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It was easy to be angry, especially when it was righteous. It was an absolute rush; there was no better drug than being angry and knowing that you were right in your anger; to know that you should be angry. So, he fanned those flames with pride and all the fervour of a devout believer, because he fought for the oppressed. He was on the good side. (And thus, somehow, all his foolishness and ignorance could be pardoned.) 

Giving up was somehow easier. Far easier than he ever realised, back when he was filled with determination and an iron will to never back down, and he found that wasted minutes quickly turned into wasted hours, and, before he knew it, those wasted hours turned into wasted days.  

The moment that Voldemort died, the moment that his purpose was fulfilled, it was as if someone had roughly yanked his plug from the electrical socket and shoved him back into storage. He had always been shackled to the singular goal of defeating the villain, but if he were honest, he would say that he felt more chained down now that he was free, because the Wizarding World may have been saved, but the people who mattered hadn’t been.  

* 

Before the Battle, Harry hadn’t thought he could ever tire of the endless sprawling halls of Hogwarts despite wandering through them in the odd hours of the night, mind drifting from all responsibilities and fears, for what must have been over a thousand times.  

When he had just been a boy, hardly able to believe that magic existed or that there was a place in which he belonged, his first impression of Hogwarts had been of a looming, foreboding castle made up of jagged lines and cold granite. It had been both awe inspiring and terrifying, and he hadn’t quite known what to do with himself ( he still didn’t know what to do with himself, now ). In no time at all he had learnt to love Hogwarts, the castle soon becoming what he would have called home.  

It was the place where he made most of his happy memories, despite everything. He could remember the warmth that would swell in his chest and the soft blanket of magic that would envelope him as he brazenly broke the curfew rules. He could remember skipping out on homework with Ron in favour of some cheeky mischief, and Hermione admonishing them in that faux patronising tone of hers before joining in with a reluctant face (the first couple times she had them fooled, but then it happened the next time, and the next, and the next…).  

But now he had new memories of Hogwarts too, and it was hard to stop them from overshadowing all the others. It’s funny, how it all works; how the bad thoughts seem to roll into one’s mind like a mist. Innocuous at first, not difficult to navigate, merely covering some things in a slight haze. Quite manageable. But then that mist thickens and latches onto every hidden nook, a startling chill seeps into bone, and you realise that it wasn’t mist at all but the beginnings of a thick, polluted fog.  

Sometimes it felt like he was remembering what happened from beneath a river; the images rippled by an unseen force in a flurry of motion as he let himself sink, the external world fading away as he, too, did so.  

Other times…he was there, standing on a crimsoning floor, as the warmth of it seeped through the bottom of his shoes and his socks and stained his skin (sometimes he thought he could still see the blood). Standing there as his whole world tilted on its axis, the reality of what he had brought upon Hogwarts tearing through him.  

* 

It had been a Sunday, or maybe a Monday—the days of the week were a little hard to keep track of when on the run. ‘I’m sorry…’ Harry had begun . ‘I think, maybe, we should split -’  

‘Finish that sentence and I’ll hex you, Harry,’ said Hermione, her chin tilted up stubbornly as she dared him to refute her. Ron stood next to her, showing his own stubbornness through the way he crossed his arms at him, his forefinger pressing into his left bicep. 

Harry always forgot just how tall Ron was, shoulders normally slumped, demeanour not particularly aggressive, until it came to moments like this. Moments where his spine straightened, and chin jutted out just the slightest bit as he stared down at you with piercing blue eyes.  

Harry opened his mouth before thinking better of it. He would not win this argument. He didn’t want to win this argument. (He hadn’t wanted to be alone, as selfish as that was). 

Hermione sighed, looking slightly away and down, before staring him back in the eye. ‘It’s not anyone’s fault. ’  

Things had been tense, those past few days. It was the little things. A snide remark here, a pitying look there, but they were high off stress and the constant threat of death looming over them, and those little things compounded into not so little things before they even knew it. It was the biggest fight they ever had, and Harry didn’t even know how it started, but they didn’t speak to each other for days after.  

It hurt. Felt like a betrayal, Hermione and Ron’s words chipping away at him in a way that no one else could, flaying him open and scraping his insides. And he knew that his words hurt them as well. 

But it was moments like this, silent messages of understanding and resolve passing between them, that reminded him why he loved them, and that they loved him, too. It was what made them The Golden Trio, best friends through thick and thin, through life and death ( loyal to a fault ). 

It was moments like this that Harry would look back on and think, I wish they had been less loyal. It would have been better if they had abandoned him, betrayed him, trampled on his heart…Because anything was better than knowing it was his fault they died. 

* 

Harry took in a shuddering breath, rolling onto his side in bed, arms still clasped around Sirius’ old pillow. He wondered what day it was; wondered how many days he spent doing nothing but sleep and occasionally placate Kreacher by eating the food the house elf brought.  

He ran a hand over his face, weariness etched into every line and dip. It didn’t feel like he had been sleeping. If he let himself, he could roll back over and go right back to sleep. He moved his hand higher, running it through his hair—messy from a night of too much tossing and turning—and grimaced at the greasy feeling lingering on his fingers.  

He felt disgusting.  

He reluctantly pulled himself from bed, noticing a plate of food set on the bedside table. It consisted of scrambled eggs and toast, accompanied by a couple slices of fresh tomato and garnished with some fresh herbs. Clearly, it was not yet noon. Harry picked up the fork and scooped up a piece of egg. It was not cold, but it was not freshly hot, the fine magical threads of a warming charm woven over it, and it was fluffy with a slight hint of creaminess. He wouldn’t be able to describe the taste if someone were to ask. He took a couple more bites before setting the fork back down.  

He inadvertently glimpsed himself in the bureau mirror, bruised eyes and a sickly pallor, before hastily looking away. (He looked disgusting, too.) 

He tossed his pyjamas—quidditch-themed, courtesy of Sirius—onto the floor and mumbled a quick cleaning charm. Slinking over to the closet, his feet shuffling across the cold floor, he pulled out a random muggle shirt—which were so plentiful in Sirius’ old bedroom that he could’ve started a clothing store—and black trousers. The shirt hung slightly loose on his frame.  

Leaving his room, his footsteps led him to the Black family’s private study. Ever since the Battle he would find himself there, finger running across the spines of modern and ancient books alike, occasionally flipping through one at random (he still wasn’t particularly reading inclined, though he liked to think it was warming up to him).  

He opened the door, immediately met with a stack of letters piled on an ostentatious, mahogany desk. Harry paused, mentally counting how many (twenty-nine letters, Merlin help him), shoulders bristling at that tell-tale feeling of a few howlers, before proceeding to quite deliberately ignore them.  

He approached the bookshelves, but as he got closer, he immediately noticed that something was wrong.  

At first, the books had been snappish, magic nipping at his fingers and no doubt attempting to give him some nasty curse (likely aimed at ruining any chances at future progeny or murdering him, as many cursed objects were wont to do). Harry made sure to quickly put a stop to that, making it clear that he would not be above selling them off to the highest bidder, centuries of attachment to the ambient magic in the Black family’s ancestral home severed in an instant. Recently, he would say quite proudly, the books were docile and, perhaps, even a bit happy to see him.  

But not today. The magic around the books were charged with a nervous and agitated energy, buzzing around the air and prickling at his skin, making him feel nervous and agitated himself.  

Brows furrowed, Harry looked around, trying to figure out what was different. There was nothing particularly obvious, the shelves lined with book after book of various colour and size and make. Before he could investigate further, there was a faint pop, signalling the arrival of the house elf.  

Harry turned around, a gentle smile on his lips, and said, ‘Good morning, Kreacher.’ 

‘Master Harry didn’t eat his food,’ were the elf’s first words, stated matter-of-factly.  

The smile on Harry’s face became slightly strained. ‘Well—I mean…I ate some of it?’ The words came out like a question and he internally winced.  

Kreacher stared up at him dubiously, unamused, and for all intents and purposes appearing as if Harry had single-handedly ruined the elf’s day. ‘Master must eat. Kreacher expects Master Harry to finish lunch and dinner today,’ declared the elf. That was one thing Harry appreciated about Kreacher. Of all the house elves he’s known, no other quite had the backbone to order around their own master in such a straightforward way.  

Harry’s friendship with Kreacher was not something he expected to happen. Nor, much to his shame, something he tried to make happen.  

Sirius had hated the elf, treated him like dirt on his shoe. And at one point Harry did too, because Sirius did, and all he could see was a grim, bitter elf who would spout nothing but vitriol at anyone not pure enough (which was truly a consequence of the family he had been serving for over a century).  

Kreacher was still grim and bitter, still held certain beliefs in regard to blood purity, but Harry had been doing a lot of nothing, and doing a lot of nothing led to doing a lot of thinking. Because despite all of the elf’s faults and prejudices, when it came down to it, he ultimately chose to fight for all of the people he claimed to hate; ultimately, the elf chose to give his loyalty and care to a half-blood master who was truly more trouble than he was worth.  

(He wasn’t sure he could handle the weight of such loyalty again, something so very small and battered inside of him already bracing for a blow that he would never recover from).  

‘Okay, I will.’ 

‘Promise?’ asked Kreacher, eyes telling him that he knew exactly what he was doing, that devious and sly elf. Hogwarts did not allow house elves to attend as students, but if they did, there was no doubt in his mind that Kreacher would be a Slytherin. 

Harry sighed, but something fond swelled in his chest. ‘Yes, I promise.’ 

‘Good. Kreacher will make lunch in an hour.’ And then the elf popped away.  

Harry turned back to the bookshelves to continue his search. Looking at the very top shelf of one of the bookshelves, he noticed something odd. There was an old and thin and tattered book there, almost sneakily wedged in between two thick tomes. He had never noticed it before—though he could hardly claim to know every single book in the study—but this book was different. Its magic was a peculiar thing, dense and with a shocking weight to it. It was like nothing else he had ever seen, a deep and yawning void of dark and wispy tendrils.  

He reached out a hand cautiously, slow enough to get a feel for how the book’s magic would react at his approach. The moment his hand got within a finger’s distance those dark tendrils shot out and wiggled around his skin, almost appearing to consume his fingers within itself, and if not for his ability to still feel them Harry would’ve thought that the Book had done just that. He moved his fingers experimentally, noting how the sensation felt both cool yet comforting.  

Something felt familiar, tugged at his soul in an almost painful way, and yet he could not seem to bring himself to pull away. He pulled the book from the shelf, hard-bound and lacking any distinctive identifying qualities, like a title or author, and when he opened it, flipped through the pages, eyes scanning from top to bottom, it was curiously filled with what he could only consider to be a mistake. As if there had been a printing error and the pages received ink for two or three—or even four—different books at the same time, words overlapping, smudging and bleeding all over the slightly yellowed pages.  

He flipped through it once more, checked the front and back, held the stitch-binding up level to his eyes in hopes of finding anything that would give an explanation, but there was none. So, Harry placed it back on the shelf and left. 

* 

Grimmauld Place was different today. Harry walked through the halls, no particular destination in mind, the paint on the walls faded and peeling. He stumbled, foot dropping down lower than he expected into a rotted-out depression in the floor. He continued on, wandering in and out of every closed door that let him.  

