore isn't someone who would insult the dead in such a way. He may want the Deathly Hallows, he may be willing to sacrifice individuals for what he sees as the greater good, but for all his faults, he's principled enough not to desecrate what he believes to be a genuine funeral."

Astoria nodded slowly, absorbing this information.

Harry leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking softly. The morning light streaming through the windows cast intricate patterns across his face, highlighting the exhaustion that seemed permanently etched around his eyes.

"That's exactly what makes dealing with Dumbledore so difficult," he continued, his voice heavy with a weariness that belonged to someone much older. "I know the chaos that leaving him unchecked will cause—the lives that will be lost, the freedoms that will be eroded in the name of wizard supremacy. But beneath all his scheming for making wizards the ruling class of the world, beneath all the manipulation and the chess games with human lives, Dumbledore genuinely believes he's working for the greater good. In his mind, he really is trying to create a better world."

The words hung in the air between them, heavy with implications that Astoria was only beginning to understand. She remained silent, unsure of what to say. It had been exactly forty-eight hours since she'd learned about Dumbledore's connections to what Harry called "neo-Grindelwald operations"—the systematic infiltration of governments worldwide, the careful placement of wizard supremacists in positions of power, the slow but steady work toward a world where magic ruled over mundane.

At least, she believed that Harry had nothing to gain from lying to her about such things. There were definitely secrets the teenager was keeping—she could see it in the way his eyes would sometimes grow distant, as if he were seeing something far beyond their current reality. But she was certain he was telling her the truth about the things that mattered.

A soft pop announced Minie's return, and the house-elf appeared carrying a silver tray that gleamed in the morning light. The aroma that wafted from it was heavenly—freshly baked bread with a golden crust, rich tomato sauce seasoned with herbs that Harry couldn't identify, and the delicate bergamot scent of Earl Grey tea.

"Your breakfast, my Lord," Minie announced, setting the tray before him with practiced precision. Each item was arranged perfectly: the toast cut into neat triangles, the beans served in a small crystal bowl with a mother-of-pearl spoon, and the tea in a delicate china cup with steam rising from its surface like morning mist.

"Thosre will be delivering your wardrobes later today," the elf added as she arranged Harry's napkin.

"That's remarkably quick," Astoria observed, looking impressed. "Even our family elves usually take several days to commission new clothes, especially formal robes."

Minie's chest puffed out with obvious pride. "The Potters owned businesses across mainland Europe, not merely in Britain, Miss Astoria. Some of them were among the finest cloth merchants and tailors in Paris, Milan, and Vienna. The quality and speed of their work has been legendary for generations."

Astoria's eyebrows rose. She was learning more about the Potter family's wealth and influence with each passing hour, and it was becoming clear that they had been far more powerful than she'd ever imagined.

Harry paused with his fork halfway to his mouth, a sudden thought occurring to him. "Wait—won't the tailors find it strange that the Potters are commissioning garments for a young boy and girl right after this?" He gestured to the newspaper article with its bold headlines about his supposed death.

"Thosre gave the commission list to Deitre," Minie replied simply, as if this explained everything.

Astoria looked between them in confusion. "Who is Deitre?" she asked, feeling as though she was the only one missing some crucial piece of information.

"I assumed Deitre was a house-elf," Harry admitted, looking equally puzzled.

Minie's lips twitched in what might have been the beginning of a smile—an unusual display of emotion from the typically serious elf. "You simply assumed that, my Lord. Deitre is not an elf, but rather one of Lord Charlus's most trusted assets on the mainland."

Astoria felt a chill run down her spine. She knew exactly what 'assets' meant in the context of old wizarding families—her father had many such people in his employ across Europe and beyond. They were individuals who operated in the shadows, handling delicate matters that required discretion and absolute loyalty.

"Speaking of which," Minie continued, producing a slip of parchment from thin air and handing it to Harry, "Deitre has also located your person of interest. He is currently at this location."

Harry accepted the parchment and glanced at it briefly before snorting with what sounded like dark amusement. "Of course he is," he muttered. The paper burst into flames the next moment, burning away completely until not even ash remained, having served its purpose.

"Astoria," Harry said, turning to face her directly as he bit into his perfectly prepared toast, "I'll need to borrow your wand for a while later today."

Immediately, Astoria's eyes grew suspicious, her hand moving instinctively to where her wand was tucked into her robes. "Why?" she asked, her voice carefully neutral.

"If you want to be able to use it freely while you're here, we need to remove the Trace," Harry explained matter-of-factly. "The Ministry's underage magic detection system will alert them every time you cast a spell, and we can hardly waltz into Olivander's shop in Diagon Alley to have it removed professionally, can we?"

The logic was sound, and after a moment of consideration, Astoria nodded reluctantly. The Trace was indeed a problem—every spell she cast would potentially reveal their location to Ministry officials.

"Minie," Harry said, turning back to the house-elf while he tapped the folded newspaper thoughtfully, "if it's possible, I'd like to get a list of everyone who's planning to attend my funeral."

"Minie can arrange this," the elf replied promptly, "but you will need to meet with our contact soon afterward. She will want detailed answers about the current situation."

Harry's expression grew troubled. "Inform her that I'll try to meet with her as soon as an opportunity presents itself safely. And if possible, I'd like to meet with Deitre today as well."

"That can easily be arranged, my Lord. Minie will send word for him to meet you at the location of your previously mentioned person of interest."

"Excellent." Harry took a sip of his tea, savoring the perfect balance of bergamot and honey.

After Minie disappeared again, Astoria stared at Harry with a mixture of fascination and apprehension. "Lord Charlus was running a complete shadow network, wasn't he?" she whispered, as if speaking too loudly might summon unwanted attention.

Harry chuckled, but there was no humor in the sound. "That's probably the most accurate description anyone's given it," he agreed. "The Potter family wasn't just wealthy—they were connected to every major magical community in Europe, with contacts in governments, businesses, and organizations that most people never even know exist."

"It's rather terrifying when you think about it," Astoria murmured.

"Where's Sirius, by the way?" she asked after a moment, changing the subject to something slightly less overwhelming.

Harry's expression softened with genuine affection and concern. "Sleeping, I imagine. He couldn't have gotten much real rest while he was on the run—constantly looking over his shoulder, never knowing when Dementors might appear, living on rats and whatever scraps he could find." The sadness in his voice was unmistakable. "He's been carrying this burden of guilt and anger for twelve years. I think his body is finally allowing itself to truly rest now that he has hope again."

Astoria nodded understandingly. She had heard the stories about Azkaban, about what the Dementors did to prisoners. The idea of surviving twelve years in that place, especially while innocent, was almost incomprehensible.

They sat in comfortable silence for several minutes, the only sounds being the gentle clink of cutlery against china and the soft rustling of newspaper pages as a breeze from the partially open windows stirred them.

"So," Astoria said eventually, her voice bright with curiosity, "why are you up so early this morning?"

Harry's face lit up with genuine enthusiasm for the first time since she'd known him. "Minie was going to show me around the magical creature sanctuary that's part of the estate. Apparently, my grandfather spent decades rescuing injured and endangered magical animals, nursing them back to health. Some eventually left to return to the wild, but others chose to stay and make their homes here permanently."

Astoria's eyes widened in shock, her spoon clattering against her bowl as she nearly dropped it. "Wait—so the rumors about the Potters having a private sanctuary were actually true?"

Harry frowned, pausing mid-chew. "There were rumors?"

"It wasn't widely known," Astoria explained excitedly, leaning forward in her chair. "But my grandfather once mentioned it to my father during one of their business discussions. He said that Charlus Potter would occasionally have rare and expensive potion ingredients on hand—things like fresh phoenix tears, voluntarily given unicorn hair, willingly shed dragon scales—materials that are almost impossible to obtain through normal channels. The other Ancient House Lords speculated about him having a sanctuary somewhere, but they never knew where it might be located."

Her enthusiasm was infectious, and Harry found himself grinning at her obvious excitement.

"Can I come with you?" she asked eagerly, her brown-green eyes sparkling with anticipation. "I've read about magical creature sanctuaries in books, but I've never actually seen one. And if your grandfather really did rescue rare species..."

"Of course you can come," Harry said immediately. "I'd enjoy the company, and honestly, I'm a bit nervous about meeting them all myself. Having someone else there might make it easier."

Astoria beamed at him, her entire face lighting up with joy. "This is going to be incredible! Do you think there might be thestrals? Or perhaps a small dragon? Oh, what about unicorns? I've always wanted to see a real unicorn!"

Harry couldn't help but laugh at her enthusiasm. Despite everything they'd been through—the staged death, the revelations about Dumbledore, the weight of secrets and responsibilities—she was still an eleven-year-old girl who got excited about magical creatures. It was refreshing and oddly comforting.

"I suppose we'll find out together," he said warmly. "Finish your breakfast, and we'll go explore the sanctuary. Who knows what we might discover?"

The morning sun climbed higher in the sky, streaming through the tall windows and casting everything in golden light. For a moment, sitting in the elegant dining room of his ancestral home with a new friend, discussing magical creatures and shared adventures, Harry could almost forget the complexity of the situation they found themselves in.

The January air was crisp and clear as they made their way across the frost-covered grass, their breath forming small clouds in the morning chill. Minie appeared beside them with a soft pop, now dressed in what appeared to be a miniature version of a dragonhide protective vest, complete with reinforced patches and small pockets filled with various treats and tools.

"The sanctuary is vast, my Lord," Minie explained as they walked, her voice filled with unmistakable pride. "Lord Charlus spent over forty years expanding and perfecting these grounds. Each habitat has been carefully crafted to meet the specific needs of its inhabitants."

Harry pulled his cloak tighter against the morning breeze as they approached their first destination. "How many creatures are we talking about, Minie?"

"Over three hundred individual magical creatures representing sixty-seven different species," the house-elf replied promptly. "Some are permanent residents who chose to make their homes here, others are recovering from injuries and will eventually return to the wild, and a few..." she paused meaningfully, "are the last of their kind."

Astoria's eyes widened at this revelation. "The last of their kind?"

"Indeed, Miss Astoria. The Potter family has long been committed to preserving magical species that face extinction. It is both an honor and a tremendous responsibility."

They crested a small hill and came upon a group of magnificent hippogriffs preening themselves in a patch of morning sunlight. The creatures' eagle heads turned toward the approaching group, amber eyes assessing the newcomers with keen intelligence.

"Ah, the hippogriffs," Minie said fondly. "They were among the first creatures Lord Charlus rescued. The herd has grown from three to nearly twenty over the years."

Harry stepped forward, remembering his encounter with Buckbeak the previous year—though that seemed like a lifetime ago now. "Remember, Astoria, they're proud creatures. You must show them respect first."

He demonstrated, bowing deeply to a magnificent steel-gray hippogriff with striking amber eyes and silver-tipped feathers. The creature regarded him for a long moment before gracefully lowering its head in return.

"Excellent form, my Lord," Minie approved. "This is Stormwing, the herd leader. He has been here for nearly fifteen years."

"Magnificent," Astoria breathed, carefully mimicking Harry's bow. "Daphne told me learning about them in Care of Magical Creatures with Professor Kettleburn, but seeing them up close..."

The copper-colored hippogriff beside Stormwing—Sunfire, according to Minie—seemed particularly interested in Astoria, taking a step closer and tilting her head curiously.

"She likes you," Harry observed with a smile. "Here, try offering her one of these." He reached into the spelled bag Minie had provided, pulling out a fresh ferret.

"Always let them see the offering first," Minie instructed. "Never surprise a hippogriff with sudden movements."