(The doors did not squeak; the floors did not creak).  

Each and every room was empty, but a peculiar smell hung in the air wherever he went. Something scratched at the back of his mind, insistent yet faint, and so easy to ignore. 

The next room he entered was a familiar one, and notably not empty, at least not completely. The Black Family Tapestry revealed itself to him as the door swung open silently. He stepped closer, reaching out to touch the charred spot where Sirius was supposed to be.  

And then, suddenly, a raspy chuckle sounded, behind him and through him and within his own mind all at once, a chilly air accompanying it. He whipped around, his eyes searching for the intruder, but he was only met with an empty room. As he was about to turn back around, he felt a slight breath of cold air curling around his right ear. The hairs on the back of his neck stood to attention, and every muscle in him tensed, coiled and ready to spring at a moment’s notice.  

Suspicious, he stared at the tapestry. It was a family heirloom interwoven with complex magic and runes, and it had been affixed to this wall in particular for who knows how many years. Decades, perhaps. Maybe even centuries. 

There was a faint scraping sound behind it, and movement rippled across the surface. 

Harry gripped at the edge of the tapestry, the wool stiff and rough with age, and moved to pull it away, his magic eagerly rising to the surface and sending ripples through the air. 

‘ I wouldn’t ,’ said a voice in his ear, low and rough like rocks scraping against tree bark, lacking any distinct gender or, perhaps, containing features of every gender. He couldn’t quite tell.  

Harry didn’t search for the voice again. He knew the room was still empty.  

‘ You won’t like what you find .’ 

He ignored the voice, tugging at the tapestry more firmly. The scraping sound got louder, and then there was the sound of bare feet slapping on the ground. A rustle of clothing. An inhale of breath. He continued to pull, and then a small opening revealed itself to him, and a single, grey eye stared back, bloodshot and milky and so wide it looked ready to pop out through the opening and onto the floor.  

Harry’s breath caught, hand letting go as he moved away from the wall. But it was too late now, and what he had started was enough, the tapestry crumpling to the floor of its own accord and revealing that it was not just one opening in the wall, nor only one inhuman eye staring at him.  

A pale hand revealed itself, seeming to belong to a child, clutching at the edge of one of the openings. Plaster began to crumble under the grip of that deceptively frail hand, revealing a sunken and sagging face. Low whispers flickered in and out of his ears. The whispers were not particularly loud, certainly too faint to understand, but they were numerous, ranging from excited, to mournful, to angry… It caused a throbbing pain to fill his head.  

Warmth trickled down his neck, the faded scent of copper filling his nose. He put his hands up to his ears in an attempt to block out the whispers, but to no avail. ‘Stop,’ he mumbled, he knew he did, but he could not hear it over the whispers. He repeated that word again and again, pushing his vocal cords harder and adding more air, his throat straining, but still his own voice did not reach him. 

‘ Enough,’ said that same voice, cutting through the whispers. ‘ It is not the right time, yet. ’ 

Suddenly what could only be described as a mass of curling and twisting shadows tore its way into existence, endless and consuming, and he was unable to look away despite how looking at it caused a deeply painful tugging in his soul ( familiar, why was it familiar? ). And then he was enveloped in complete darkness, not even the slightest bit of light able to penetrate through, not even being able to see himself, cocooned in a heavy blanket of cool warmth. 

The whispers were still there, but they were muffled and feeble, and already he could feel the pain in his head ebb away as a deep tiredness took hold of him.  

* 

Harry stepped into the study the next day, surprisingly refreshed. He had even finished half of his breakfast without any prompting. He may or may not have vanished the remaining half so Kreacher wouldn’t give him that disappointed look, but he had only promised to finish all of his food for yesterday ( I can be a little Slytherin when I want, too , he thought smugly).  

The stack of letters was still on the desk, untouched and, now that Harry looked at it, containing three more letters and another howler. The thought to send an incendio straight at it, consuming both the pile of letters he didn’t want to read and the ugly desk beneath it, briefly crossed his mind, before he hastily squashed it down and moved past it. Best not to give in to his destructive habits, no matter how appealing they were. Especially in a room with highly flammable books of extreme historical and monetary value.  

He sat down in the armchair by the window, which was just as ugly as the mahogany desk (he wondered who had been in charge of the awful décor), warm sunlight streaming through it to illuminate the chess set on the table in front of him. He idly played with one of the pieces, a bishop, rubbing and squeezing at the smooth marble. It was not alive like the human-sized chess pieces he encountered in his first year, but it was not wholly inanimate, either. Granted, recently Harry noticed that pretty much anything that contained magic was not wholly inanimate (when had it begun, this overwhelming awareness of the unseen threads?). 

An intruding thought slipped into his mind, saying, If Ron and Hermione were still here, they would’ve been married by now .  

‘Right after all this nonsense is over,’ Hermione had declared one day, hands on her hip as she looked at Ron with determination. ‘ We’re getting married. Immediately.’ Ron had taken a few moments to properly respond (Harry suspected that he had had his own plans to propose, and that Hermione caught him off guard by beating him to it), but once her words seemed to process in his head his face lit up and his smile was so wide that Harry had concerns that he’d split his face in two.   

He wouldn’t deny that a part of him had felt jealous, the feeling of being left behind in a way that he couldn’t follow filling him. But a bigger part of him felt relieved. Relieved that they had a deeper way to depend on each other and… 

Thump .  

Harry paused his musings. The sound had come from behind him, on the other side of the room where the bookshelves stood. Craning his head around the back of the armchair—which was also quite ridiculous in size—he saw a brown book on the ground.  

Maybe it had been in one of the many precarious stacks at the very top of the bookshelves, and finally succumbed to gravity. Or maybe it simply fell off the shelf, which had begun to curve down due to the weight of all the books. Perfectly reasonable explanations filled his head, but then, before his very eyes, there was another thump , and this time he witnessed the sight of a red book jumping off the shelf and onto the ground like a particularly enthusiastic lemming.  

Harry stood and walked over, a frown beginning to form as he felt the books’ magic. Compared to the agitation of the other day, the magic was charged with something that he might even call fear.  

He had a feeling he knew what the culprit was. 

Sure enough, the brown and red books had fallen from the same shelf, the gaps from where they came evident. It was the very same high shelf that the mysterious, misprinted book was on. The book was still where he left it but, if he wasn’t mistaken, it seemed thicker than yesterday, pushing and straining against the two tomes that bracketed it.  

Harry quickly ducked, the tome to the right of the mysterious book having lost the battle and flying out directly at his face. He had hardly stood back upright before his eyes widened and he was forced to quickly move out the way again.  

Thump. Thump, thump …one after the other went the books, jumping out and onto the floor, and then there were no more books on the shelf at all. 

Save for The Book, of course.   

Now well and truly bemused, Harry approached it slowly, like one might approach a wild animal, or a particularly intimidating child who you just knew would scream at the top of their lungs—in public—if you weren’t careful. 

The strange magical aura around The Book was denser than he remembered, the tendrils just as dark but no longer wispy, and carried a preternatural allure that drew him in like a siren to a sailor. He felt that same painful tugging at his soul, and now that he was closer, he realised that he could hear whispers. Many of them, quick and slow and filled with an array of different emotions.  

Harry picked up The Book, impulsively, because he was a Gryffindor at heart, and he didn’t think things through. He knew he would regret it, and it did not take too long at all for him to feel that regret, for those tendrils once more latched onto him, this time with a great fervour, subsuming his hand in a black void and crawling up his arm at an alarming pace.  

A raspy chuckle filled his ears, strangely familiar, and he found himself completely enveloped.  

*  

Voldemort stared down at Abraxas from his throne, head resting against his hand, face unreadable. 

As a schoolboy, Abraxas had been like most pure-bloods: well-groomed and looking as if a steel beam had been welded into his spine with all that pride of his. He wanted to make a name for himself; wanted to be better than his father, who he thought foolish and far too passive in politics. And he was also, of course, filled with a burning disdain towards those deemed lesser than him.  

As a schoolboy himself, Voldemort had made sure to correct such disrespectful behaviour; revelled in the dejection that filled Abraxas’ eyes as a supposedly worthless half-blood surpassed him in everything. He made sure that Abraxas knew that he would not find greatness by being a leader, but by being led. 

But if there was one thing that carried into adulthood, it was the fact that Abraxas was no less proud as a man. It was certainly a flaw of his, a flaw in many pure-bloods, but Voldemort tolerated it, because above all else Abraxas was loyal and, while he did not trust him (for he did not truly trust anyone), he was among the most dependable of his followers.  

( And pride was oh so easy to exploit ). 

So, it was a surprise to see him here today, none of that pure-blood pride in sight, hair dishevelled and hands trembling, kneeling down before him with his head bowed low.  

‘What troubles you, Abraxas?’ 

Abraxas kept his head down. ‘Liana…my dear Liana is dead,’ he choked out, taking in air in gulping breaths. ‘They say…they say it was just an accident, but I don’t believe it was. No, I know it wasn’t.’ He finally lifted his head, revealing reddened eyes with dark bags underneath, his face completely raw and laid bare, something even Voldemort had not witnessed before. ‘Please, my Lord, please bring her justice.’ 

Voldemort straightened at that. Abraxas’ wife was not one of his Death Eaters, and they had hardly been acquainted during Hogwarts. In fact, he was quite certain that she did not quite care for him, her sharp eyes always too knowing whenever she looked at him. But Abraxas adored her, a rarity amongst the stricter pure-blood families, so she respected her husband's choices. She had been a tremendous asset, her social influence within the high society of pure-blood ladies far-reaching.  

He paused, making sure that sympathy was properly affixed to his face and in his tone of voice. ‘As one of my most loyal, of course I shall. This is a serious matter.’ He paused. No, that wasn’t adequately sympathetic . So he added, ‘It pains me to learn about your loss. She was a brilliant witch.’ 

Relief filled Abraxas’ face, what little strength he had left seeming to leave him. ‘Thank you, my lord.’ Then, quieter, mumbled, ‘I don’t…what do I...and Lucius…’ All pure-blood eloquence had left him, leaving him a stumbling mess. 

Voldemort pretended not to hear that, for even he could not think of a tactful response.  

Love, attachment, grief—how perplexing; how disgusting. It made fools out of even the most powerful of men.

* 

In a small muggle hospital, a pair of brilliant green eyes opened.

Chapter Text

good luck charm , n. 

(also lucky charm ) 

1. A person or object that has properties which bring about good things 
2. An object that wards off evil, disaster, or disease

Etymons: good (adj.), luck (n.), charm (n.) 

Synonyms: charm , talisman , amulet  

Antonyms: Harry James Potter  

* 

Sally gave a sad sigh, her expression weary, as she stared down at the boy lying in the hospital bed. After weeks of painful wheezing and coughing the boy had finally succumbed to his disease, passing away quietly in his sleep. Gently brushing his hair back one last time, she allowed herself to mourn for the loss of one so young. It was always so disheartening to watch a child die, unable to truly experience the joys and wonders of life, but it hurt even more so with this boy in particular.  

Hadrian Storm was an orphan who had been admitted in December of last year with a rare case of lung cancer, so pale and small and innocent, tugging at all her motherly instincts painfully. He had been a bright boy, nearly on the cusp of manhood, his inquisitive nature enough to put most to shame. He was so full of life that he nearly glowed with it.  

She had known that he wouldn’t have long—the type of cancer the boy had was particularly aggressive—but that did not stop her from growing fond of him. Probably fonder than she should, knowing what she did. It was for that reason that she did everything in her power to make his stay at the hospital more comfortable. 

It was always the best and brightest ones that seemed to take seriously ill , she thought sadly. She couldn’t help but draw parallels between the boy and her mother, so strong and charming but also fated to die young. It just made her so mad, the injustice of it all, but she was powerless to do anything. That’s why she took up this job. She wanted to make sure those destined to pass would not die in misery, all alone. It was the least she could do.  

Ever since the boy received a lobectomy, a last resort effort to stop the malignant tumour from spreading to unaffected lobes, his health had taken a sudden and sharp turn for the worse. It was not truly a surprise to anyone. More often than not even the healthiest of men experienced complications from such an invasive surgery, never mind a young boy already weak from illness and prolonged malnutrition (if she ever met that orphanage matron again, she would have words ).   

The past couple days the boy’s symptoms had been particularly bad. Suddenly he could no longer eat solid foods, or sit up by himself, or even have a full night's sleep without waking up coughing so hard that blood came up. It was almost a mercy that he finally passed away, and she supposed God was kind to let him die so peacefully.  

She gave a small prayer for him, wishing him all the best in Heaven, before turning around and heading towards the door. Just as she went to step out, she heard a quick intake of air from behind her. She stopped, the hairs at the back of her neck standing up and a strange chill filling her. She stood there, her ears alert.  

Silence. But then—a ragged exhale of a breath that petered out choppily. Slowly she turned around, meeting a pair of unseeing, glowing green eyes. 

She screamed.  

* 

He was in Grimmauld Place yet not Grimmauld Place once more, in the same long and deteriorating hallway, standing in the same exact spot—a window covered by heavy curtains to his right, a portrait of a man to the left. Harry took the time to study the portrait, having passed by it with hardly a glance the last time.  

The portrait was framed by gold-painted wood that twined around itself in knots, as if trying to suffocate itself. In the frame stood a decidedly austere man, standing with his hands resting on a cane. His nose was tall but slightly uneven, as if it had been broken more than once and was never quite set properly, and his thick eyebrows were interrupted by a mottled scar that stretched all the way down to his chin. Leathery skin dipped in and out to form firm wrinkles, and those steely eyes stared at some unseen thing.  

The portrait did not move, and yet something told Harry that it should have done.  

The man seemed important. He wondered if this man existed or had existed, or if he were merely someone his mind had conjured up. The Black manor had many portraits, so perhaps he had seen this particular man in passing before.  

As he continued to examine the portrait, curiosity gripped him (the sort of curiosity that grips you when you see a particularly dangerous creature, have the sudden urge to poke it with a stick, and, against your better judgement, proceed to actually go and do so). So, he leaned his head in, noticing how the surface was covered with a feathering craquelure, ears straining for some sort of sound. He was so close that his cheek nearly brushed up against the dry paint.  

When no sounds reached his ears (not even the sound of his own breath), he pulled back and moved the portrait aside, slowly, cautiously, ready to react at a moment's notice. Even though he could tell it lacked the soft and transparent tendrils of a feather-light charm, the frame was still heavier than expected, but it eventually moved to the side. The wall behind it was chipped and moulding, but there were no strange holes in the plaster, no strange noises, nor any strange eyes that stared out at him. 

Harry released the frame, and it swung back into place, if not slightly crooked. For some reason he could not possibly tell you, a part of him felt disappointment.  

He turned his attention to the curtain-covered window. Pushing aside the fabric slightly, he took a peek, only to find his vision obstructed by wooden boards, so tightly nailed together that no light could pierce through the gaps.   

He continued down the hall, retracing his steps from before, eyes scanning the walls for those tell-tale openings. Before he knew it, he had made it once more to the room that held the Black tapestry, the door ornate yet worn. Stepping inside, he was met with the sight of ruins.  

The room was half gone, the wood and plaster ripped apart, as if a clawed hand had taken to it, exposing the black and endless void of the outside, which then dropped down into an endless abyss. The Black Family Tapestry was nowhere to be seen, no longer in a messy heap on the floor where he had left it. He watched as a piece of the exposed support beam shifted, slowly losing the battle with gravity ( did gravity even work here? ). 

Harry stepped further into the room cautiously, making sure that no loose pieces of infrastructure would collapse on his head, walking as close to the dark void as he dared. He looked intently at the darkness, making out a couple shadowy outlines in the distance, so faint that he couldn’t quite tell if they were a figment of his imagination. But he was certain that there were things lurking there, for he could hear the whispers, and feel that low throbbing in his head.  

It was uncomfortable, but it was not quite as bad as the last time.  

He felt a cold breath run across his skin, signalling the arrival of a familiar presence. It did not speak at first, merely filling the space with its existence. Something that was a vague approximation of a hand touched his shoulder. It was large and there were too many fingers (if they even were fingers, for they wiggled and twisted around), and it lacked the solid weight and heat of flesh, the sensation cold, the sort of cold that was so extreme that it became a burning hot. A part of him wanted to lean back into the touch, allowing the numbing cold-heat to consume him.  

It gave a hum, a low rumble that was so guttural that he felt it distinctly in his bones, and the weight of that presence inched closer.  

Who are you , Harry tried to say, but no sound came out. He brought a hand to his throat, trying once more, feeling the exhale of air and the buzz of his vocal cords resonating behind skin and muscle, but nothing reached his ears. And yet he could still hear that voice; still hear those low whispers, bouncing around his head… 

‘ We do not speak in the land of the dead,’ said the voice. ‘ At least not with that voice box humans contain. ’ 

Harry paused, wondering, his brain working at rapid speeds to glean as much information as he could from those two sentences. The land of the dead? he thought, staring out at the black void. The shadowy outlines had become more distinct, still resembling dark blobs, but now blobs with hair and clothes (and sometimes strange appendages). He couldn’t help but think that, if this was indeed the land of the dead, then it was very depressing. If this was the afterlife that people had to look forward to…If this was what Ron and Hermione, Sirius, and everyone else who lost their lives met in the end… 

A bitter taste filled his mouth, and he dug his nails into his thigh. He scanned the void desperately, searching for a blob that matched Ron’s height, or a short silhouette that had a head of bushy hair. Were one of those shadowy figures in the distance, wandering amongst an endless darkness of painful whispers, one of his loved ones? ( Did he doom them all to such a half-existence? ).  

‘ Not all who die go to the land of the dead, and not all who go to the land of the dead remain there, ’ explained the voice, answering the thoughts in his head. ‘ As for who I am—you already know.’  

Why am I here? he wondered at the entity, which had gone from merely resting a hand on his shoulder to a loose embrace, its strange appendages draping over him. Harry might have described it akin to a lover's embrace, if not for the fact that the entity towered over him like a monstrous thing, tangible but invisible to the eye. The pain in his head gradually disappeared.  

‘ The wand, the stone, the cloak—throwing them away was a futile endeavour. You met your destiny before destiny met you.’  

There was a pause, and then Harry felt its not-hand move to his face, gently covering his eyes (and consequently his forehead, his nose, and even a portion of his left ear). Suddenly the void was not a void, the shadowy figures were not shadowy figures, the whispers were not whispers—instead, there was a white train station, the very same one he had been in before, the platform stretching out into eternity. But unlike when he first found himself there, with only Dumbledore and Voldemort’s mutilated Horcrux for company, the station was now filled with life.  

A bustling crowd of people moved about, chattering away. A pair of sirens lounged in a pool of water, combing each other’s hair. A giant elm tree towered above, its pendulous branches swaying back and forth sluggishly in an imitation of a swing, children and faerie alike hanging out on those woody limbs. Laughter filled the air as a pair of twins raced through the crowd recklessly, their victim count—currently an elderly couple with salt and pepper hair, a thin man carrying a briefcase, a stunning woman in a big, sweeping ball gown—increasing by the second.  

Harry’s eyes flitted back and forth.  

It would be easy to look at the sight before him and only see pure happiness. But Harry could see emaciated figures, too, in between the gaps of joyous people and creatures, standing isolated in the crowd as if they were invisible. A dirty blonde waif with bare feet, scabs and bruises painted on a canvas of skin, a tall and skeletal man with tattered clothes and a jaw that wouldn’t close all the way, a young boy sitting on the ground with a marble for an eye and no legs protruding out from his shorts… 

Despite not seeing anything more than their eyes and a portion of their faces before, Harry knew without a doubt that they were the very same figures he had seen trapped inside the walls. 

A sharp whistle pierced through the air, echoing inside his head, signalling the arrival of the train. As it screeched to a halt, the doors of each train car opened automatically, and, as if it were an everyday occurrence, the bustling crowds organised themselves and boarded the train (Harry boggled at the sight of the elm tree managing to get on with ease, and quite speedily at that, its previous sluggish movements nowhere to be seen).  

Then, just as quickly as it had arrived, the train sped away.  

Not everyone had boarded the train.  

The entity—Death, of which Harry was now certain (for what else could it be?)—removed Its not-hands from his eyes, the station becoming shrouded in darkness once more, swallowing up those lonely figures. There were no more whispers, only a heavy weight of silence that hung in the air.  

What about them, he wondered, those hopeless faces burned into his mind. 

Death did not answer. 

* 

Harry came to awareness with an incessant pounding in his head and hushed voices in his ears.  

‘And he suddenly . . . came back to life, you say?’ asked a fearful voice, bright and distinctly feminine, with a hint of a Scottish lilt. 

‘Just like that,’ replied an animated voice, fuller and rounder but still feminine. 

‘Get back to work, you two. Martha, you should be in Ward C attending to patients, and you, Sally, should’ve been checking over Mr Marlow fifteen minutes ago, not gossiping like a pair of ninnies,’ another voice snapped, brittle and tinny but full of authority.  

‘Yes, Madam Windson.’   

‘Very sorry, Madam Windson.’ 

Footsteps hurried away.  

Harry let out a low groan. His magic hovered just above his skin, restless yet not daring to leave, curling around him in a protective and prickly coat. He licked his dry and chapped lips. He was parched, his throat coated with a thick mucus, and he found himself struggling to breathe.  

Something felt distinctly wrong, like that one time the Weasley twins fed him one of their experimental products, and he spent the better half of the day as a butterfly in a jar (and even though he reverted back to human with all his limbs intact, no memory of his time as a butterfly, he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that he was not the same Harry he was before).  

He opened his eyes, was met with a pure white ceiling and overhead lights, and immediately shut them closed again. The pain in his head got worse, and it felt like an overly enthusiastic woodpecker was pecking away at his right temple. 

Opening his eyes again, this time much more slowly, he blinked rapidly, trying to clear the blurriness from his vision. It was clear that he was in some sort of medical ward. A muggle one at that, the entire place a gaping vacuum of emptiness, not a trace of magic to be felt. It was disconcerting. An unpleasant coldness filled him.  