Astoria held out the ferret with steady hands, and Sunfire delicately plucked it from her grasp before tossing her magnificent head approvingly.

They spent nearly an hour with the hippogriffs, Harry showing Astoria the proper way to stroke their feathers ("Always with the grain, never against it—their feathers are as sharp as blades if you go the wrong way"), while Minie regaled them with stories of each creature's rescue and rehabilitation.

"The key is confidence without arrogance," Harry explained as a smaller black hippogriff named Shadow allowed him to examine her recently healed wing. "They can sense fear, but they can also detect when someone is trying to mask fear with false bravado. You need genuine respect and self-assurance."

"Shadow was brought to us with a broken wing three years before Lord Charlus's death," Minie added, gently stroking the creature's neck. "Poachers had tried to capture her for her feathers. She nearly died from her injuries, but Lord Charlus refused to give up on her."

Moving deeper into the sanctuary grounds, they followed a winding path lined with ancient oak trees whose branches seemed to sparkle with an inner light. The pathway led them to a clearing where several creatures of impossible beauty grazed peacefully.

"Oh!" Astoria gasped as she caught sight of the unicorns. The pure white adults raised their spiral horns cautiously, pearl-like eyes assessing the newcomers, but three golden foals immediately pranced closer, their curiosity overcoming any wariness.

"Unicorns are naturally drawn to those with pure hearts," Minie explained as the foals surrounded Astoria, nuzzling her hands and pockets with velvet-soft muzzles. "They also tend to trust witches more readily than wizards, especially young ones."

Harry maintained a respectful distance, knowing that his experiences—the violence he'd witnessed, the lives he'd taken in his previous timeline—would make the adult unicorns uncomfortable. But the foals seemed less discriminating, and one adventurous colt eventually approached him as well.

"They love golden apples," Minie said, producing several slices from her pouch. "These grow in our eastern orchard—the trees have been cultivated by the Potter family for generations specifically for the unicorns."

"They're so warm," Astoria marveled as the foals munched their treats. "I always imagined they'd feel cool, like moonlight, but they're like having a fire burning just beneath their skin."

"That's the magic in their blood," Harry explained, gently stroking the mane of the colt that had approached him. "It's what makes their hair so valuable for wand cores and healing potions."

Near a copse of silver birch trees whose bark seemed to shimmer with an inner radiance, Minie gestured toward movement among the branches.

"Our Bowtruckle colonies," she announced proudly. "We have twenty different species of wand-wood trees on the grounds, each hosting its own family group."

"Bowtruckles are excellent judges of character," Harry added, reaching into his pocket for some woodlice. "They're tree guardians, especially protective of wand-quality wood."

He held out his hand, and tiny stick-like creatures no bigger than Astoria's index finger cautiously emerged from the bark. Their twig-like fingers reached delicately for the offered treats, brown eyes bright with intelligence.

"Hello there, little ones," Astoria cooed softly, following Harry's example. Within moments, several Bowtruckles had climbed onto her arms, investigating her sleeves with curious chirping sounds.

"Remarkable," Minie observed with satisfaction. "They usually take much longer to warm up to strangers. You have a natural affinity for magical creatures, Miss Astoria."

As they continued deeper into the sanctuary, they encountered a group of what appeared to be ordinary deer until Astoria noticed the peculiar shimmer in their coats, like captured starlight woven into their fur.

"Stellar Deer," Harry identified, remembering reading about them in one of the advanced Care of Magical Creatures texts in the Potter library. "They're distant cousins of mundane red deer, but they have a deep connection to celestial magic."

"Watch their antlers when clouds pass over the sun," Minie instructed with obvious delight.

Sure enough, as a cloud temporarily dimmed the winter sunlight, the stags' antlers began to glow with soft, ethereal light. Tiny points of brightness appeared along the bone, forming familiar constellation patterns.

"Orion!" Astoria exclaimed, pointing to one magnificent stag whose antlers clearly displayed the hunter's outline. "And look—that one's showing Cassiopeia!"

"They can predict weather patterns and navigate by starlight," Minie explained. "Sailors once sought them out for their guidance, but they've become increasingly rare as magic fades from the mundane world."

The tour continued with an endless parade of wonders. Fire salamanders basked on sun-warmed rocks, their flames barely visible in daylight but radiating comfortable warmth. A group of diricawls—the magical birds Muggles called dodos—kept disappearing and reappearing a few feet away with soft popping sounds, making Astoria laugh with delight each time they materialized in unexpected places.

They found a small herd of mooncalves sleeping contentedly in a shaded hollow, their smooth gray skin still glowing faintly from their nighttime dancing ritual under the waning moon.

"The variety here is incredible," Astoria marveled as they paused beside a crystal-clear stream where several clabberts were drinking. The monkey-like creatures' forehead pustules glowed a peaceful green, indicating no danger nearby. "How do they all coexist peacefully?"

"Ancient ward work and careful habitat management," Minie replied, her chest puffing with obvious pride. "The Potter family magic helps maintain the balance, but it requires constant attention and adjustment. Each species has its own territory, its own needs, its own place in the sanctuary's ecosystem."

"The wards also help with feeding," Harry added, having learned this from his exploration of the family grimoires. "Natural prey animals reproduce more quickly here, and the carnivorous species instinctively know not to over-hunt."

As they walked, Minie regaled them with stories of rescues and rehabilitations, of creatures who had arrived near death and left healthy and wild, of bonds formed between the most unlikely species.

"But we haven't shown you the most magnificent residents yet," she said with a mysterious smile as they approached a heavily warded section of the sanctuary. The very air seemed to thrum with power here, and Harry could feel protective spells layered like invisible walls around them.

"The dragons," he guessed, his pulse quickening with anticipation and just a touch of apprehension.

"Indeed, my Lord. But first..." She led them to an enormous flight cage that stretched impossibly high into the sky—clearly expanded with extension charms. "Our griffins."

Three magnificent creatures perched on rocky outcroppings within the enclosure, their golden eagle heads turning toward the visitors with keen interest. Their lion bodies were powerful and graceful, manes flowing like liquid bronze in the morning light.

"Griffins are even more proud than hippogriffs," Minie warned. "They consider themselves the kings of all flying creatures and expect to be treated as such."

The largest griffin, his feathers a deep gold touched with copper highlights, spread his wings—easily twenty feet from tip to tip—and released a cry that was part eagle's screech, part lion's roar. The sound resonated through Harry's chest like thunder.

"That's Solaris," Minie said reverently. "He was Lord Charlus's personal mount. They flew together for nearly thirty years."

Harry stepped forward, understanding instinctively that anything less than absolute confidence would be seen as weakness. He didn't bow as he would to a hippogriff—griffins were royalty and expected acknowledgment as equals, not supplication.

"Greetings, Lord of the Sky," Harry said formally, his voice carrying clearly across the enclosure. "I am Harry Potter, grandson to your former companion."

Solaris tilted his magnificent head, amber eyes boring into Harry's green ones with an intensity that seemed to peer into his very soul. After a long moment that felt like an eternity, the great griffin nodded once—a gesture of acceptance that made Minie gasp with surprise.

"Remarkable," she whispered. "He hasn't acknowledged anyone since Lord Charlus died. Most animals here formed a bond with him over the years. My guess is that your feeling of magic is similar to that Lord Charlus"

The two smaller griffins, apparently emboldened by their leader's acceptance, glided down from their perches to investigate the visitors more closely. One, with silver-touched feathers that marked her as female, showed particular interest in Astoria.

"That's Luna," Minie said softly. "She's Solaris's mate. And the youngest there is their son, Eclipse."

After spending time earning the griffins' grudging respect—and several shallow scratches from their enthusiastic but careful talons—Minie led them to the most heavily warded section of the sanctuary.

"The dragon habitat," she announced unnecessarily. The very air here was thick with protective magic, and the ground beneath their feet was scattered with what looked like black glass—melted sand from dragon fire.

Two enormous shapes moved within the reinforced enclosure ahead of them, and Harry felt his breath catch in his throat. Dragons. Real, living dragons.

The first was a Hebridean Black, her scales gleaming like polished obsidian in the morning light. She was perhaps forty feet long from snout to tail, with wings that could have covered the entire Quidditch pitch at Hogwarts. Her purple eyes fixed on them with predatory intelligence as she lifted her great head.

"Nightshade," Minie introduced quietly. "She came to us as an egg, abandoned after poachers killed her mother. Lord Charlus raised her from hatching."

The second dragon was even more impressive—if such a thing were possible. The Ukrainian Ironbelly was massive, his metallic gray scales scarred but magnificent. He was easily the largest dragon Harry had ever seen, rivaling even the one he would face in the Tournament during his previous timeline.

"Steelclaw," Minie said with deep respect. "He's nearly two hundred years old. He came here seeking sanctuary after losing his mate to dragon hunters. That was over fifty years ago."

"They're incredible," Astoria whispered, her voice full of awe and just a touch of healthy fear.

Harry approached the enchanted barrier carefully, remembering everything he'd learned about dragon behavior during his previous encounters. Dragons were not evil creatures—they were simply apex predators with intelligence far greater than most wizards realized.

"They can sense intention," he told Astoria quietly. "Never show fear, but never show aggression either. Confidence and respect."

Nightshade slithered closer to the barrier, her great head lowering until she was eye-level with Harry. Her purple gaze held his for a long moment, and he felt the weight of ancient intelligence evaluating him.

Then, to everyone's amazement, she made a sound—a deep rumbling that was almost purr-like. Dragon equivalent of approval.

"She remembers the family magic," Minie said wonderingly. "It's been so long since she's shown interest in any visitors."

Steelclaw, apparently curious about what had caught his mate's attention, lumber over as well. The ground trembled slightly under his massive weight.

"Easy, old friend," Harry said softly, the same tone he'd heard Hagrid use with dangerous creatures. "I'm a friend."

The ancient dragon studied him with eyes like molten silver, then did something that made Minie gasp aloud. He lowered his great head in what could only be described as a respectful nod.

"Incredible," the house-elf whispered. "In fifty years, he's never acknowledged anyone but Lord Charlus."

But their most extraordinary encounter was yet to come. As they prepared to leave the dragon enclosure, Minie's expression grew thoughtful.

"There's one more creature I'd like you to meet," she said carefully. "Though I'm not certain... well, we shall see."

She led them to the very edge of the sanctuary, where the carefully maintained grounds gave way to wilder forest. Here, a single massive tree stood alone in a clearing, its branches reaching toward the sky like supplicating arms. The tree itself seemed to pulse with magic, its bark silver-white and gleaming.

"This is where Tempest makes his home," Minie said quietly. "He's been here longer than any other creature—nearly sixty years. A thunderbird, and a particularly reclusive one."

Harry felt a thrill of excitement. Thunderbirds were incredibly rare, magical creatures of immense power. Their tail feathers were prized above almost all other wand cores for their strength and versatility.

"He rarely shows himself to visitors," Minie continued, approaching the great tree with obvious reverence. "But perhaps..."

She made a series of complex whistling sounds, notes that seemed to hang in the air like visible music. For a moment, nothing happened.

Then the tree itself seemed to shiver, and Harry realized that what he'd taken for branches were actually enormous wings. The thunderbird was massive—easily the size of a small dragon—with feathers that seemed to capture and hold light like prisms. His head, when he lifted it, was proud and fierce, with eyes like storm clouds.

"Magnificent," Astoria breathed, and at the sound of her voice, the thunderbird's great head turned toward her with sudden, intense interest.