He turned his head to the right, stopped, and stared. A young woman he didn’t recognise, with blond hair and blue eyes, stood in front of him, writing something down on a clipboard. She was pretty in a severe kind of way, if not a tad bit unconventional in terms of facial structure, her nose prominent and hooked slightly down, her right cheekbone ever so slightly positioned higher than her left, her ears protruding outwards. Her dress was a light blue that matched her eyes. 

Harry probably resembled Colin Creevy with that creepy expression of his whenever he went around stalking Harry through the halls and on the streets (and that one memorable time in the loo), but he knew his brain was trying to tell him something. He was glad that she had not noticed that he was awake yet.  

And that was when it hit him.  

Harry’s knowledge of the muggle world was not great, considering he never finished Year 6 of his muggle compulsory education. Attending Hogwarts and spending the majority of his summers confined to his room at the Dursleys did not really do him any favours, either. It was actually a bit embarrassing, considering Arthur Weasley had probably known more about muggle stuff than he did. Granted, Arthur Weasley had had a terrifying obsession with all things muggle, much to Molly Weasley’s dismay (Harry had actually found it quite endearing). 

Despite all of that, however, he was not completely ignorant. So while he only had a vague idea of what muggle hospitals were supposed to be like (the Dursleys were never too keen about sending him, their lack of knowledge about wizards making them concerned that his freakiness would somehow show up on his medical results and cause them a whole slew of trouble), he was pretty sure that muggle nurses didn’t go around wearing a white apron and a funny hat. It actually reminded him a bit of Madam Pomfrey’s outfit, now that he thought about it.  

He continued to stare, unseeingly, his mind slow and sluggish. He was forgetting something… 

Pulling himself from his thoughts, he met the woman’s gaze, those blue eyes carrying a hint of fear and suspicion. It was apparent that, at some point, she had stopped whatever it was she was doing and noticed that he was awake, staring holes in her like some pervert. Way to make a good impression, Harry.  

‘Hello, Hadrian.’ The woman gave a smile, though, upon closer examination, he realised that it was slightly strained. ‘Could you sit up for me?’ 

He did so, albeit very slowly and shakily. His limbs did not feel right. As his eyes moved downwards, he realised that his limbs did not look right, either. Bones protruding, straining against too pale skin—a sickly pale, bluish veins prominent beneath—full of scars in the wrong places and lacking the rough calluses he was used to seeing every day.  

(Oddly enough, there was also a reddish-brown rosary lying on his lap). 

He sucked in a breath, alarm filling him, but he managed to resist the urge to touch his face. The last thing he needed was the muggle nurse to think she had reason to send him to a psychiatric hospital (he didn’t know how much of it was true, but he had only heard bad things about it from the Dursleys).  

‘How are you feeling today? Any problems breathing? Pains in the chest?’ 

Harry opened his mouth to speak but all that came out was a harsh cough at first. No matter how much air he took in it felt like it was not enough, and his chest did indeed hurt. ‘I-I’m fine,’ he managed to get out, his voice raspy and light, his teeth chattering slightly.  

He was not fine. Not at all. But he couldn’t care less about the stiff feeling in his chest, which turned into stabbing pain every time he made the slightest movement. He glanced back down, staring at foreign hands.  

It was at that moment that the memories—of shadowy tendrils latching onto him, of the strange imitation of Grimmauld Place, the train station, those lonely figures, and of Death—came rushing back to him. ‘Fuck!’ he exclaimed, causing the woman to jump slightly and clutch at her clipboard in a death grip. She looked absolutely scandalised, and he couldn’t quite blame her. 

Heat crawled up his cheeks, embarrassment at his lack of control filling him.  

He pivoted his response, saying, ‘I’m so sorry—’ he gave a low gasp of pain, ‘—my chest actually really does hurt.’ He brought his hand up ( not his hand, not his hand ) and moved it over his chest. ‘I moved in a certain way, and it just—it really hurt, and so I just blurted it out…’ 

The nurse gave him a measured look—it was clear that she was not really convinced (he couldn’t blame her, considering how shoddy his acting just was). Eventually, she chose to let it go, loosening her grip on the clipboard. ‘That’s perfectly understandable, dearie. Let me go fetch you some morphine.’ She shut the privacy curtain and promptly left. 

Harry listened to her footsteps—quick, even steps hitting against tile—making sure that the sound fully disappeared out the doorway before having a mental breakdown.  

* 

As Orion exited the floo with practised ease, leather shoes softly hitting the floor, his right foot hit a stray bottle— Ogden’s Old Firewhiskey, 1834 (or in other words: ‘ the good stuff’)— on the floor with a low clink . He watched as it rolled a distance away, before slowly stopping against the carpet. Turning his gaze upwards, he spied the slumped figure of his friend on a grey couch—it must have been a new addition, because the last time Orion was there the couch had been purple. A half-empty bottle of fire whiskey was clasped in his hand (this time Blishen’s Firewhiskey, Aged 39 Years , and, according to Abraxas’ own words, ‘absolute piss water’ ).  

‘If you lay like that you might choke to death.’ 

Abraxas didn’t even make a twitch in acknowledgement, arm moving to take a swig in a way that seemed deliberate.  

Orion continued to stare at his friend. His already thin and gaunt figure had turned all the more so, and it was clear that he had not adhered to proper grooming, the hint of stubble forming on his chin (a part of him was admittedly amazed that Abraxas even could grow a stubble) and his shirt covered with stains. It would be impressive, how quickly one could spiral down into a depression, if this were not his friend.  

It wasn’t pity that Orion felt, because pity was not what his friend needed, but he did feel something. Perhaps sadness, or even loss.  

Abraxas was one of the lucky few. Good breeding came first—it was a reality that they all learnt from a young age. The most one could expect out of a spouse was a united front in the public and an heir, things like love or even tentative friendship a secondary concern.  

What Abraxas and Liana had was not perfect in the idealistic sense. Abraxas was always fonder of his wife than she was of him, something that Abraxas was well aware of, but that did not stop him from giving his heart to her all the same. In turn, Liana cherished her husband in her own way (Orion never said the thought aloud, but he suspected that she could not love in the way most people could). But for pure-bloods, their relationship might as well have been perfect.  

His own marriage was a perfect counter example. He frowned, stopping himself from going down that train of thought.  

He walked to the couch, moved Abraxas’ legs, and sat down. ‘If you keep this up, you’re going to develop a beer belly.’ He poked at his stomach. ‘Actually, I think one has already started to form.’ He then gave a pinch, lightly pulling at what little belly fat Abraxas had. 

At that Abraxas sent him a nasty glare, but he still didn’t speak. Orion didn’t mind, continuing to speak enough words for the both of them, filling the room with the sound of words, however nonsensical they may be.  

Suddenly Orion felt the rim of a bottle at his lips, halting his riveting story about Mrs Gilly—a hat maker in Diagon Alley—and her non-existent sex life, which she would bemoan to everyone who would listen. Glancing to the side he saw Abraxas’ unamused stare. He pushed the bottle more insistently against his lips, the command clear.  

Orion hid a smile, taking a large sip.  

It truly was piss water , he thought, more delighted about the fact than he should be. 

* 

‘Did you know, Hadrian,’ said the nurse one day—her name was Sally—as she hooked him up to another bag of morphine, ‘that your eyes used to be grey?’ Her tone was casual, as if she were merely commenting on the weather. Harry froze, suddenly finding the fuzzy lint on the sheets to be very interesting. Silence stretched between them. She approached and leaned towards him, hand reaching out towards his face, and he couldn’t help but flinch slightly. She stopped, retracting her hand, before straightening back up.  

‘You never used to have such a peculiar scar, either,’ she mumbled as she left. 

* 

It was funny how different it felt to do nothing of his own volition, as opposed to doing nothing because he simply could not do anything. It had been many days now, since Harry had found himself inhabiting the sickly and emaciated body of one Hadrian Storm, confined to eternal bedrest and Sally staring holes into his face, as if doing so long enough would answer all of her questions.  

Quite frankly, Harry had had enough.  

While he was not perfectly healthy, the pain and shortness of breath still an unwanted constant, he had, to his eternal relief, become strong enough to walk around on his own (there was nothing quite as humiliating as needing assistance just to take care of your own business). And, in Harry’s opinion, he was fit enough to be discharged.  

A sneeze to his right caught his attention.  

Glancing over he saw a middle-aged gentleman in the bed next to him, hair slightly starting to grey. Harry hadn’t seen him before, so he must’ve been a new addition to the ward. He seemed like the sort of man that Uncle Vernon would have called respectable. The man was reading a newspaper, and another one was on the bedside next to him.  

‘Excuse me,’ he said, getting the man’s attention. Brown eyes turned to look at him. ‘Would you mind if I took a look at that newspaper there?’ He gestured towards the one on the table.  

‘Oh, of course,’ said the man, having already moved to pick it up. The beds in the hospital were close enough that the man didn’t even have to leave the bed to hand it to him. ‘Keep it. It's from yesterday, so I’ve no need for it anymore.’ He promptly returned to reading.  

‘Thank you.’

Harry looked down, his eyes flickering back and forth rapidly. His hands gripped the pages so tightly that the edges had begun to crinkle and tear. When he finished reading, or rather, had enough of reading, he dropped the paper on to his lap and tugged at his hair. He gave a shaky laugh, a feeling of hysteria bubbling just beneath the surface.  

THE TIMES it had read, in bold and large font. LONDON, THURSDAY, JULY 5, 1956. PARLIAMENT PASSES THE CLEAN AIR ACT.  

He took in slow, measured breaths, feeling the air start to crackle and vibrate. He had a suspicion that he was not in the correct time period, but he didn’t think he would be this far back. Just from this alone, his problems had tripled—no, quadrupled. He was, to be blunt, completely and utterly fucked, no ifs, ands, or buts. Knowing him, he was going to end up preventing himself from even being born. Or was he even in the same world? 

And his body…images of the house elf finding his lifeless body in the Black study filled his mind ( he knew he would fail Kreacher in the end ). What would become of the elf, he wondered. The magic in Grimmauld Place would sustain him, but it would do nothing to combat the loneliness from losing another master. More negative thoughts swirled around in his mind, but then, a small, tiny thought intruded.

He moved his hand to cover his mouth, trying to prevent a mad-sounding laugh from escaping him. 

Everyone…no one had died, yet ( no one important to him, at least ). A strange giddiness filled him. Sure, they were not yet born, but most importantly, they were not yet dead. 

(He would make sure to protect them, this time). 

* 

It was late spring. 

Harry watched as Hermione leaned back into her chair, giving a big stretch. They had been in the library for a few hours now, Hermione helping him through some particularly devious Potions homework. If he didn’t know any better, he would say that Snape deliberately assigned him more difficult material to slog through like the petty man he was. 

She gave a big sigh before resting her head on her arm, staring at him. It was clear that even Hermione was a bit fatigued from all the non-stop studying. ‘Have you ever heard of the multiverse theory?’ she suddenly asked. She had probably realised that his eyes had been glazed over for the past half hour, comprehending absolutely nothing. 

‘The what?’

‘The multiverse theory.’

Harry shook his head. 

‘It’s basically the idea that there are an infinite number of parallel universes that run alongside our own. For every choice or event that does not happen in our world, there exists a world where it does.’

Harry thought that actually sounded pretty interesting. ‘But how would you know other worlds exist?’

Hermione frowned. ‘Hmm…’

‘What, the great and all-knowing Hermione Granger doesn’t know?’ he teased. ‘I never thought—’ he quickly ducked, barely dodging a cuff to the head, ‘—I’d see the day.’

She opened her mouth, mostly likely to yell at him, before thinking better of it (Madam Prince was not a woman to cross, especially when you were a bookworm like Hermione, lest you find yourself banned from the library). She settled with giving him a nasty glare that would cause some to quake in their boots. 

He would most likely pay for it later, but he had no regrets.

( He regretted so many things, but certainly not that ).

*

Night had fallen. Snores filled the room, the loudest ones coming from the very man who occupied the bed beside him. Harry turned onto his side, groaning in annoyance and discomfort. His pillow felt particularly uncomfortable tonight. When he changed his position for what must have been the eighth time in the past five minutes, he sat up and grabbed the pillow, intending to try and fluff it up. Upon lifting it up, however, he froze.  

There sat The Book, clearly the culprit for his inability to find a comfortable sleeping position. Harry had no idea how he hadn’t noticed that comforting, cold magic radiating off of it in waves, or those low and sibilant murmurs, but he blamed it on the loud, pig-like snores (he would put Dudley to shame).   

Setting the pillow aside (and then watching dispassionately as it fell all the way to the floor when he only shifted the slightest bit), Harry picked up The Book. Inspecting it revealed nothing new, nor did putting it up to his ear and trying to make out what those low murmurs were saying. What he did know, however, was that it was somehow connected to Death.  

He gave a huff. ‘If you were going to send me on a temporal adventure against my will,’ he started, ‘then why did you have to send me to a muggle hospital of all places? Actually, more importantly, why am I occupying some muggle kid’s body?’ 

In hindsight, it really wasn’t too surprising that The Book would send him teleporting again, considering a precedent had already been established. He wasn’t sure if the trigger was from touching it, or that it was more sentient than he realised and could understand him, but before he knew it The Book latched onto him once more, seeming quite eager.   

An all-consuming black, and then Harry found himself in a narrow alleyway, his knees nearly buckling from the impact and The Book nearly flying from his hands. At least this time he didn’t find himself hopping into another body (to his knowledge). 

A single, flickering lamp unsuccessfully tried to illuminate the darkness from the mouth of the alley, a few moths and other winged insects fluttering around it. He wrinkled his nose, the smell positively horrid. Movement caught his eye, and he looked down, watching in morbid fascination as a rat—brown and dirty and clearly not experiencing any food insecurity—scurried by and disappeared into a pile of rubbish.  

Harry frowned. While he did want to leave that muggle hospital, this place was not any better. He glanced around warily. Actually, it was much worse. At least at the muggle hospital the likelihood of getting mugged wasn’t nearly as high (not that he had anything to be mugged for at the present moment, but the principle still stood).

He moved to leave the alleyway, taking measured and slow steps, his new legs still weak from illness and disuse, but the farther he walked towards that flickering lamp the more his magic seemed to tug in the opposite direction. He stopped, frowned, then turned around. The alleyway stretched upwards in an uneven and jagged line, the cobblestone path worn and bumpy, before bending and disappearing behind the same rubbish pile the rat had vanished in. 

He walked further into the alley, coming to a stop at a wall. It was ordinary, dirty and worn bricks stacked on top of one another unevenly, but he could feel the magic humming beneath, practically seeping through the cracks. He had never used this entrance before. Didn’t even know of its existence.  

Harry ran his hand over it, feeling the bumps and grooves of the brick, before applying pressure, his hand slowly sinking into it. It felt different from the entrance to Platform 9 3⁄4, which was merely an illusion to trick the mind. It was not unlike trying to move through gelatine. He continued to apply pressure and walked forward, closing his eyes just in case, that gelatinous sensation fully submerging him. One, one thousand, two, one thousand, three, one thousand …and then he was out, standing in another unknown alley, the air suffused with ambient magic.  

Harry took a deep breath. The air was musty, and he could taste a foul stench on his tongue, but for the first time in what felt like forever, it felt like he could finally breathe. 

Chapter Text

Harry examined his surroundings, trying to orientate himself. The alley was narrow—the walls so close that he wouldn’t be able to stretch out his arms fully—and humid, the ground damp beneath his bare feet and covered with trails of suspicious liquid ( that probably explained the smell ). It was also empty of any life, save for a single, unfortunate earthworm that had somehow found its way—and its grave—in a crevice. 

Even though he had only visited it once in adolescence, mouth full of soot and stomach queasy from a disagreeable first introduction to the floo network, it was clear that he was in Knockturn Alley. Heavy smog in the air, clinging to the light blue hospital pyjamas he had yet to change out of; eternal dusk (one could never truly tell what time it was in the bowels of Wizarding Britain) and crooked sconces that cast shadows over chipped cobblestone; a nearly briny quality to the ambient magic—over fifty years in the past and it was still all the same. 

He knocked his fist against the brick wall he entered from. It had become completely solid, all traces of magic vanishing as if it had never been there in the first place. Harry wouldn’t be able to go back to the muggle world and find the entrance to Diagon Alley even if he wanted to. 

Resigned, he looked down at the state of himself. First order of business: he needed a change of clothes. Or something to at least cover up his current state of dress (wizard pyjamas were not all that different from muggle ones in terms of make, but something told him that waltzing around Knockturn Alley in any kind of pyjamas was a no go). 

Harry took a step and immediately lifted his foot up, having stepped on a particularly pointy stone. He briefly peeked at the sole before placing it back down, trying not to think too hard about all the filth he had already collected there

—And a pair of shoes. He desperately needed a pair of shoes. His nose unconsciously wrinkled. It would just be his luck if he got witch’s spores or spattergroit. 

That’s easy enough to remedy , he thought, turning his attention to The Book. It vibrated slightly, as if sensing his thoughts. Harry pulled at his magic, the feel of it slow and sluggish, like trying to squeeze out partially crystallised honey from a tube. But eventually it gained velocity, warmth circulating beneath his skin. He directed it straight at The Book, and suddenly in his hands was not a book with far too much personality for his tastes, but a very disgruntled cloak. Or perhaps Cloak was more accurate.

That weighty magic seemed to hiss at him like a particularly disgruntled cat, and it bit and scratched like one too, visible red marks appearing on his skin in lashes. It did not really hurt, but it was still bothersome nonetheless. 

‘Be glad I don’t toss you out onto these filthy streets,’ he snapped, putting on The Book-turned-Cloak. The fabric was coarser than he liked, further irritating his skin (he had a feeling that The Book had a hand in that), but it would do. 

He then searched his pockets for something to transfigure into temporary shoes and save his feet from the horrors of urban, public spaces. He eventually pulled out a crumpled ball of unused tissues. He sent every cleaning charm he knew at his feet, even the ones that were not technically meant for human hygiene purposes, and then slipped into a pair of ugly loafers (he was never one for fashion, so he couldn’t be expected to transfigure something stylish).

Now on to the second order of business: money. And a wand. Two things which he did not have to worry about too much in the muggle hospital, but now the absences were deeply felt. 

Harry peered around the corner, spying a couple of disreputable-looking figures loitering by a set of uneven steps. They were many and narrow and steep, looking more like someone had stacked together a bunch of random pebbles and then filled the gaps with toothpaste. They were also his only way out of this dead-end.

The group of two consisted of a man of average height with a tawny-brown moustache, and a man of above average roundness with straw-like hair about the shoulders. They both wore pointed hats that had seen better days. It reminded Harry of that one time he forgot to take his clean clothes out of the hamper, and so the day after, no matter how many times he rubbed at the fabric, the deep-set wrinkles would not come out (Aunt Petunia would never allow him to use the iron, either out of child safety concerns, or the more likely worry that he would blow up the house).

Moustache Man pulled out a pipe, the ivory handle glinting under the dim greenish light of a sconce. He snapped his fingers above the pipe. ‘Where’s Rodrick?’ He continued to snap his fingers, over and over, frustration creasing his brows and pulling at the left side of his cupid’s bow, until finally a tiny little flame ignited and smoke billowed upwards. His face smoothed out back into neutrality. 

Straw-haired Man snatched the pipe from him before he could even bring it to his lips and took a long drag. He coughed, handing it back. ‘Hmm, a bit more burnt than I’d prefer,’ he muttered to himself before addressing the question. ‘Where else would he be? Probably pissing away his galleons at Amor’s Den,’ he said with a scoff. 

‘Again? Does he even have any galleons left to spend? I know he received a lot of hush-money but Merlin .’ Moustache Man took a slow drag of his own, eyes closing briefly, before letting out the smoke in a puff that morphed into the shape of a snake-like dragon with feathered ears. 

Harry pulled the hood over the top of his head and emerged from the alleyway. He watched his feet move one after the other as he made his way towards the exit in as nonchalant a fashion as he could. 

The Straw-haired Man leaned his head in, a crooked smirk on his face, and faux whispered, ‘Apparently he’s been having dealings with the old crone, but you didn’t hear it from me.’ He straightened back up and began rummaging through his pockets. 

‘Blimey, you don’t mean the one just aways from that old bones shop, do you?’

He continued to rummage through his pockets (of which he had no shortage of, his robes filled with patchwork pockets that ranged from being able to fit a pet Kneazle to not even being able to fit half a sandwich).‘That very one.’ At some point he gave up whatever it was he was looking for. 

‘Fuck. Does he have a death wish?’

‘If there’s a pretty lass willing ta offer her bosom as a pillow, he would sell his own soul, never mind do a couple favours for that old crone.’ They shared a chuckle. 

Harry pulled down the edges of his hood further. He was nearly past the two men. But then the high-pitched voice of Straw-haired Man called out to him. ‘Hold it.’

Harry froze, head still bowed as the man’s legs came into sight. 

‘What’s a kid like you doing here? Actually, where did you even come from?’ He took a confused look around the surroundings. 

Just as Harry began to lift his head a hand tugged on the back of his cloak, pulling at the fabric lightly. He whipped his head around, hand instinctively reaching for a wand that wasn’t there and moving into a defensive stance. His breath caught as he met a pair of glassy eyes set in a narrow face. 

It was a little girl, maybe six or seven, wearing a dark green dress that was slightly stained a lighter green at the hem. She was cadaverous, her clavicles straining against a layer of dark-tan skin that looked as if all the warmth had been drained out of it. A jagged scar tore across her throat, looking pink and angry and tender to the touch, and a motley of bruises ran down the slope of her left shoulder.

‘What’re you looking at?’ said Moustache Man, who was standing a little ways behind the girl, who had not released her grip yet. He gave a crooked, tobacco stained grin that would’ve sent Aunt Petunia clutching her forehead and swooning (and not in the good way). 

‘Be nice, Braxy. Can’t you tell he’s spooked?’