The creature's storm-gray eyes fixed on Astoria, and then something extraordinary happened. The air around them began to tingle with electricity, and small sparks of lightning began dancing between the thunderbird's feathers. His wings spread slightly, and Harry could see the intricate patterns of silver and gold that traced through the dark plumage.

"Remarkable," Minie whispered, her eyes wide with amazement. "He's responding to her."

The thunderbird made a sound—not quite a cry, not quite a song, but something that seemed to resonate in the very air around them. The sound was hauntingly beautiful, like the voice of a storm given form.

Astoria took a step forward, seemingly drawn by some invisible force. The thunderbird watched her approach with increasing interest, his head tilting in an almost curious manner.

"Miss Astoria," Minie said suddenly, her voice sharp with realization, "may I see your wand?"

Confused but compliant, Astoria drew her wand from her robes and handed it to the house-elf. Minie examined it carefully, her eyes growing wider with each passing second.

"Ash wood with a thunderbird tail feather core," she said slowly. "Eleven inches, supple flexibility." She looked up at the great bird, then back at the wand, then at Astoria. "The feather in your wand... it came from Tempest."

The thunderbird seemed to hear and understand, for he spread his wings fully and released another of those haunting calls. Lightning danced along his feathers more brightly now, and the air itself seemed charged with power.

"How is that possible?" Astoria asked in wonder, accepting her wand back with hands that trembled slightly.

"Thunderbirds only give their feathers willingly," Harry said, remembering his studies. "And only to those they deem worthy. Mr. Ollivander must have acquired it through the Potter family's connections to the sanctuary."

Minie nodded. "Lord Charlus had an arrangement with Ollivander for decades. When any of our creatures willingly gave materials for wandmaking—unicorn hair, phoenix feathers, dragon heartstring—they would be provided exclusively to Ollivander's shop. But thunderbird feathers..." She shook her head in amazement. "Tempest has only given a single feather before."

The thunderbird fixed his storm-cloud eyes on Astoria once more, and she felt compelled to approach closer to his great tree. As she drew near, he lowered his magnificent head until it was level with hers.

"I think he wants you to touch him," Harry said softly, hardly believing what he was witnessing.

Astoria reached out with trembling fingers and gently placed her hand on the thunderbird's beak. The moment she made contact, lightning cascaded down his feathers in brilliant patterns, and the air around them filled with the sound of distant thunder—not threatening, but musical, like a lullaby made of storms.

"The bond," Minie whispered in awe. "The wand created a connection, but this is something far deeper."

They stood in silence for several minutes, girl and thunderbird regarding each other with mutual fascination and growing understanding. Finally, Tempest straightened to his full height and spread his wings once more. A single feather, silver-touched and crackling with residual electricity, drifted down to land at Astoria's feet.

She looked at Minie questioningly, and the house-elf nodded with tears in her eyes.

"A gift freely given," Minie said. "Keep it, Miss Astoria. Such an honor has never been bestowed before."

As they made their way back toward the manor, Minie led them to a quiet clearing on the boundary between the grassland and the darker forest. The morning frost had completely melted here, leaving the grass damp and glistening in the filtered sunlight. All seemed peaceful and still, but there was something in the air—a peculiar feeling like the moment before a storm breaks, charged with an energy that made the hair on their arms stand up.

"There's one more group of residents you should meet," Minie said softly, her voice taking on a more serious tone. "They're perhaps the most misunderstood creatures in the entire sanctuary."

Harry felt a familiar chill run down his spine, and he knew instinctively what they were about to encounter. "Thestrals," he said quietly.

Minie nodded gravely. "A herd of twelve, led by an old stallion named Tenebrus. They've been here for over twenty years—some of the first creatures Lord Charlus rescued."

"I can't see them," Astoria said, looking around the apparently empty clearing with confusion. "Are they invisible?"

"Not exactly," Harry explained gently, remembering his own first encounter with the winged creatures. "Thestrals can only be seen by those who have witnessed death and truly understood what they were seeing. They're not invisible—it's more that most people's minds simply can't process them."

"They have rather unfair reputation," Minie added sadly. "Many wizards consider them omens of doom, harbingers of death. But they are actually gentle, intelligent creatures. Loyal beyond measure, and surprisingly affectionate once they accept you."

Harry stepped forward into the clearing, extending his hand palm-up in a gesture of peaceful intent. "Here," he said softly to Astoria. "Don't be afraid."

He guided her hand forward through the seemingly empty air until she felt something that made her gasp in wonder—warm breath against her palm, followed by the touch of something velvet-soft nuzzling her fingers.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, her eyes wide with amazement. "I can feel them! They're so warm, and soft..."

"That's Tenebrus," Harry said with a smile. "The herd leader. He's acknowledging you—that's quite an honor. Thestrals are excellent judges of character."

Astoria stood perfectly still as invisible creatures moved around them, occasionally feeling the brush of wings or the gentle touch of a muzzle against her hand or shoulder. The sensation was both eerie and wonderful—being surrounded by magnificent creatures she could feel but not see.

"How many people can see them?" she asked softly, not wanting to disturb the peaceful atmosphere.

"More than you might think," Minie replied sadly. "War, accidents, illness... death touches many lives. But most people try to forget what they've witnessed, to push the memory away. Only those who truly accept and understand what death means can continue to see the Thestrals."

Harry reached out and felt the familiar skeletal frame of a Thestral neck, the creature's skin stretched taut over prominent bones. To those who could see them, Thestrals resembled winged skeletal horses with dragon-like heads and white, pupilless eyes. But their appearance, while unsettling, belied their gentle nature.

"They're actually quite beautiful, in their own way," Harry said thoughtfully. "Otherworldly, but graceful. Their wings are like bat wings but much larger, and they move through the air with incredible precision."

"They can fly faster and farther than any broomstick," Minie added with obvious pride in her charges. "And they have an innate ability to find their way anywhere their rider needs to go. Lord Charlus used to say that Tenebrus could navigate by instinct to places he'd never even heard described."

An invisible creature whickered softly near Astoria's ear, and she felt brave enough to reach out and stroke what felt like a sleek neck. The skin was indeed stretched tight over bone, but it was warm and alive, and she could feel the powerful muscles beneath.

As if understanding the very magic coursing through Harry, the invisible stallion moved closer to Harry, and he felt the creature's great head pressing gently against his chest—a gesture of affection and acceptance that made his heart swell with unexpected emotion.

"They remember the family magic too," he said softly, stroking the creature's invisible mane. "Even though they've never met me before."

They stood in the clearing for several more minutes, surrounded by the gentle presence of the invisible herd. Astoria continued to marvel at the sensation of creatures she could touch but not see, while Harry reacquainted himself with beings he'd learned to appreciate during his previous timeline at Hogwarts.

"They help maintain the balance in the forest," Minie explained as they prepared to leave. "They hunt creatures that grow too numerous, and they're incredibly effective at deterring poachers and other unwelcome intruders. Few people are comfortable being watched by creatures they cannot see."

"Will I ever be able to see them?" Astoria asked wistfully as an invisible wing brushed gently against her shoulder in farewell.

"I hope not," Harry said seriously, and at her confused look, he explained, "Being able to see Thestrals means you've witnessed something that changes you forever. I wouldn't wish that experience on anyone."

Minie nodded solemnly. "Master Harry speaks wisely. Death is a natural part of life, but it should not be encountered before its time."

As they finally turned to leave the clearing, Harry felt rather than saw Tenebrus spread his great wings behind them. The sound was like wind through heavy canvas, hauntingly beautiful in the morning air.

"Thank you," Harry called back to the invisible herd, and was rewarded with a chorus of gentle whickers and the soft sound of wings settling back into place.

Grindelwald, Switzerland January 1994

The small Alpine village of Grindelwald nestled between snow-capped peaks like a scene from a Muggle Christmas card, its wooden chalets glowing warmly against the gathering dusk. Harry pulled his wool coat tighter as he made his way down the cobblestone street, his breath forming small clouds in the frigid mountain air. The Muggle clothing felt strange after days of wearing wizarding robes—dark jeans, sturdy boots, and a thick navy peacoat that Minie had procured from somewhere in the Potter family's extensive wardrobe collection.

He paused beneath a streetlamp, withdrawing an ornate lighter from his coat pocket. The golden griffin etched into its surface caught the lamplight beautifully, its wings spread in perpetual flight. The lighter had belonged to Charlus Potter, and Harry found himself unconsciously fidgeting with it—a nervous habit he'd developed over the past few hours. There was something soothing about the weight of it in his palm, the smooth warmth of the gold against his fingers.

Click. The flame sprang to life, dancing merrily in the evening breeze. Click. Darkness again. The repetitive motion helped calm his nerves as he waited for his contact to arrive.

The irony of meeting in Grindelwald wasn't lost on him. This was where Albus Dumbledore had faced his former lover and greatest enemy in their legendary duel of 1945. The very ground beneath his feet had witnessed the clash that ended the Global Wizarding War and cemented Dumbledore's reputation as the greatest wizard of his age. Now, nearly fifty years later, Harry was here to begin planning the downfall of that same wizard.

Click. Click.

"Monsieur Potter, I presume?"

Harry spun around, his hand instinctively moving toward where his wand should be before remembering he was currently wandless. A tall man approached from the shadows between buildings, his footsteps silent on the snow-dusted cobblestones. He was perhaps in his forties, with shoulder-length platinum blonde hair and aristocratic features that spoke of old French nobility. Even in Muggle clothing—an expensive wool overcoat and leather gloves—he carried himself with the unmistakable bearing of someone accustomed to authority.

There was something familiar about him, something that made Harry's breath catch in his throat. The elegant bone structure, the particular shade of silvery-blonde hair, the way he moved with fluid grace...

"Deitre, I assume?" Harry replied carefully, slipping the lighter back into his pocket.

The man smiled, extending a gloved hand. "Pierre Delacour, Director of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for the French Ministry of Magic. Though I suspect you know me by a different connection, non?"

Harry's eyes widened in shock. Delacour. Fleur's father. The resemblance was unmistakable now that he knew what to look for—the same ethereal beauty, the same unconscious elegance that came from Veela heritage. In his previous timeline, Harry had never met Pierre Delacour personally, but he'd seen enough photographs and heard enough descriptions to recognize him now.

"Fleur's father," Harry said quietly, accepting the handshake. "She doesn't know, does she? About any of this?"

Pierre's expression grew thoughtful. "Minie did tell me about your circumstances, and so my daughter knows nothing of my... additional activities. She is at Beauxbatons, focused on her studies and dreams of competing in international magical competitions someday. It is better that way—children should not be burdened with the shadows their parents must sometimes walk through."

They began walking together toward the village center, their footsteps echoing softly in the crisp mountain air. The streets were largely empty; most tourists and locals had retreated indoors to escape the bitter cold.

"My father, Antoine Delacour, was Lord Charlus's original contact," Pierre explained as they walked. "He established the network in 1958, after witnessing firsthand the rise of wizard supremacist movements across Europe following Grindelwald's defeat. When he died in 1972, I inherited more than just his position in the French Ministry—I inherited his responsibilities to the shadow network as well."

Harry nodded, understanding the weight of such an inheritance. "Twenty-two years you've been doing this?"

"Indeed. My position as DMLE Director provides me with access to intelligence from across magical Europe. Auror reports, surveillance data, movement of dangerous individuals..." Pierre paused, his breath forming clouds in the cold air. "Including detailed tracking of Fenrir Greyback's pack since the fall of the Dark Lord."