The girl walked past Harry a bit, and then suddenly that tiny hand pulled , sending him stumbling forwards and nearly becoming far too intimate with the ground (or Straw-haired Man). He planted his feet, shifting his weight in the opposite direction. The girl didn’t budge, her twiggy arm not even shaking, but at least he did prevent himself from being moved any further. 

‘What—?’ Harry exclaimed. 

The little girl turned towards him, cheeks puffing up in agitation, motioning with her pointy chin at the top of the steps. The tugging didn’t stop, and he could feel the electric tingles of discontent from The Cloak stinging at his skin, causing it to itch even more. It did not seem to appreciate being the rope in the strange tug-of-war they had going on. 

Glancing at the two men, Harry, gave them an awkward smile. ‘Sorry, I’m afraid I need to bring my sister back home. Curfew, and all that.’ And then he gave in to the girl’s tugging, her bare feet gaining rapid speed. Harry stumbled up the steps, his trembling legs nearly giving out of him (he had a feeling that Hadrian Storm was not the sort to run around outside and play, even before he fell gravely ill). 

Harry emerged onto a decently crowded street, considering it was the middle of the night, letting the men’s voices—which had turned into confused mutterings—fade into the background. But he supposed that it wasn’t actually all that surprising, since if nighttime was a good time of day for misbehaving in general, it was certainly a good time for crime and shady deals, of which Knockturn Alley had aplenty.

The girl continued to pull, setting a relentless pace. Her small frame weaved through the crowd easily, but Harry was having a much harder time, unable to stop himself from bumping into people and stepping on their toes. It was a miracle that none of them had sent a nasty hex his way. 

As they turned a corner, Harry nearly bowled himself over from colliding with a rather tall man. His head whipped back, an apology on his tongue, but anything he was about to say got stuck in his throat. His eyes met a pair of dark brown ones, but something told him that they shouldn’t be brown, as if a fine film of woody-soot had been placed over the iris, obscuring its true colour. 

A familiar magic, heavy and dark—nearly tangible, reeling Harry in like the magic that heralded Death’s presence—brushed against his skin, searching ( but for what? ), for a brief moment. But unlike the magic that surrounded Death, or The Book, this magic was not cold at all. Instead of filling him with a comforting numbness, it made him hyper aware of a slight crackling in the air, of the drag of every breath being pulled into his lungs, of tobacco smoke burning at his nose. 

Something flickered and wavered, too quick for Harry to be anything more than unconsciously aware of it, over the man’s face, but it set him on high alert. There was something wrong about this man (there was something familiar ). 

And then the man’s magic was gone, the visage of that man—dark hair, dark eyes, finely tailored dark robes—became smaller and smaller as Harry allowed himself to be led away. He did not move his gaze from those brown ( wrong ) eyes, nor did the man move his gaze from his own, until he was tugged down another winding street. 

The rising, uneasy feeling in Harry’s gut remained.

*

Death comes to all in the end, for Death is already everywhere, in everyone, and in everything (for the inanimate have an end, too). It matters not if It is delayed. Thus, they lurk in the In-between, unbound, voices echoing in the void, with only the keenest of listeners able—and willing—to hear them. 

They were not lost, but nor did they know their way, eternally seeking something just out of reach, even as they lost pieces of themselves to the Toll.  

*

Harry wheezed, hand curling around his side as he attempted to catch his breath. He was definitely going to be sore tomorrow. The little girl had taken him a lot farther than he expected, much to his body’s displeasure. He knew that Hadrian Storm had some sort of heavy operation while at the muggle hospital, if the giant scar running across the side of his ribs was any indication, but none of the nurses had told him that running around the streets would hurt this much (he ignored the tiny part of his brain that had any semblance of logic, telling him that of course they wouldn’t say anything, because he wasn’t even supposed to be running in the first place). 

Finally, the little girl released him from her terrifying grip and pointed at the building behind him. Her mouth moved, and a soft voice echoed in his head, There…go there…please…please…

‘Who are you?’ he tried asking, but she only shook her head. A slight buzzing filled his head, and then she was scurrying away. She vanished around another corner. 

Once Harry felt like he had recovered from what felt like an impromptu marathon, he straightened back up and turned around. The building turned out to be a shop. The only thing that indicated it was indeed an establishment for purchasing goods was the fancy script embedded in a wooden sign: CLOSED . It didn’t even have a name. 

It was no ordinary shop, that was for sure. It was wedged between two tall and nondescript buildings, comically short in comparison, with no windowed displays—or any windows at all, for that matter. 

Exactly two marble steps led up to a door that was also no ordinary door. Painted a bright red with an acorn-shaped knocker, it was short, only barely taller than himself, and narrow (Ron would’ve had to duck his head and crab walk himself through). A braided rope hung from the frame, an intricate weave of shiny, colourful threads that were tied off with wooden beads. 

There must have been some reason he was led there, a reason why that voice had sounded almost desperate, so he walked up and tried the door. Now that he was closer, he noticed that the wooden beads were carved with a bunch of strange symbols. While Harry was not the biggest expert on Ancient Runes, he knew enough to be able to confidently say that whatever was inscribed on the beads was not that. 

The door opened with ease, and the soft jingle of bells greeted him as he stepped inside. Immediately, a thick miasma of magic hit him, pulsating. The shop was alive, but it did not feel at all like Grimmauld Place, with its dark and erratic madness that seemed to bleed out of the walls, clinging to his skin like sweat. Instead, it felt nearly mechanical, like an artificial heartbeat distantly beating beneath the floor; it was not nearly as comforting. 

He stared in awe at the obscene abuse of space extension charms, the place quite narrow but stretched out like a long hallway. And he thought Hermione had been bad, with her extension charmed tent shoved in her extension charmed bag, but whoever owned this shop had abused extension charms to such a magnitude that Harry worried for the structural integrity of the building. There was a reason people needed licensed permission, and something told him that whoever owned this shop had no such thing. 

Harry walked in further, making sure not to accidentally step on anything. There were so many objects in the shop that he hardly knew where to look. The shop was certainly…unique, he mused as he stared at a floating head in a jar, but he wasn’t really surprised, considering this was Knockturn Alley (he wondered when he began to stop caring). 

The interior was an eclectic mess lacking any sort of forethought. Tables were disorderly placed around, shoved against each other and of varying widths and heights. They were stacked high with books and papers and strange objects, both shiny and dull, while others were even webbed in spider’s silk. It felt as if one of the stacks would crumble down and bury him at any moment. 

He passed a glued-back-together glass jar with a beating heart inside, a small idol of perhaps a forgotten ten-armed deity, and a full taxidermy of a house-elf, much like the ones he had once seen in Grimmauld Place (his heart clenched, and he looked away quickly).

Small balls of light, like clusters of charmed dandelion seeds, lazily drifted in the air, bathing the surroundings in a soft glow. Some floated so high up that they disappeared, swallowed up into the dark infinity of the ceiling. Where the shop lacked in width it certainly made up for in height. 

When Harry rounded a coat rack he was met with the sight of an old woman with pure white hair, sitting in a rocking chair, her rail thin and tiny form—with feet that didn’t even reach the floor— partly shadowed by a pile of what could only be called junk. Harry would’ve mistaken her for a life-sized doll if it weren’t for the fact that her hands were moving, surprisingly nimble fingers stitching something into a small canvas. The thread glinted, as if it were made of metal or perhaps even gem. 

She turned her head. An inexplicable chill crawled up his spine. The magic around her was unlike anything he had felt before. Slightly damp, like soil after a night of rain. Burnt, like flesh caught in cooking oil.

‘About time,’ said the old woman. ‘You’re the one Sofi sent, right?’ Scrutinising eyes peering over a pair of small spectacles, which were most likely for reading purposes. Her face was like a wrinkled prune, and there was a slight gap in between her front teeth, adding a slight airy quality to her words. Harry wondered just how old she was, for age to be carved so deeply into every surface of her skin, even to the very tips of her ears.

Harry swallowed, doing nothing for a couple seconds, but then before he could stop himself he nodded his head. His eyes unconsciously slid to a pair of shrunken heads hanging behind her (he could've sworn that they had moved), before quickly looking away. 

She looked him up and down, making no mention of his no-doubt untidy appearance. ‘You’re a bit older than the usual ones. Have you an education?’

Harry opened his mouth before shutting it, a confusing mix of emotions filling him. Because no, he had not finished his education. Even when he had ample opportunity to. Headmistress McGonagall had made sure to reassure him that he was always welcome to come back, no matter how many years it would take him, but he stubbornly refused. 

Every year she would occasionally send out a letter to him, inquiring after his health and subtly mentioning Hogwarts, but at some point he began to toss those careful and thoughtful letters into the fire. Though he supposed he would never receive another letter to discard from her again.

He probably could attend as a seventh-year, if he really wanted to, but if he couldn’t finish Hogwarts with Ron and Hermione…

The old woman nodded her head when he did not answer in time, as if it was to be expected. ‘Nothing to be ashamed about, laddie. We all know that them fancy schools don’t accept our kind.’

Harry paused at that. He hadn’t…really thought about those who never made it to Hogwarts. His place there had been a sure thing, thanks to his parents, and not once had he ever thought that there were people who wouldn’t be accepted in the first place ( how self-centred ). 

‘Did Sofi tell you what your job is, at least?’ 

He shook his head.

She clicked her tongue. ‘’Course she didn’t. I swear, that girl…’ She sighed. ‘As I’m sure you’ve noticed, I’m getting too old to be running about and doing errands anymore—it’s not good for my old bones, you see—so your job is to assist me. You’ll be paid per errand you run successfully, and you can stay in the attic room.’

Harry nearly laughed at that. From cupboard boy to attic boy…

There were a lot of questions he still had—such as the implications of her explicitly saying ‘successfully’—but his mouth moved quicker than his brain. ‘Sounds good to me. When do I start?’

‘Well aren’t you an eager one?’ She got up from her chair, shuffling over towards a desk. ‘How’s the day after tomorrow sound for you?’ She rummaged around some drawers, the sound of various objects hitting up against each other filling the shop (which was strangely quiet, something he hadn’t noticed at first).  

‘...That works for me.’ 

The old woman pulled out a neatly wrapped package with a letter affixed to the top, setting it on the counter. She looked at him, waiting, watching, and then, ‘What are you standing all the way over there for, laddie? I don’t bite. At least not unprovoked.’ She gave a raspy laugh. Her right canine tooth was slightly jagged.

Harry blinked, before hurriedly making his way over, feeling slightly embarrassed. 

‘This here is to be delivered to Aroma on Monday, noon sharp. A man in a dark blue coat will be sitting at the corner table that faces the window. He’s a rather dashing man, so you won’t miss him.’ 

Harry wondered why she didn’t just send it by owl. And he wondered where and what Aroma was. 

She gave him a stern look. ‘I’m sure I don’t have to tell you to keep your mouth shut about who you meet.’ She slid the package over to him with one hand, and the other dropped a small pouch onto the table. There was a distinct clink of coins. ‘And take this. You’re looking a bit peaky. Not used to the streets, are you?’ 