The mention of Greyback sent a chill down Harry's spine that had nothing to do with the Alpine air. In his previous timeline, the savage werewolf had been responsible for countless atrocities, including the attack on Bill Weasley during the Battle of Hogwarts.

"What can you tell me about Greyback's current activities?" Harry asked.

"He has been rebuilding," Pierre replied grimly. "Recruiting new pack members, establishing territory in the forests of Eastern Europe. Our intelligence suggests he's preparing for something significant—though what, we're not entirely certain. Your staged death has created... opportunities for various dark creatures to become more active."

They paused at a intersection, and Pierre gestured toward a small tavern with warm yellow light spilling from its windows. The wooden sign above the door read 'Gasthaus zur Goldenen Krone' in Gothic script.

"Our meeting place," Pierre explained. "Gregorovich has been waiting for nearly an hour. He's... anxious about this mysterious commission."

Harry could only imagine. Mykew Gregorovich was one of Europe's most renowned wandmakers, second only to Ollivander in skill and reputation. To receive a request for a private meeting from an unknown client, facilitated by the Director of French Magical Law Enforcement, must have been deeply intriguing.

The tavern's interior was everything Harry expected from a Swiss mountain inn—low beamed ceilings, rough wooden tables, and a massive stone fireplace that cast dancing shadows across the walls. The air was thick with the scent of mulled wine and roasted meat. Only a handful of tables were occupied, mostly by local wizards who glanced up briefly at their entrance before returning to their conversations.

In a corner booth sat a man Harry recognized instantly from his previous timeline, though he'd never met him personally. Mykew Gregorovich was a thin, sharp-featured wizard with prematurely gray hair and calculating eyes. He wore expensive robes of deep forest green, and his fingers—long and graceful like those of all master wandmakers—drummed impatiently against the wooden table.

"Herr Gregorovich," Pierre said formally as they approached. "Allow me to present my associate."

Gregorovich looked up, and his eyes widened in shock as he took in Harry's face. "Mein Gott," he breathed in heavily accented English. "You are supposed to be dead, ja? The newspapers, they say Sirius Black murdered you!"

"The newspapers say many things," Harry replied evenly, sliding into the booth opposite the wandmaker. Pierre settled beside him, his presence lending an air of official authority to the meeting. "Not all of them are true."

"But if you are alive..." Gregorovich's sharp mind was clearly racing through the implications. "And the Director of the French DMLE is here with you... What in Merlin's name is happening?"

Harry leaned forward, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "What's happening, Herr Gregorovich, is that certain parties needed to believe I was dead in order for me to accomplish something far more important than my individual survival. The less you know about the details, the safer you'll be."

"Safer?" Gregorovich's eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. "Young man, the Director of one of Europe's most powerful magical law enforcement agencies has brought a supposedly dead celebrity to my workshop in secret. I think 'safe' is no longer an option for any of us."

Pierre chuckled softly. "You are wise, mon ami. But Harry speaks truth—there are forces at work that make this deception necessary. Forces that threaten not just magical Britain, but magical Europe as a whole."

"Dumbledore," Gregorovich said flatly. It wasn't a question.

Harry's head snapped up in surprise. "You know?"

"I am not blind, young Potter. For years, certain... acquisitions have been made through intermediaries. Rare wand cores, ancient wood samples, materials that suggest someone is building a collection of extraordinary power." Gregorovich's eyes glittered in the firelight. "The Deathly Hallows, they are not mere legend, ja? And certain people have been very interested in obtaining them."

Pierre and Harry exchanged glances. The wandmaker was more perceptive than either had anticipated.

"That's exactly why we need your help," Harry said carefully. "And why absolute discretion is essential. What I'm about to tell you could put your life at risk."

Over the next hour, Harry laid out the essential details—the staged murder, Sirius's innocence, the accidental involvement of Astoria Greengrass, and most importantly, the truth about Dumbledore's long-term plans for wizard supremacy. Pierre filled in additional intelligence from the French Ministry's perspective, painting a picture of a coordinated effort spanning decades and multiple countries.

Gregorovich listened in increasingly grave silence, occasionally asking sharp questions that demonstrated both his intelligence and his growing concern. By the time Harry finished, the wandmaker's face was pale in the firelight.

"This is... monstrous," Gregorovich said finally. "I had suspected Dumbledore's interest in the Hallows was more than academic, but to use them as tools for such a plan..." He shook his head in disgust. "What do you need from me?"

Harry reached into his coat and withdrew a cloth-wrapped bundle. "First, I need you to remove the Trace from this wand." He unwrapped Astoria's ash and thunderbird feather wand, placing it carefully on the table. "She needs to be able to use magic without alerting the Ministry to our location."

Gregorovich picked up the wand, his expert fingers examining the craftsmanship. "Ollivander's work, ja? Very fine. The Trace removal, it is simple enough." He drew his own wand and performed a series of complex movements over Astoria's wand, muttering in what sounded like German mixed with Latin. After several minutes, a faint silvery light emanated from the wand before fading away. "Finished. The Ministry's detection charm has been dissolved."

"Excellent. Now, I need you to create two new wands." Harry withdrew another bundle, this one containing the broken remains of his holly and phoenix feather wand. "This was my original wand—holly wood, phoenix feather core, eleven inches. I need you to salvage what you can of the core material and use it, along with wood from the handle, to create a new wand. Elder wood if you can obtain it, with a Thestral tail hair as the primary core, supplemented by the phoenix feather material."

Gregorovich's eyes widened as he examined the broken wand pieces. "Elder wood and Thestral hair... you understand what you are asking for, ja? Such a combination is extraordinarily powerful, but also... temperamental. Thestral hair cores are loyal only to those who have accepted death, and elder wood chooses its master with great care."

"I understand," Harry replied solemnly. "The wand will either accept me completely or reject me entirely. There's no middle ground."

"And the second wand?"

Harry hesitated for a moment before answering. "Holly wood with a Welsh Green dragon heartstring core. Twelve inches, slightly flexible. It's for Sirius Black—he'll need a wand he can rely on."

"Holly wood again," Gregorovich mused. "You are fond of the traditional British woods, ja?"

"Holly has... personal significance. And Sirius deserves a wand that connects his protective nature."

Gregorovich nodded thoughtfully. "These commissions, they will take time. Crafting new wands... especially with such specific requirements... perhaps two weeks, maybe three."

"That's acceptable. But there's one more thing." Harry leaned forward intently. "I need you to acquire two additional dragon heartstring cores—one from a Hebridean Black, one from a Hungarian Horntail. Don't create wands with them yet, just procure and preserve the cores. I'll have need of them soon."

"Hebridean Black and Hungarian Horntail," Gregorovich repeated slowly. "These are for future clients?"

"Something like that." Harry reached into his coat again and withdrew a leather pouch that clinked with the unmistakable sound of gold. "Payment for the work, plus a significant bonus for your discretion and urgency. There's enough Galleons in there to fund your workshop for the next five years."

Gregorovich accepted the pouch and hefted it, his eyebrows rising at the weight. "Most generous, Herr Potter. Though I must ask—how do I contact you when the work is complete? You are supposedly dead, after all."

Pierre answered before Harry could respond. "Leave word with the concierge at the Hotel Des Alpes in Chamonix. Address any messages to 'Monsieur Dubois.' I will ensure they reach the appropriate parties."

The wandmaker nodded and stood, carefully bundling the wand components into his robes. "Then we have an arrangement. Two weeks, perhaps three, and you will have your new wands." He paused at the edge of their booth. "Be careful, young Potter. If even half of what you have told me tonight is true, you are walking a very dangerous path."

After Gregorovich left, Harry and Pierre sat in comfortable silence for several minutes, nursing mugs of mulled wine that had grown cold during their intense conversation.

"He took it better than I expected," Harry finally said, absently reaching for his grandfather's lighter again.

"Gregorovich is pragmatic above all else," Pierre replied. "He has seen enough darkness in his lifetime to recognize the signs of something truly dangerous brewing. Your story, fantastical as it sounds, fits with intelligence we have been gathering for years."

Click. Click. The griffin lighter danced between Harry's fingers. "What kind of intelligence?"

"Placement of wizards in key Muggle government positions across Europe. Legislation being subtly influenced to benefit magical interests. Resources being diverted and stockpiled. The pattern suggests preparation for something massive—a fundamental shift in the relationship between the magical and Muggle worlds."

Harry nodded grimly. "Dumbledore's endgame. Create enough chaos and instability that wizards will have no choice but to reveal themselves and take control. Position himself and his allies as the saviors who can restore order."

"A strategy that might even work," Pierre admitted. "If executed properly, it would appear to be a natural evolution rather than a coup. The Greater Good, as he likes to call it."

"That's what makes him so dangerous. He genuinely believes he's right." Harry drained the last of his mulled wine, feeling the spices burn warm down his throat. "Thank you for this, Monsieur Delacour. Your father would be proud of what you've built."

Pierre smiled, though there was sadness in his eyes. "Papa would be horrified at how necessary it has become. He always hoped the network would become obsolete, that the wizarding world would evolve beyond the need for such... precautions."

They left the tavern together, stepping back into the bitter Alpine night. The village was even quieter now, most windows darkened as residents settled in for the evening.

"How long until you return to France?" Harry asked as they walked toward the apparition point Pierre had identified earlier.

"Tomorrow morning. I have meetings with my counterparts in Italy and Germany later this week—they need to be warned about what we discussed tonight. Dumbledore's influence is not limited to Britain."

"Keep me informed. And Pierre..." Harry paused, turning to face the French wizard directly. "When the time comes—and it will come soon—I may need to ask for more than just intelligence. Are you prepared for that?"

Pierre's jaw tightened, but his voice was steady when he replied. "My father swore an oath to Lord Charlus Potter to defend magical Europe against those who would enslave it to their vision of order. I inherited that oath along with everything else. When you call, I will answer."

They shook hands one final time, and Harry watched as Pierre disappeared with a soft pop of apparition. Alone in the Swiss village, surrounded by the shadows of mountains and history, Harry drew out his grandfather's lighter one more time.

Click. The flame illuminated his young face, casting sharp shadows that made him look older, more dangerous than his thirteen years should allow.

The first moves had been made. Pieces were being positioned across the board. Soon, very soon, it would be time to begin the real game.

Click.

Darkness reclaimed the night.

A/N: Hopefully you guys like this chapter!
Comments are always welcome.

P.S.: I know there might be some plotholes, since I get very less time to write because of my daily schedule, so I usually forget small details.

Chapter Text

Chapter 9

Hogwarts, 1994

The entire castle was still sombre and showed no signs of recovering from the haplessness the students had fallen into after Harry's death two days ago. The Great Hall echoed with whispered conversations that died the moment a professor walked by. Even the ghosts seemed to drift more slowly through the corridors, their usual cheerful chatter replaced by mournful silence.

Remus cursed himself over and over, his hands trembling as he gripped his teacup in the empty staff room. He had just returned from the Shrieking Shack yesterday which had reeked of Sirius' scent—that familiar mixture of leather and rebellion now tainted with something darker, more desperate. The smell had clung to the walls like a accusation, and he had informed Dumbledore of the atrocious actions of his former best friend with a voice that cracked on every word. He had failed James and Lily twice over, and was now the only living member of the Marauders—a brotherhood that felt more like a curse than a blessing.

The Sirius he knew was dead. Had been dead for twelve years, perhaps. The Sirius he knew would never have killed a child, much less James and Lily's child in cold blood, and kidnapped another innocent girl. The boy who had once smuggled chocolate into the hospital wing for Remus after particularly brutal full moons would never have stolen the light from emerald eyes that looked so much like Lily's.

He lifted his head as footsteps echoed in the corridor outside. Ron and Hermione appeared in the doorway, moving like shadows of their former selves. Dark circles hung beneath their sad, hollow eyes like bruises, evidence that they were still not able to sleep a wink. Their usually vibrant faces had taken on a gray pallor that made them look far older than their thirteen and fourteen years. He had tried searching for the pair yesterday, desperate to offer what comfort he could, but couldn't find them. No one had seen them other than for eating—picking at their food like birds—and sleeping for the past two days. In his failure to find them, he had wallowed himself to a bottle of firewhisky, trying to drown sorrows that only seemed to multiply in the amber liquid.

His nose twitched as the pair got closer, and Remus picked up the tell-tale uncomfortable whisp of the smell which Dark Wizards emitted. It was faint but unmistakable—like copper pennies and burnt herbs, the acrid scent of magic twisted beyond its natural purpose. Werewolves being Dark Creatures had a great sense for detecting other Dark Practitioners, and what he sensed from these children made his stomach lurch with dread.

Across the room, he saw Dumbledore's usually twinkling blue eyes grow sad and distant, no doubt picking up on the trace Dark Magic that still lingered on the two students like invisible stains. The headmaster's fingers drummed against his desk in a rhythm that spoke of deep concern.

"The time has come," Dumbledore announced, his voice carrying the weight of inevitable sorrow. He stood slowly, his colorful robes seeming muted in the gray afternoon light streaming through the tall windows. "Please hold on to the two of us," he continued, pointing towards himself and Minerva with hands that barely trembled. "Apparition can be discomforting, especially under such circumstances."

Ron nodded mechanically as he reached for Dumbledore's outstretched hand, his freckled fingers looking pale and thin. The boy who had once complained loudly about everything now moved in eerie silence. They vanished in a loud crack that seemed to echo with finality through the stone walls.

Hermione took Minerva's hand without a word, her bushy hair hanging limp around her face like a curtain. The brilliant witch who had always had an answer for everything now seemed to have retreated so far inside herself that she might never find her way back out. They disappeared with another sharp crack, leaving behind only the faint scent of ozone and grief.

Remus exhaled slowly, his breath misting in the suddenly cold air, before disappearing simultaneously with Pomona, Flitwick, Molly and Arthur. Each adult held a Weasley sibling—Percy looking stiff and uncomfortable in his formal robes, the twins unusually subdued, and little Ginny clinging to her mother's hand like a lifeline.

The breeze brushed past their skin with a stinging winter chill when they materialized at their destination, a cold that seemed to seep into the bones themselves and settle there like a permanent ache. They stood at the entrance of the ancient cemetery at Godric's Hollow, where weathered headstones jutted from frost-covered ground like broken teeth. Bare branches of old yew trees creaked overhead, their skeletal fingers reaching toward a sky the color of old pewter.

The cemetery stretched before them in rolling hills of gray stone and white snow, dotted with mourners dressed in black. He could already spot the distinctive bowler hat of Minister Fudge, slightly askew in his obvious nervousness, and the shocking pink cardigan of Senior Undersecretary Umbridge, who he had seen a day prior at Hogwarts. The toad-like woman was glaring with undisguised malice at a trio of people standing apart from the main group near a cluster of angel statues whose faces had been worn smooth by centuries of weather.

The news that Harry Potter had died had taken magical Britain by storm like a curse breaking over the entire wizarding world. The Boy-Who-Lived, killed by the same betrayer who had sold his parents to You-Know-Who thirteen years ago, had created public outrage at both the Ministry and Dumbledore for the catastrophic lapse of security. Children weren't supposed to die at Hogwarts. The school was meant to be the safest place in magical Britain, and now that illusion lay shattered like glass on the Quidditch pitch where it had happened.

Lucius Malfoy had jumped at the opportunity with the predatory instincts of a man who smelled political weakness, and had announced with great fanfare that he was offering a bounty from his own considerable coffers to bring Black to the Ministry alive, so that the murderer could be tried for all his heinous crimes. The Daily Prophet had run the story on the front page with a photograph of Lucius looking appropriately solemn and civic-minded.

Everyone with a sane mind knew that Lucius was desperately trying to wash his hands of whatever Dark Arts dirt still clung to him after the fall of You-Know-Who. This grand gesture was meant to rewrite history, to transform him from suspected Death Eater sympathizer to concerned citizen seeking justice for a murdered child.

Other than the political maneuvering, the matter of Harry's funeral had been kept carefully under wraps, with Dumbledore himself planting strategic rumors through Fawkes and trusted portraits that Harry would be buried at Hogwarts in a private ceremony, while the actual service would be held here at Godric's Hollow where his parents rested.

'I can't deny him the chance to be with his parents after all he did for us,' Dumbledore had said when explaining the deception, his words carrying a genuine weight without any of his usual careful undertones and calculated pauses—something Remus recognized as a first in all his years of knowing the headmaster.

Walking towards the familiar grave of his late friends, stepping carefully on the icy path between headstones that bore names he didn't recognize, Remus spotted a small cluster of people who didn't belong to the wizarding world. Lily's sister Petunia stood rigidly beside a headstone, her thin face actually showing genuine grief for the first time in Remus's memory rather than her usual expression of barely concealed annoyance and disgust. Her horse-like features were softened by tears that she kept dabbing away with a lace handkerchief.

Vernon Dursley, her whale of a husband, was looking more and more purple with each step they took closer to his family, his massive face cycling through shades of red and violet like a mood ring. His small eyes darted around nervously at the gathering wizards as if expecting them to suddenly start hexing him. Beside them, their son Dudley wore an expression of what might have been genuine regret on his usually slack features, his pudgy hands fidgeting with the buttons of his too-tight formal jacket.

While Vernon's reaction was entirely predictable—the man had always been a blustering fool—Petunia's obvious grief was something Remus had never expected to witness. The woman who had spent years calling her sister a freak was now mourning the loss of that sister's son with tears that seemed to come from somewhere deep and real.

He gave a slight nod as he caught Petunia's red-rimmed eyes, and she recognized him immediately despite the years that had passed. Her face crumpled slightly, as if seeing him brought back too many memories of happier times when James and Lily had been alive and in love and planning their future together.

She soon flinched visibly as her gaze moved past Remus and met the blazing cold fury burning in Hermione's brown eyes. The girl's stare was like winter fire—intense and unforgiving and somehow far too old for her young face. Ron looked at the last of Harry's blood relatives with complete impassivity, his blue eyes flat and emotionless as a frozen pond.

The silence stretched taut between them like a wire ready to snap, filled with the weight of years of neglect and cruelty that everyone present knew about but no one had ever been able to legally address. The wind whistled through the cemetery, carrying with it the scent of snow and old grief.

"Pieces of shit like you don't deserve to be here, you know?" Ron remarked suddenly, his voice cutting through the winter air with devastating bluntness. The words dropped into the silence like stones into still water, sending ripples of shock through the assembled mourners.

Every eye turned to stare at the red-haired boy who had just violated every social convention with surgical precision. Percy choked audibly on his own spit, his face cycling through multiple shades of mortification. Molly immediately covered Ginny's ears with both hands as she turned an amazing shade of red that rivaled her hair, her mouth opening and closing like a fish as she struggled between maternal outrage and protective instinct. Arthur looked mildly disapproving in the way of a man who agreed with the sentiment but not the timing or location.

Beside them, George and Fred exchanged a look and whistled low in appreciation of the bluntness, their identical faces showing the first hint of their usual mischief in days. Even in their grief, they could appreciate a perfectly delivered insult.

Fudge looked completely confused, his small eyes darting between Ron and the Dursleys as if trying to understand what exactly was happening and whether he should be taking official action. His bowler hat had slipped even further askew, giving him a comic appearance that was at odds with the solemnity of the occasion.

Most disturbing of all, Dolores Umbridge looked genuinely impressed, her toad-like face creasing into what might have been approval. Her pink cardigan stood out like a wound against the black-clad mourners, and her small eyes glittered with the kind of interest that suggested she was filing this moment away for future use.

"I would remind you to mind your words, Mr. Weasley," Dumbledore warned, his voice carrying the authority of decades of dealing with difficult students. But there was something careful in his tone, as if he was walking on thin ice and knew it. His blue eyes, usually twinkling with hidden knowledge, were now sharp and watchful.

Hermione snorted, a sound completely devoid of humor that seemed to echo off the surrounding headstones. "We are minding our words, Headmaster," she said, her voice carrying a precision that was somehow more frightening than Ron's blunt anger. "Truthfully, I would like to say words along the lines of a Crucio," she continued, her eyes gleaming dangerously for just a moment with a slight smirk that transformed her young face into something terrible and knowing, before the expression faded back to forced coldness. "But we are more civil than a bunch of brutes who let a child suffer for years without lifting a finger to help."

Every wizard in the cemetery turned queasy and paled several shades, their faces taking on a grayish cast that had nothing to do with the winter cold. The expression which the young girl had worn for that brief instant reminded them all of a certain member of the Black family—someone whose name was whispered in Azkaban cells and whose laughter had driven strong men to madness. Petunia went white as fresh snow, having a very good idea of what the Cruciatus Curse would entail from the few things Lily had mentioned about the war before they'd stopped speaking entirely.

Dumbledore's eyes narrowed to slits, his face cycling through anger at the words, fear of what this brilliant girl might become, and deep sadness that he hadn't been able to protect her innocence. His fingers tightened around his wand handle, though he didn't draw it.

Fudge had gone whiter than parchment, the image of a specific person—Bellatrix Lestrange in her prime, beautiful and terrible and utterly without mercy—flashing in his mind with dangerous clarity. He remembered her trial, remembered the way she had laughed as they sentenced her to Azkaban, remembered the reports of what she had done to the Longbottoms.

Both men opened their mouths simultaneously, clearly prepared to speak—Dumbledore likely planning a careful rebuke designed to de-escalate the situation, and Fudge probably ready to go completely apoplectic at the suggestion of an Unforgivable Curse being used in his presence. However, Hermione cut them off before either could utter a word.

"Harry wouldn't want us squabbling like this," she said, and suddenly all the fire went out of her voice, leaving behind only exhaustion and grief so deep it seemed to have its own gravity. "Neither would he want us harming you, Mr. and Mrs. Dursley. Even after how badly you treated him—locking him in cupboards, starving him, making him believe he was worthless and unwanted—he still grew up to be kind, brave and compassionate. He had every reason to hate you, and he chose not to." Her voice cracked slightly on the last words, and she had to pause to steady herself. "The only reason I wouldn't hurt you is because Harry wouldn't forgive me if I did so. And I could never do that to him. I could never disappoint him, not when he can't... when he won't..."

She couldn't finish the sentence, her voice breaking entirely as the full weight of loss crashed over her again like a wave. The anger had been holding her together, and without it she seemed to deflate like a punctured balloon.

Dumbledore exhaled slowly, a sound that carried the weight of a hundred difficult decisions and a thousand small failures. He looked at the girl for a long moment, his ancient eyes seeing perhaps too much, and shook his head in what might have been defeat or resignation. With a subtle gesture, he signaled to Fudge to stay quiet and begin the ceremony before any more damage could be done.

The Minister, clearly out of his depth and desperate to return to familiar ground, cleared his throat importantly and began to speak. Remus tuned out most of it as Fudge droned on in his official voice, praising Harry as "a symbol of hope for our troubled times" and mourning his loss as "a tragedy that has shaken the very foundations of our world." The politician's words painted Harry as some kind of mythical figure rather than the shy, brave boy he had actually been—someone who worried about his homework and laughed at his friends' jokes and had been far too young to die.