Harry hesitantly reached out a hand. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I am. You’re hardly the first stray I’ve picked up, and it wouldn’t do if an employee of mine keeled over from starvation. It isn’t good for business, you see.’ She paused, and that burnt dampness of her magic intensified. Her lips twitched, as if she were holding herself back from laughing at a joke only she understood. ‘Besides, you wouldn’t like the consequences if you tried to cheat me.’

Harry swallowed, tentatively picking up the objects. ‘Thank you.’

‘Don’t thank me. That’s coming out of your pay cheque.’ She shuffled back to her rocking chair. ‘If you keep walking to the end of the shop you’ll reach a set of stairs. Go all the way up, and you’ll find the attic.’

‘Okay.’

‘And for the love of Merlin,’ she called out. ‘Wear decent clothes—I have a reputation to keep. The previous occupant left some in your room.’

*

Harry walked through Diagon Alley, eyes alight with wonder at the drastic difference in the fashion sense of 1950s wizarding folk (the night folk of Knockturn Alley did not count). It had been a bit of a shock when he opened the drawers in the attic, met with an array of clothes that, despite being of all different sizes for some strange reason, shared the same old-fashioned style Harry would’ve expected Professor Binns to approve of. 

When he had put on his clothes this morning he had felt a bit silly. It wasn’t quite at the level of those awful dress robes Ron wore to the Yule Ball, but there were still one too many frills for Harry’s liking. A part of him had even thought that the previous occupant had been just as elderly as The Madame (the only answer the old woman would give when asked for her name), but evidently fashion had undergone some sort of rapid and drastic change over the short course of a few decades. 

There were also quite notably many shops he didn’t recognise, as well as familiar shops that were not yet there. It had been a shock to find out that a cafe was where Madam Malkin's would be, and that the building that held the Magical Menagerie was entirely missing. 

At least Olivanders, being as old an establishment as it was, was still there and hardly any different, except for a couple decór choices. And Harry’s trusty wand had also been there, still waiting patiently in its box for an owner who had come a tad bit too early (not that the wand had minded, the warm thrum of its magic tickling at his palm in welcome).

A window display with an assortment of glasses and monocles, particularly a pair of thin, wireframe glasses, caught his attention. He stopped, taking another glance. Harry couldn’t help but make an unconscious, aborted motion towards his face, the phantom weight on the bridge of his nose suddenly making itself known. His face felt suddenly far too exposed. 

With a quick tempus he decided that he had enough time, so he entered the shop. A gentleman stood at the front desk, left eye monocled by delicate bronze. He was slightly silvering at the temple, though interestingly enough his hair had a purplish sheen to it. It reminded Harry of when a Raven's feathers caught the light just right. 

‘Welcome. How May I help you today?’ 

Harry glanced over at the display once more and said, ‘Could I see that pair of glasses? The gold ones in the corner there.’ 

‘Of course.’ He swiftly summoned it onto the desk and pushed a small mirror over, motioning to Harry. ‘Excellent choice, young sir. This round design will fit your face perfectly, as well as soften up your angles.’ 

Harry picked it up, the metal warmer than he expected. He didn’t try them on yet, instead staring into the small mirror. It was still unsettling to see something that looked remarkably similar to his own face reflected back. 

He first got a chance to look at himself in the muggle hospital, staring into a desilvering mirror covered in fine scratches. His face was a little sharper than he was used to, a little paler, but all of that could be explained away by the sickly condition he had found himself in. 

When he leaned his head in and lifted his fringe to look for his lightning bolt scar, however, it had looked off. And, sure enough, when he ran his finger over it, he realised that it wasn’t really a scar, the skin of his forehead perfectly smooth. Rather, it reminded him of a muggle tattoo, or perhaps a birthmark. 

Placing the glasses upon his nose, his bespectacled self stared back at him, and he couldn’t help but feel relief at how much more he looked like himself. He felt…a little less like a stranger; a little more settled in this skin. 

‘I’ll take it.’

‘Wonderful. Do you know your prescription for the etchings, or do you need a diagnostic test? It’s 30 galleons for the glasses plus the etchings, 5 galleons for the diagnostic test. The test comes free if you purchase two glasses.’

‘Oh.’ Harry had never realised that magical glasses were so expensive. And he had never heard about whatever ‘etchings’ were. ‘Can you give me a pair of glasses with just the glass? No etchings.’

The shopkeeper’s perfect customer service smile slightly froze. ‘You want…no etchings?’

Clearly he had never encountered the notion of wearing glasses for fashion, though Harry supposed it wasn’t really a thing in the mid 50s. He wondered when it would start to get popular. ‘Yes, please.’

‘Alright, then it’s ten galleons for the glasses.’

Harry paused at that. It was still so expensive?

As if the man read his mind he said, ‘These glasses are of the utmost highest quality, enchanted to never break, with glass specially made from crystal, guaranteed to never scratch or smudge.’ The man continued to prattle on about the craftsmanship—forged by the goblins of Greece for seven days—and where the materials were sourced from—the mystical sands of Cairo, Egypt. 

Harry briskly walked out of the shop, ten galleons shorter. He couldn’t believe he had just spent that much money on a pair of glasses he didn’t even need, but...they just felt right. And, as he checked the time, he also couldn’t believe that he was running late for his first job. 

*

Orion took a sip of his tea—Darjeeling with a dash of milk, no sugar—and stared absentmindedly out the window. It was bright out despite the overcast of clouds, the air pleasantly warm, and as a consequence the number of couples out and about had increased exponentially. 

Even Walburga had hinted at him to take her out for a midday stroll (code words for spending an exorbitant amount of galleons on clothing and jewellery, though she would never be able to make a dent in the Black family fortune). Fortunately, he had plans today, and did not need to suffer her company. 

The door opened and he looked over in anticipation, only to frown when a gruff man with a dainty witch on his arm walked in. Orion glanced at his pocket watch: 12.13 PM . Whoever the Madam sent was late. The street children she employed were unruly and lawless—one had even picked his pocket, the little varmint—but in general they had a good sense of time. He wondered what was keeping this one. 

It was a good thing that he was not needed elsewhere anytime soon. He signalled to the waitress, requesting a cinnamon and chocolate scone (he would take any excuse to indulge in his sweet tooth). 

Just as he started digging in, the door suddenly opened and a thin figure rushed in, looking around the room searchingly. He looked fresh out of Hogwarts, young faced and his hair messy in an I-don’t-care way. Still a kid, really. While the thin, wireframe glasses of rose-gold perched on his nose gave the impression of some seriousness, his untidy and wrinkled clothes told another story. If there was one word to describe him, it would be soft, in the sense that he looked like the sort of person who would be sorted into Hufflepuff. 

Hardly the sort of person he’d expect The Madame to hire.

Wide eyes of frosted over leaves met his, and the kid hurried over. He stood in front of Orion, just staring, and all the blood seemed to rush out of his face (a true feat, considering that he already looked on the sickly side). 

‘Sirius?’ asked the kid, his voice choked and coming out like a whisper on the breeze. 

What an odd question. While all of the Blacks shared a resemblance to each other, Orion did not look particularly similar to his late grandfather. He also highly doubted that the boy had been acquainted with him.   

Orion motioned at the chair across from him. ‘Sit down before you garner any more attention.’ Aroma was known for its discreetness and good tea, but a kid—who was obviously not of the upper echelons—just standing around was sure to draw gossiping eyes. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. ‘I’m afraid if you’re looking for my grandfather, he’s passed on.’ 

Those unsettling eyes continued to look at him, before staring down at the table. The kid sat down. ‘…Right. Yes, sorry. Sorry,’ he stammered, and then pulled out the package from his robes, setting it in front of Orion. 

Throughout the rest of their meeting the kid didn’t utter another word, simply fiddling with his sleeves and sneaking glances every few moments while Orion read through the letter (he didn’t bother to open the package—The Madame was nothing if not reliable). If there wasn’t such a sadness in the kid’s eyes he might’ve thought that he fancied him. It wasn’t the first time that someone had been taken by his (dashing, if he said so himself) looks. 

Pulling a piece of parchment paper from his pocket, he quickly wrote down a response. ‘Thank you, you can send this back to The Madame.’ 

The kid’s head jerked up, as if startled. He grabbed the letter, and with a quiet ‘Okay,’ he was out the door. 

Orion couldn’t help but wonder just who exactly The Madame’s new errand boy was. He was quite different from the usual ilk. But he supposed it was no matter, so he turned back to finishing his scone. It really was quite delicious. He wondered if he should order another.

Chapter Text

Being in the past was both difficult and easy at the same time. Here, no one knew him. Here, there were no expectations. (Here, there was still hope). But he could not forget (must not forget), that he did not belong; that he was merely an alien walking around in stolen flesh, playing pretend with the dead. 

*

Harry sat with his legs crossed atop an ornate rug made from the pelt of some unknown creature. The colour of the fur was white, almost transparent, the fine filaments brushing up against the exposed skin of his ankles. It was the softest thing that Harry had ever felt before. In front of him lay a paint jar of blue-black ink, a small, fine-tipped brush resting next to it. And beside it was a bottle that contained a liquid of an unknown substance 

In his hands was a strange doll made of once-gleaming brass and unmoving gears, small enough to fit in both of his hands (it made memories resurface of a doll he once had, before Hogwarts, before magic, having found it in a skip, discarded and armless but something that he could actually call his ). 

It had been over a week since he had become The Madame’s errand boy, and it honestly wasn’t all that bad (save the occasional existential crises that had been increasing in frequency, but that was to be expected considering, well, everything). 

For the most part, she only really used him as a glorified owl, ferrying around letters and objects that may or may not contain items of dubious legal status. Every customer of hers, however, whilst not always the friendliest looking, never started any sort of trouble. Despite her diminutive stature, just mere mention of The Madame seemed to straighten the spines of even the roughest of ruffians. 

On some occasions, she would also have him do menial repair tasks: today was one such example. 

Harry ran his finger over the doll, feeling how the rusted over surface caught and tugged at his skin. Pouring the bottle of unknown liquid onto a rag, he began to wipe. A high-pitched hissing sound came from the metal, and the doll began to vibrate minutely. If Harry didn’t know any better, he would’ve thought that The Madame had given him acid. His flesh was not melting and slipping from the bones of his hands, though, so he assumed it was not something that could hurt him (hopefully). 

As the discoloured rust was devoured by the liquid, those strange symbols he had seen on the beads of the braided rope outside revealed itself. He traced the intricate engravings with his fingers. They seemed a bit artistic, as if its purpose was to decorate, but there was what could only be described as a foreign magic residing in those lines, pulsating. 

‘Madame?’ said Harry, looking over his shoulder. 

The Madame gave a hum of acknowledgement, though she did not look at him. 

They were in the parlour on the first floor of the shop, and The Madame was leisurely enjoying some afternoon tea. Even though no one was manning the front, there was no need. The Madame had a strange and uncanny ability to instantly know when a customer entered, and it didn’t seem to be because of the wards placed up around the shop, either. Even when she was out and about in Diagon Alley, she would know when someone entered. 

‘What are these symbols?’ 