The deadpan expressions on Ron's and Hermione's faces, visible even through their grief, confirmed that Fudge was speaking complete nonsense. They had known Harry as he really was, not as the legend the wizarding world had created around him.

When Fudge finally finished his empty rhetoric and stepped back, looking pleased with himself, Dumbledore moved forward to the simple wooden podium that had been erected near the grave site. His words were different—plainer and more honest.

"Harry Potter was not the legend you have heard about in stories," the headmaster said, his voice carrying clearly across the frozen cemetery. "He was a boy who worried about his Potions essays and whether his friends would still like him if they knew how frightened he sometimes was. He was someone who gave his dessert to house-elves and spent his pocket money on presents for people who had shown him kindness." Dumbledore's voice grew softer, more personal. "He was down to earth in ways that would surprise you, and selfless in ways that should humble us all."

These genuine words, so different from Fudge's political posturing, earned small sad smiles from the Weasley siblings and a barely perceptible relaxation in the rigid line of Hermione's shoulders.

Minerva spoke next, her usually stern voice thick with emotion as she described Harry as "a student who never let fame go to his head" and "a young man who saw the best in people even when they couldn't see it in themselves." Her Scottish accent became more pronounced as her control wavered, and she had to pause several times to compose herself.

When it came time for personal remembrances, Hermione had clearly intended to speak. She walked slowly to the podium, her steps careful and measured, but when she reached it and looked out at the sea of faces—some familiar, some strange, all watching her with varying degrees of pity and concern—the words simply wouldn't come.

She stood there for a long moment, gripping the edges of the wooden stand so tightly her knuckles went white, her mouth opening and closing silently as if the grief was physically preventing her from speaking. Finally, with a sound that was part sob and part scream of frustration, she broke down completely at the dais, her composure cracking like ice under too much weight.

Minerva was there instantly, her arms wrapping around the girl's shaking shoulders, and Ron appeared on Hermione's other side, his own eyes bright with unshed tears as he helped support his friend. The three of them stood there together—teacher and students united in loss—while the rest of the assembled mourners watched in uncomfortable silence.

Petunia had wisely chosen to stay quiet throughout the ceremony, perhaps recognizing that anything she might say would only make things worse. Her thin face was streaked with tears, but she kept her lips pressed firmly together and her hands folded in front of her like a barrier against the world.

Remus had abstained from speaking as well, knowing that his acquaintance with Harry had been far too brief to offer any meaningful words. He had failed the boy twice—once as a child when he'd failed to prevent Sirius's betrayal, and again as a teenager when he'd failed to protect him from that same betrayer's return. What could he possibly say that would matter now?

The actual burial was mercifully brief. Harry's empty coffin—polished wood that reflected the gray sky like dark water—was lowered slowly into the ground beside the graves of James and Lily Potter. The headstones stood like sentinels: James Charlus Potter, beloved husband and father, died October 31st, 1981; Lily Evans Potter, beloved wife and mother, died October 31st, 1981; and now a third stone, fresh-carved and painful to look at: Harry James Potter, beloved son and friend, died January 28th, 1994.

Quiet sobs echoed across the cemetery as the coffin disappeared from view—Hermione crying openly now, Molly weeping into Arthur's shoulder, Ginny's face streaked with tears, and surprisingly, the twins standing with their arms around each other, their usually cheerful faces crumpled with genuine grief.

Some time later, after the other mourners had gradually dispersed into the gray afternoon—Fudge bustling away with obvious relief, the Dursleys departing in their ridiculously oversized car, various Ministry officials Disapparating with soft pops—Dumbledore lingered near the grave site. He had spent several minutes in quiet conversation with Fudge, his hands moving in small, reassuring gestures as he explained that "Miss Granger is still in shock, Minister, and hardly responsible for her words in such circumstances."

When they were finally alone except for the core group of Hogwarts staff and the Weasley family, Dumbledore shared a meaningful glance with Minerva. The look that passed between them spoke of decades of partnership and mutual understanding, but also of a new and frightening concern.

The incident had shocked them both to their cores, stripping away the comfortable illusion that they could protect their students from the worst consequences of the war that seemed to follow them everywhere. Unless they found a way to provide proper guidance and support, they could very well have another Bellatrix Lestrange on their hands—brilliant, damaged, and dangerous beyond measure—in the form of one Hermione Jean Granger.

The thought was enough to make even Albus Dumbledore, manipulator of destinies and keeper of secrets, feel genuinely afraid for the first time in many years.

Privet Drive, Surrey

The house at Number Four Privet Drive sat in perfect suburban silence, its pristine garden and spotless windows reflecting the gray winter afternoon like a picture postcard of middle-class respectability. Inside, however, the atmosphere was anything but peaceful.

Harry James Potter stood in the impeccably clean living room, his back straight and posture relaxed in a way that suggested complete comfort with his surroundings. Gone was the thin, underfed boy who had left this house months ago. The young man who now occupied the space looked healthier, stronger—his shoulders had filled out, his face had lost its gaunt appearance, and there was a quiet confidence in his bearing that spoke of someone who had finally come into his own power.

He was dressed impeccably in expensive formal robes of deep emerald green that brought out his eyes, the fabric clearly tailored by someone who understood both wizarding fashion and the importance of making an impression. His unruly black hair had been tamed somewhat, though it still held that characteristic Potter messiness that no amount of grooming could completely eliminate. Most striking of all was his posture—gone was the defensive hunch of someone expecting a blow, replaced by the easy stance of someone who knew exactly how dangerous he could be.

In his pale hands, he held an ornate silver lighter, its surface engraved with the Potter family crest. The lighter had belonged to his grandfather Charlus, and Harry flicked it open and closed with practiced ease, the small flame dancing to life and disappearing again in a rhythmic pattern that spoke of calm patience. Each click of the mechanism echoed in the silence like a metronome counting down to something inevitable.

His emerald eyes, sharp and calculating in a way they had never been during his years at Hogwarts, were fixed on the cupboard under the stairs. The cramped space where he had spent the first eleven years of his life looked smaller now, pathetic really, like a relic from someone else's nightmare. There were no bars on his bedroom window upstairs anymore, no locks on his door, but the psychological scars of this place ran deeper than physical constraints ever could.

The sound of a car pulling into the driveway broke the contemplative silence. Harry didn't move from his position, didn't even glance toward the window. He simply continued flicking the lighter, click-click-click, as if he had all the time in the world.

The front door opened with the familiar jingle of keys, followed by Vernon's booming voice complaining about the traffic and the cold. "Bloody awful weather for a bloody awful day," the large man was saying as he stamped his feet on the doormat. "I don't know why we had to go to that freak's funeral in the first place, Petunia. Good riddance, I say."

"Vernon, please," Petunia's voice was tired, strained with grief that she was still trying to process. "He was still family, whatever else—"

She stopped mid-sentence as she entered the living room and saw him.

Harry turned slowly, deliberately, the lighter still dancing between his fingers. His smile was small and cold, the kind of expression that suggested he found something amusing in a way that others might find deeply unsettling.

"Hello, Aunt Petunia," he said pleasantly, his voice carrying a warmth that didn't reach his eyes. "Uncle Vernon. I trust the funeral was... enlightening?"

The effect was immediate and dramatic. Vernon's face cycled rapidly through several shades of red and purple before settling on a mottled combination that suggested either a heart attack or a complete psychological break. His small eyes bulged from their sockets as he stared at his nephew—the nephew whose empty coffin they had just watched being lowered into the ground.

"You—you're—but we just—" Vernon stammered, his massive hands clutching at his chest as if to make sure his heart was still beating. "You're dead! We saw them bury you!"

Petunia had gone completely white, her thin hand pressed to her mouth in shock. But her eyes—her eyes were sharp and calculating, taking in Harry's improved appearance, his expensive clothes, the way he held himself like someone who had shed an old skin and grown into something new and dangerous.

"Apparently not," Harry replied with that same cold smile, clicking the lighter once more before slipping it into his pocket with a fluid motion. "Though I can understand the confusion. Sirius Black does put on quite a show when properly motivated."

"But—but he killed you!" Vernon sputtered, his face now approaching a dangerous shade of purple. "On that bloody Quidditch field! Everyone saw it!"

Harry's smile widened slightly, and for just a moment something predatory flickered in his green eyes. "Did they? How interesting. And what, precisely, did they think they saw?"

The question hung in the air like a challenge, and Vernon seemed to realize that he was suddenly in very dangerous territory. This wasn't the cowering boy who had once lived in their cupboard. This was someone else entirely—someone who spoke in measured tones and asked questions that had no safe answers.

Petunia stepped forward, her voice barely above a whisper. "You asked him to do it," she said, and it wasn't really a question. "You asked Sirius Black to fake your death."

"Very good, Aunt Petunia," Harry said approvingly, inclining his head slightly as if acknowledging a particularly astute observation. "I always knew you were the intelligent one in this household. Yes, I asked Sirius to stage my death. Quite convincingly too, wouldn't you agree?"

"But why?" she asked, though her voice suggested she already suspected the answer wouldn't be pleasant.

Harry's expression grew serious, the cold amusement fading from his features. "Because there are things that need to be dealt with, and they can't be dealt with by a schoolboy who's constantly under the watchful eye of manipulative old men who think they know what's best for everyone." His voice carried a weight that seemed far too heavy for someone barely fourteen years old. "Voldemort is still out there, still a threat. And there are others—people who claim to fight for the light but whose methods are just as dark as those they oppose."

Vernon made a choking sound at the name, but Harry ignored him completely, his attention focused entirely on Petunia.

"Which brings me to why I'm here," Harry continued, his tone becoming businesslike. "You need to leave. All of you. Tonight."

"What?" Vernon finally found his voice, though it came out as more of a squeak than his usual bellow. "This is our house! We're not going anywhere because some freak—"

"Uncle Vernon," Harry interrupted, and his voice carried a quiet authority that made the larger man fall silent immediately. "The blood wards that have protected this house—protected all of you—were anchored to me. To my presence here, my connection to this place as home." He gestured around the immaculate living room with its beige everything and complete absence of personality. "Since I will never be returning to Privet Drive, those wards will fail. Completely. Within hours."

Petunia's face went even whiter as the implications hit her. "The Death Eaters," she whispered.

"Former Death Eaters, mostly," Harry corrected. "Voldemort's old followers who escaped justice, who are still out there nursing their grudges and looking for someone to blame for their master's downfall. When the wards fall, this address will become visible to them again. And they will come." His smile returned, colder than before. "Not necessarily to kill you—that would be too quick, too merciful. But they might find it amusing to torture the Muggles who raised the Boy-Who-Lived. Just for sport."

Vernon was making small whimpering sounds now, his earlier bluster completely evaporated in the face of magical threats he couldn't understand or fight.

"You're lying," he said weakly. "This is some sort of freak trick to scare us."

Harry reached into his robes and withdrew a thick manila envelope, holding it out toward Petunia. "Inside you'll find keys to a house in Cumbria, far from London and any wizarding settlements. The property is under a different name entirely—one that can't be traced back to you through any magical or Muggle means. There's also enough money to keep you comfortable for several years, and documentation for new identities if you choose to use them."

Petunia stared at the envelope as if it might bite her. "Why?" she asked. "After everything we did to you, why would you help us?"

Harry's expression softened slightly, and for just a moment he looked like the teenager he actually was. "Because despite everything, you did keep me alive when you could have thrown me out on the streets. And because..." He paused, seeming to choose his words carefully. "Because my mother loved you once. Before the magic, before the fear and jealousy drove you apart. She would want me to keep you safe, even if you never wanted her to."

The silence stretched between them, heavy with years of resentment and misunderstanding. Finally, Vernon tried to reassert himself.

"Now see here, boy," he blustered, though his voice lacked its usual conviction. "We're not just going to pack up and leave because you come in here with your freakish threats and—"

"Vernon." Petunia's voice cut through her husband's protests like a blade. She was staring at Harry with an expression that mixed fear, grief, and something that might have been respect. "We're going."

"What?" Vernon spun to face his wife, his face cycling through several shades of outrage. "Petunia, you can't be serious! We can't just abandon our home because this freak—"

"Look at him, Vernon," Petunia said quietly, never taking her eyes off Harry. She was reminded of seeing Charlus Potter in all his prime years ago at King's Cross. A commanding force with just his presence alone. "Really look at him. This isn't the frightened boy we used to lock in the cupboard. This is someone who has people stage his own death and disappear from the most secure place in magical Britain without anyone knowing how he did it. This is someone who can walk into our house without us knowing he was here, who can make threats about magical protections failing, and who has the resources to relocate an entire family on a whim." She took a shaky breath. "This is someone very, very dangerous. And if he says we need to leave, then we leave."

Harry nodded approvingly. "Practical as always, Aunt Petunia. You have two hours to pack whatever you can't bear to leave behind. Everything else will be transported separately."

"Two hours?" Vernon's voice cracked on the words. "That's impossible! We can't possibly—"

Harry snapped his fingers, a sharp sound that seemed to echo with more than just noise. "Minie."

There was a soft pop of displaced air, and suddenly a house-elf stood in the living room. She was different from Dobby—older, more dignified, wearing a pristine dress with a Peverell insignia that had been tailored to actually fit properly. Her large eyes were intelligent and alert, and she carried herself with the confidence of someone who had served a great family for many years.

"Master Harry," she said, inclining her head respectfully. "Minie is not pleased to see them."

"Thank you, Minie," Harry replied warmly, his entire demeanor changing as he addressed the elf. "I need you to help my relatives relocate to the Cumbria property. Can you manage their belongings?"

The elf's eyes lit up with what might have been amusement. "Of course, Master Harry. Minie can be having everything packed and transported within the hour, if the Muggles are not interfering too much."

Vernon made a strangled noise at being referred to as 'the Muggles,' but Petunia grabbed his arm before he could say anything stupid.

"We won't interfere," she said firmly. "We'll pack our personal items and let you handle the rest."

"Excellent," Harry said. "Minie, please ensure they have everything they need. The house should look completely deserted when you're finished."

"It will be done, Master Harry," the elf said, then turned to address the Dursleys directly. "Minie will be starting with the kitchen and working through the house. Please be gathering your most important belongings first."

As Petunia and Vernon hurried upstairs—Vernon still muttering protests under his breath—Harry walked over to the window and looked out at the perfectly manicured street. Everything looked so normal, so suburban and safe. None of the neighbors had any idea that they lived next door to a house that had been protected by ancient blood magic, or that said protection was about to fail catastrophically.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs made him turn. Dudley was descending slowly, his face thoughtful in a way that Harry had never seen before. His cousin had lost weight since Harry had left for Hogwarts—not dramatically, but enough to make his features less round, more defined. He looked older too, though whether that was physical or just the result of recent events was hard to say.

"Harry," Dudley said quietly, stopping at the bottom of the stairs. "You're really alive."

"I am," Harry confirmed, studying his cousin's face carefully. "How do you feel about that?"

Dudley was quiet for a long moment, his eyes moving around the living room as if seeing it for the first time. "I cried," he said finally. "At the funeral. I actually cried." He looked up at Harry with something that might have been confusion. "I don't understand why."

Harry felt something shift in his chest, a small crack in the cold facade he'd been maintaining. "Maybe because underneath all the bullying and the cruelty, some part of you remembered when we were little. Before you learned to hate me for being different."

"I never hated you," Dudley said, and he sounded surprised by his own words. "I was scared of you. Of what you could do. And Dad... Dad was always so angry when you did those freaky things, and I thought... I thought if I was angry too, if I helped make you small and scared, then maybe the freaky things wouldn't happen to me."

The honesty was unexpected, and Harry found himself reassessing his cousin in light of this revelation. "You were eight years old, Dudley. Children learn fear from their parents."

"Yeah, well," Dudley said, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I'm not eight anymore."

They stood in silence for a moment, the weight of years of antagonism hanging between them like a bridge neither was sure they could cross.

"The new house," Dudley said finally. "Will it be safe? Really?"

"Safer than here," Harry assured him. "And if you ever need help—real help, not just money or a place to live—you can find a way to contact me. I'll make sure of that."

Dudley nodded slowly, then did something that shocked Harry completely. He extended his hand.

"You were never a waste of space," he said quietly, his eyes meeting Harry's directly for perhaps the first time in their lives. "I was wrong to say that. To do... all of it. I'm sorry."

Harry looked down at the offered hand, then back up at his cousin's face. There was no deception there, no hidden agenda. Just a young man trying to make amends for childhood cruelties he was finally old enough to understand.

He reached out and shook Dudley's hand firmly. "Apology accepted."

The next hour passed in a whirlwind of organized chaos as Minie worked her magic—literally—on the house. Furniture vanished with soft pops, clothing folded itself into neat piles before disappearing, and years of accumulated possessions were sorted, packed, and transported with an efficiency that left the Dursleys staring in amazement.

Vernon made several attempts to protest the process, particularly when his collection of drill catalogs started floating through the air, but Petunia kept cutting him off with sharp looks and sharper words. She seemed to have accepted the situation completely, moving through the house with purpose as she gathered the things that truly mattered to her.

When it was over, Number Four Privet Drive looked like it had been abandoned for months. The furniture was gone, the personal touches erased, even the refrigerator had been emptied and cleaned. It was just a shell now, waiting for new occupants who would never know about the magic that had once protected it.

The Dursleys stood in the empty living room, looking lost and uncertain. Vernon was still grumbling under his breath, but even he seemed to understand that this was really happening, that their old life was over.

"The car?" Petunia asked quietly.

"Will be waiting for you at the new address," Harry said. "Along with everything else. Minie is very thorough."

The house-elf appeared with a final pop, brushing imaginary dust from her dress. "It is finished, Master Harry. The Muggles' new home is prepared, and all belongings have been properly arranged."

"Thank you, Minie," Harry said warmly. "Please escort them safely."

The elf nodded and gestured for the Dursleys to gather close. "Please be holding hands," she instructed. "House-elf travel can be being disorienting for Muggles."

Vernon looked like he'd rather eat glass than hold hands with a magical creature, but Petunia grabbed him firmly and pulled him into the circle. Dudley hesitated for a moment, then looked back at Harry.

"Will we see you again?" he asked.

Harry considered the question carefully. "Probably not," he said honestly. "But that doesn't mean never."

Dudley nodded, seeming to accept this. "Take care of yourself, Harry."

"You too, Dudley."

With a loud crack and a swirl of displaced air, they were gone.

Harry stood alone in the empty house, listening to the silence that seemed to echo with thirteen years of unhappy memories. But he felt no nostalgia, no sadness at leaving this place behind. This had never been his home—it had been his prison, and now it was simply a building that would soon be someone else's problem.

He walked slowly to the center of the living room, where he had spent so many miserable hours doing chores and trying to be invisible. Then he closed his eyes and reached deep inside himself, finding the vast well of power that he had been carefully hiding and suppressing for years.

When he opened his eyes, they were blazing with magical energy, bright enough to cast shadows on the walls. He raised his hands, feeling the magic build and spiral around him like a living thing.

"Goodbye, Privet Drive," he said quietly.

Then he let go.

The surge of magic that erupted from him was like a breaking dam, wild and uncontrolled and absolutely devastating. It slammed into the blood wards that had protected the house for thirteen years, overloading them completely. The ancient protections, designed to absorb and redirect small amounts of hostile magic, simply couldn't handle the raw power Harry was channeling through them.

They shattered like glass, sending visible shockwaves rippling through the air around the house. Every window on Privet Drive rattled in its frame, car alarms began wailing, and dogs started barking in confusion and fear. The streetlights flickered and went out, plunging the neighborhood into premature darkness.

When it was over, Harry stood in the center of the chaos he had created, breathing hard but smiling with genuine satisfaction. The blood wards were gone, erased so completely that no trace of them remained. Number Four Privet Drive was now just another house on just another street, with no magical protections whatsoever.

He even had sent a surprise to Dumbledore.

Headmaster's Office, Hogwarts

The circular office atop the tallest tower of Hogwarts was unusually subdued, its normally cheerful atmosphere dampened by the weight of recent events. The portraits of former headmasters hung silent in their frames, their painted eyes following the conversation below with expressions of concern and disapproval. Even Fawkes seemed affected by the sombre mood, his brilliant plumage dulled as he perched quietly on his golden stand.

Albus Dumbledore sat behind his ornate desk, his usually twinkling blue eyes grave as he regarded the two professors seated across from him. The half-moon spectacles perched on his crooked nose caught the firelight, creating brief flashes of reflected flame that seemed to dance with his troubled thoughts.

"The situation with Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley grows more concerning by the hour," he said, his voice carrying the weight of a man who had seen too many promising young minds corrupted by darkness. His long fingers were steepled before him, a gesture that usually indicated deep contemplation but now seemed more like a prayer for guidance. "Their behavior at the funeral was... troubling."

Minerva McGonagall sat rigidly in her chair, her tartan robes seeming to reflect her internal tension. Her usually pristine hair showed signs of stress, with several strands having escaped their tight bun, and her lips were pressed into a thin line that spoke of barely contained worry.

"Troubling is putting it mildly, Albus," she said, her Scottish accent more pronounced than usual. "Miss Granger spoke of using an Unforgivable Curse as casually as discussing the weather. And the look in her eyes..." She shuddered slightly, her hands gripping the arms of her chair until her knuckles went white. "I've seen that expression before. On the faces of those who've stared too long into the abyss and found it staring back."

Severus Snape stood near the window, his black robes making him appear like a shadow against the gray winter sky. His pale hands were clasped behind his back, and his dark eyes held a calculating quality that suggested he was analyzing every word, every implication, every possible outcome.

"The boy's crude outburst was equally concerning," Snape said, his voice carrying its usual silky menace but with an underlying note of genuine unease. "Ronald Weasley has never been one for subtlety, but this was different. There was a coldness to his words, a deliberate cruelty that speaks of careful consideration rather than emotional outburst."

Dumbledore nodded slowly, his expression growing more troubled with each observation. "They witnessed Harry's death, saw their best friend murdered before their eyes by someone our generation had trusted, and their generation had feared. Such trauma leaves scars that run deeper than the visible wounds." He paused, removing his spectacles to clean them with unnecessary care—a nervous habit that few had ever witnessed. "I fear we may be seeing the birth of something far more dangerous than grief-stricken children."

"You're thinking of Bellatrix Lestrange," Minerva said, and it wasn't a question. Her voice carried the memory of a brilliant student who had once sat in her Transfiguration classes, eager and talented and seemingly incapable of the horrors she would later commit.

"Among others," Dumbledore replied gravely. "Brilliant minds, when twisted by trauma and rage, can become the most dangerous weapons imaginable. Miss Granger possesses an intellect that rivals some of the greatest witches and wizards in history. If that intelligence were to be turned toward darker purposes..."

"She could become unstoppable," Snape finished, his voice barely above a whisper. "Her knowledge of magical theory is already extensive, and her capacity for research and experimentation is unmatched among her peers. Give her access to the Restricted Section and a desire for revenge, and within months she could master spells that would make even the Dark Lord take notice."

The silence that followed was heavy with implication. They all knew the statistics—how many promising students had fallen to the Dark Arts after experiencing trauma. How many had started with the noble intention of seeking justice and ended as monsters wearing the faces of the children they had once been.

"And Mr. Weasley?" Minerva asked, though her tone suggested she already suspected the answer.

"Will follow wherever she leads," Dumbledore said with quiet certainty. "His loyalty to his friends is absolute, and his grief over Harry's death runs as deep as hers. If Miss Granger falls to darkness, she will not fall alone."

Snape turned from the window, his black eyes glittering with something that might have been anticipation. "Then what do you propose we do, Headmaster? Shall we expel them before they can cause more damage? Place them under surveillance? Perhaps a few strategically placed Memory Charms to dull the edge of their trauma?"

The suggestion hung in the air like a curse, and Dumbledore's expression darkened considerably. "We will do what we have always done, Severus. We will guide them, support them, and hope that the light within them proves stronger than the darkness that threatens to consume them."

"Hope," Snape repeated, his voice dripping with disdain. "How wonderfully naive of you, Albus. Hope didn't save Tom Riddle from becoming Voldemort. Hope didn't prevent Bellatrix from torturing the Longbottoms into madness. Hope is a luxury we cannot afford when dealing with—"

He was interrupted by a sound that made all three professors freeze in terror. From somewhere within the office came a low, mechanical whining, like the sound of ancient machinery under tremendous strain. The noise grew louder, more urgent, accompanied by what sounded like grinding metal and the sharp crack of breaking glass.

Dumbledore was on his feet instantly, his wand appearing in his hand with fluid grace as he spun toward the source of the disturbance. Behind his desk, partially hidden by stacks of parchment and magical instruments, sat a complex array of delicate devices that most visitors never noticed. These were his monitoring systems—magical constructs that kept track of various protective wards and defensive enchantments throughout Britain.

The devices were screaming.

Brass dials spun wildly, their needles moving so fast they became blurs of silver light. Crystal orbs flashed through the entire spectrum of visible light before settling on an ominous blood-red glow. Most alarming of all, a series of intricate clockwork mechanisms that had run smoothly for over a decade were grinding to a halt with the sound of gears stripping and springs snapping.

"The blood wards," Dumbledore breathed, his face going ashen as he recognized the pattern of failure. "The protections at Privet Drive—they're collapsing."

But even as he spoke, the situation became far worse. The central monitoring device—a complex arrangement of spinning rings and floating crystals that tracked the most critical protective enchantments—began to emit a sound like a banshee's wail. Sparks flew from its delicate mechanisms, and hairline cracks appeared in the crystal matrix at its heart.

Then, with a sound like the world ending, it exploded.

The detonation sent fragments of crystal and twisted metal flying across the office, forcing all three professors to duck for cover. Portraits shrieked and dove from their frames, while Fawkes let out a cry of alarm and took flight, his wings beating frantically as he sought safety.

But the explosion was only the beginning.

From the smoking ruins of the device, a shape began to form. At first it was nothing more than wisps of gray smoke, but the vapor quickly coalesced into something far more sinister. A skeleton materialized from the acrid haze—not the clean, white bones of an anatomy lesson, but something ancient and terrible, its surface stained with what looked like centuries of accumulated malice.

The apparition moved with fluid grace despite its lack of flesh, gliding across the floor toward Dumbledore with the inexorable patience of death itself. Its empty eye sockets burned with a cold, white fire that seemed to suck the warmth from the room, and when it opened its jaw to speak, the voice that emerged was like winter wind through cemetery gates.

Minerva had gone completely white, her wand trembling in her grip as she pressed herself back against her chair. Snape's usual pallor had taken on a grayish cast, and his dark eyes were wider than anyone had ever seen them. But it was Dumbledore who bore the brunt of the apparition's attention.

The skeletal figure reached out with one bony hand, its fingers wrapping around Dumbledore's shoulder with a grip that seemed to burn through his robes. The headmaster gasped in pain and shock, his powerful magical aura flickering like a candle in a hurricane as the creature's touch drained the warmth from his body.

"Take your steps carefully, old fool," the skeleton whispered, its voice carrying the authority of absolute finality. Each word seemed to echo from somewhere far deeper than its throat, as if the very concept of death was speaking through borrowed bones. "A Peverell with eyes of white might damn you to a cold embrace if you continue down your current path."

The warning hung in the air like a death sentence, and for a moment the only sound in the office was the crackling of the fireplace and the distant wailing of the castle's magical defenses responding to the breach in their security.

Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the skeleton began to dissolve. Its bones crumbled to ash, its burning eyes dimmed to nothing, and within seconds there was no trace that it had ever existed save for the smoking ruins of the monitoring device and the profound chill that had settled over the room.

Dumbledore staggered backward, his hand pressed to his shoulder where the creature had touched him. The fabric of his robes was scorched, and beneath it his skin bore the clear outline of skeletal fingers burned into his flesh like a brand.

"Albus!" Minerva was at his side instantly, her hands fluttering around the injury without quite daring to touch it. "What was that thing? What did it mean?"

But Dumbledore was already moving, his earlier frailty forgotten in the face of this new crisis. He waved his wand at the destroyed monitoring device, muttering diagnostic charms under his breath, but the magical readings only confirmed what he already feared.

"The blood wards at Privet Drive have been completely destroyed," he said, his voice tight with controlled panic. "Not simply collapsed or breached—obliterated. As if they never existed." He looked up at his colleagues, and they saw something in his ancient eyes that neither had ever witnessed before: genuine fear. "Someone with incredible power has just announced their presence in the most dramatic way possible."

"The Peverell Lord," Snape said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of terrible understanding. "The mysterious figure who rekindled House Peverell and absorbed the Potter fortune. You think it was him?"

Dumbledore was already moving toward the fireplace, grabbing a handful of Floo powder with hands that shook slightly despite his attempts at control. "I don't think, Severus. I know." He paused at the threshold, his expression grim. "The question is: what does he want, and how much does he know about things that should have remained buried?"

Without another word, he stepped into the green flames and vanished with a roar of "Privet Drive!"

Privet Drive, Surrey - Minutes Later

The first thing Dumbledore noticed when he emerged from the fireplace at Arabella Figg's—the closest Floo connection to Privet Drive—was the silence. Not the peaceful quiet of a suburban evening, but the oppressive hush that followed a catastrophe. Even the local traffic seemed muted, as if the very air had been shocked into stillness.

He Apparated directly to the end of Privet Drive, his arrival marked by the sharp crack of displaced air that echoed down the empty street like a gunshot. The neighborhood looked normal enough at first glance—identical houses with their perfect lawns and pristine driveways, streetlights casting pools of yellow illumination at regular intervals. But Dumbledore's enhanced senses picked up the subtle wrongness immediately.

The magical signature of the area had changed completely. Where once there had been the warm, protective aura of blood magic—ancient and powerful and absolutely impenetrable—there was now nothing. Worse than nothing, actually. There was a void where the magic had been, like a wound in reality itself.

Number Four Privet Drive stood at the center of this magical wasteland, and from the outside it looked exactly as it always had. Same beige paint, same trimmed hedges, same aggressively normal appearance that had made it the perfect hiding place for a famous wizard child.

But when Dumbledore approached the front door, he found it standing wide open, revealing an interior that was completely, utterly empty.

Not just empty of people—empty of everything. The furniture was gone, the carpets removed, even the light fixtures had been taken down. It was as if the house had been gutted by the most thorough removal service in existence, leaving behind nothing but bare walls and echoing rooms.

Dumbledore stepped inside, his footsteps echoing strangely in the vacant space. His wand was in his hand, casting revealing charms and detection spells, but the readings he was getting made no sense. According to his instruments, no magic had been used here recently. No Transfiguration, no Conjuration, no Vanishing spells. The Dursleys and all their possessions had simply... ceased to exist in this location.

But it was when he reached the living room that his blood truly ran cold.

Burned into the wooden floor, as if someone had used the most powerful Incendio charm in existence, was a symbol that made Dumbledore's heart skip several beats. The design was perfectly rendered, its lines precise and deliberate: a triangle containing a circle, bisected by a straight line.

The sign of the Deathly Hallows.

Dumbledore stared at the symbol for a long moment, his mind racing through implications and possibilities, each more troubling than the last. This wasn't just a message—it was a declaration of war, delivered by someone who knew far too much about secrets that should have died with the last generation.

The Peverell Lord. Whoever he was, he possessed knowledge that extended far beyond what any normal wizard should have access to. He knew about the Hallows, about their significance, about Dumbledore's own complicated history with those legendary artifacts. More than that, he had the power to completely obliterate protections that had taken Dumbledore years to establish and should have been absolutely inviolable.

And he had done it all while making Harry Potter's death appear completely convincing, spiriting away an entire family without leaving a trace of magical residue, and delivering a threat that cut straight to the heart of Dumbledore's deepest fears.

As he stood in the empty room, staring at the burned symbol that seemed to pulse with malevolent energy, Dumbledore found himself confronting a possibility he had never seriously considered: that he might have miscalculated.

For over fifty years, he had been the chess master, moving pieces across the board with careful precision, always thinking several moves ahead of his opponents. He had defeated Grindelwald, contained Voldemort, and guided the wizarding world through its darkest hours through a combination of superior knowledge, strategic thinking, and sheer force of will.

But now, faced with evidence of someone who could match his power and exceed his knowledge, he felt something he hadn't experienced in decades: genuine uncertainty.

The Peverell Lord—whoever he was—represented a variable that Dumbledore hadn't accounted for in any of his plans. Someone with the resources to stage elaborate deceptions, the knowledge to reference the Hallows, and the raw magical power to destroy protections that should have been unbreakable.

Someone who, according to the skeletal messenger, possessed "eyes of white" and was prepared to damn him to "a cold embrace" if he continued his current course.

The implications were staggering. If this mysterious figure was working against the greater good as Dumbledore understood it, if he was planning to interfere with the careful balance that kept the wizarding world stable, then everything Dumbledore had worked for over the past fifty years could be in jeopardy.

But even as these troubling thoughts circled through his mind, another part of him—the part that had once been young and arrogant and absolutely certain of his own moral superiority—rejected the possibility that he could be wrong.

No. He had lived too long, learned too much, sacrificed too greatly to doubt himself now. Whatever game this Peverell Lord was playing, whatever power he possessed, Dumbledore had faced down Dark Lords before. He had stared into the abyss of absolute evil and emerged victorious.

This would be no different.

Still, as he prepared to leave the empty house and return to Hogwarts, Dumbledore found himself glancing once more at the burned symbol on the floor. The triangle, circle, and line seemed to mock him with their geometric perfection, reminding him of dreams and ambitions he had abandoned decades ago.

"Take your steps carefully," the skeleton had warned.

Perhaps, Dumbledore thought as he Disapparated back to the castle, it was time to remind the wizarding world why Albus Dumbledore was still considered the most dangerous wizard alive.

The game, it seemed, was about to begin in earnest.

A/N: Two chapters in a day. This one had been written before chapter 8, and I had time so I edited it to cover any plotholes to the best of my abilities.

P.S.: I finally got time to read comments, and realized that somehow the chapter was cut midway when I was pasting it from Word. The chapter is complete this time.