She primly dabbed at her mouth with her napkin before answering. ‘We call those symbols vèvè , and they hold power much like the runes of you Englishmen.’ She glanced over. ‘The priest I studied under carved those on that doll.’ A nostalgic look took over her face for a brief moment, before being shadowed over by a look of regret. ‘Long, long ago…’

‘Priest?’ He didn’t mean to be prejudiced, or make assumptions, but The Madame was a pure-blood and an influential figure in Knockturn Alley; she didn’t seem like the sort of woman to study under a muggle priest. Or be religious in general. She was far too pragmatic for that: the clink of coins and the sway of knowledge was of far more interest to her. 

At that she gave a full-bellied laugh, the air suddenly becoming a few degrees warmer and full of smoke, making it a little harder to breathe.  ‘Not the priest yer thinking of, laddie,’ she said, but did not explain any further. 

The Madame abruptly stood up, sending her plates away with a flick of her red-toned wand. ‘Be a dear and watch the store for me?’ she said. 

Harry resisted a yawn, before replying. ‘Okay.’

‘Wonderful.’ She disappeared up the stairs. 

Harry picked up his stuff and moved downstairs, settling down at one of the many tables and carving a space for himself. Now that the doll was sufficiently clean, he could move on to the next task The Madame asked of him: filling the carved-in lines with paint. 

An unknown amount of time passed, and she re-emerged with a large purse at her side. ‘I’ll be back in about a week,’ she said, and then she was out the door before Harry could even get a word in, or comprehend that he would be left to man a shop he had barely any training for. 

‘...Safe travels,’ he said to the shut door. Eventually he looked back down and continued his task, deciding that he didn’t have to worry too much. If the past couple of days were any indication, running the shop wouldn’t pose any significant problems. Not a single customer had stepped into the shop today, after all. 

*

The late Lady Malfoy died on the 1st of July, sometime in the afternoon, having died right in the middle of a perfume shop (what a truly undignified way to go for such a dignified witch).   Her death was swift and most likely uncomfortable, her body shutting down and strangling itself after exposure to moondew.

The shopkeeper had stepped out, as revealed by Veritaserum and then Legilimency, and returned to find her already cooling body on the floor. Sometime during that time frame, Lady Malfoy had contact with moondew and suffered anaphylaxis shock, dying alone and without anyone to aid her. There had been no traces of anyone else in the shop.

Investigations revealed that one of the perfume samples was contaminated with moondew oil. A mere inconvenience that would result in a slight redness of the skin in most, but absolutely deadly for Lady Malfoy, who had a severe allergy to the flower since she was a mere girl. Her decision to visit the perfume shop had been a whim. 

In short, all evidence led to the same conclusion: her death was an unfortunate series of events that was mere accident. 

Certainly not the sort of answer Abraxas would want to hear. And certainly not the sort of answer Lord Voldemort would ever give. 

*

Taking care of the shop was not a breeze, in hindsight. Harry wondered if The Madame had any sort of logic to how the items were all placed, because trying to find things was an absolute nightmare. And, unfortunately for him, there were anti-Accio wards in place, as a protective method against theft, and against speedy customer service.

After the fifth customer had come in that day asking for very specific items, and then being ‘very disappointed by the lack of quality service expected of an establishment of The Madame’s’ when he could not magically find it within less than a minute, Harry was about ready to tear out his hair.

He rested his elbows on the counter, bowing his head and heaving a great big sigh. It was only the second day. He couldn’t believe that The Madame had left him for a week. He was supposed to be the errand boy, not the shop boy. At the very least, she could’ve given him some training. 

The door swung open once more, and an average-sized man bent down and entered the tiny door with practised ease. He had dirty blonde hair with a streak of grey running from the temple, the shadow of a thin moustache curling upwards from his lips, and wore a fine black coat that had a timeless elegance to it (it would not have looked out of place in Harry’s own time). He looked exhausted, with barely open, red-rimmed eyes and veiny, green-blue bruising underneath. 

The man approached the counter with confident but hurried steps, his mouth set in a slight frown. His magic was restless, and sour, swirling about him erratically. ‘Good day.’ He tapped his fingers against the side of his leg. ‘Can you tell The Madame that Rodrick’s here?’ He shifted his weight onto his right leg, before shifting it back to his left. 

‘She’s away right now,’ said Harry. ‘Sorry.’

‘Away? She didn’t tell me anything about being away…’ The man paused, and then seemed to really take a look at Harry, blinking his eyes rapidly and opening them wider. His eyes were a light brown. He scanned Harry up and down. ‘Oh, you’re new.’ Before Harry could give a response, Rodick continued. ‘Well, then maybe you can help me. Do you have Fairy’s feet and Peluda spines, by any chance? I know The Madame doesn’t usually have them lying around, but…worth a try, right?’

Harry breathed a sigh of relief. Those were certainly some rare (and illegal in the case of Fairy’s feet) ingredients the man was looking for, but he fortunately knew exactly where they were: in the kitchen pantry. Last week The Madame had acquired them for a customer, but they ended up passing away tragically before they could pick it up. 

‘You’re in luck, we actually do have it. I’ll be just a moment.’

Harry ran to the back and up the stairs. He swung open the cabinet in the far left corner of the kitchen, pulling out the items and nearly sending a stray bag of flour plummeting to the floor. On the two items were two notes attached, courtesy of The Madame, with skinny, looping words written on it, stating the cost and what not to combine it with. It was almost as if she knew this was going to happen. 

‘Here it is,’ said Harry, setting the items on the counter.

‘Great. How much?’ The man reached a hand inside his coat, presumably going to an inner pocket. 

Harry peeled off the note from the items, squinting at the handwriting. While very elegant and pleasing to the eye, it was not the most easy to decipher. As it turnt out, the items in his hands cost more than what he got in a week. ‘That’ll be 120 galleons,’ he said, his voice going slightly up in pitch, unable to fully conceal his surprise. 

The man placed a pile of galleons on the counter. ‘Keep the change.’ The moment Harry counted the coins, verifying that it was indeed the correct amount and then some, he turned and began to leave. As he walked away, however, Harry noticed something. He squinted, staring down at the man’s shadow. It seemed a bit off, the shadow seeming to lag behind at a half-second delay. It was not obvious, in fact it was nearly imperceptible, the sort of thing one might unconsciously pick up on but never be able to put their finger on, but now that he was looking, he couldn’t unsee it. 

And then a young face popped up from it, staring at him intently. Perhaps it was a girl, or perhaps it was a boy—he honestly couldn’t tell, what with the way the skin had begun to decay and peel away. It tilted its head slightly to the side, before giving a small, shy little wave. Harry resisted the urge to wave back, dumbfounded. 

Well, that was new. 

That hand stopped waving, and then gripped at the man’s ankle. He stumbled, nearly knocking over the coat hanger, and let out a string of curses. When he left, he slammed the door hard, causing the bells to swing back and forth wildly. 

*

The next day Rodrick returned, his eyes were even more sunken in, and he smelt of sulphur and something else Harry couldn’t identify. He placed his hands on the edge of the counter, leaning his weight onto them. ‘Do you have any more Fairy’s feet and Peluda spines?’

‘More?’ asked Harry, and then, ‘What do you need so much of it for?’ he blurted out, unable to help his curiosity. The Madame would’ve scolded him harshly for poking his nose where it didn’t belong, but gladly she wasn’t there. 

The man’s shoulders drooped in defeat. ‘Ah, well…they’re supposed to help with warding off bad luck and counteracting curses.’ He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘I’m not sure what’s been going on, but I’ve been having the worst of luck. It started off with little things, at first. A misplaced hat here, a hole in my robes there, but then it just escalated.’ His eyes wandered. 

‘Oh, that’s…’ began Harry. 

‘But then I started tripping on thin air what must’ve been ten times a day,’ interrupted the man, ‘objects started breaking all the time, and just the other day I had to replace my wand because I stepped on it. I could’ve sworn that it was in my coat pocket where I left it, but somehow it wound up on my floor…’

Harry pursed his lips. If he had known that his one question would lead to this…

As the man continued to prattle on about his woes, movement caught Harry’s eyes, coming from the man’s shadow once more. That same figure peaked out from it, this time emerging fully to reveal the form of a skinny girl, perhaps roughly his own body’s age. Like all of the other strange figures he had seen before, she was barefoot, and she wore a shimmery chiton that came down to mid-thigh, a single slit in the side and the front hanging low. 

It was actually a bit shocking to see a dress like that, and it wasn’t just because it was ancient Greece-themed. While it was nothing to blink at in his own time, Harry had not seen a single dress so short since he found himself in the fifties. 

‘...hit me, and just this morning a brick fell from a building and nearly caved my skull in…’

She walked right up the counter, leaning her head in to stare at Harry’s face, her nose nearly touching his own. The chill of her radiated throughout the air. Her eyes were a swirling amber, with tiny shards of green-gold floating around the iris, and they were angry (they were mournful). 

‘...that I got enough for the potion, but I think I was a couple Fairy feet short…’

She reached out a gentle hand, lightly caressing Harry’s cheek, before turning around and resting her arms on the man’s shoulders. She was taller than him, thus making it easy to do so. The crooked slant of her mouth deepened, familiar dark tendrils of magic radiating from her, and then one of those tall and precarious towers of books began to wobble. 

The pile eventually lost the fight with gravity, falling to the side and crashing into another pile. A stray blade, which must have been at the very top of the stack, was also sent flying, threatening to impale the man. Fortunately, the man had quick reflexes—or perhaps he was just on guard—and moved quickly out of the way, though the blade still managed to nick him. It lodged itself into the wooden floor. 

‘See!’ he exclaimed, reaching out a foot and cautiously poking the blade. He did not seem to mind the cut on his chin, which had begun to ooze sluggishly. The blade must have been quite dull, because the cut was more of an uneven tear in the skin than a clean, straight line. 

The crooked slant of the woman’s mouth tilted upwards. Her antics reminded Harry of Peeves, who’s mischief was well known in Hogwarts’ halls, except she was far more malicious. She abruptly vanished back into the man’s shadow, which wiggled and darkened slightly before settling back into normalcy. 

‘I am so sorry,’ exclaimed Harry. He cast a quick Reparo , taking a quick look at the man’s shadow again, before looking back at Rodrick. ‘Your cut—do you want me to…?’

‘No need. And it’s hardly your fault my luck’s been shit,’ he sighed. ‘I just hope I can get rid of whatever this curse is…’

Harry opened his mouth, hesitant. No words came out at first. ‘Well actually,’ he started, ‘I don’t think it’s a curse, exactly…’

‘Pardon?’ The man narrowed his eyes. ‘Then what is it?’

‘You have a…ghost of some sort following you around,’ he tried to explain. ‘It doesn’t seem to like you very much.’ That was a bit of an understatement, but he didn’t want to alarm the man. 

The man seemed to pause, thinking about what Harry just said, before his face lit up. ‘Yes yes yes! Of course. Why didn’t I think of that?’ He reached out his hands, clasping Harry’s. Harry stiffened (something deep inside of him recoiled). ‘Surely you can help me, right?’

‘Well, erm…’

‘Oh, what am I even saying? The Madame even left you in charge of her shop, so of course you could.’ The man pinned him with expectant, pleading eyes. 

Harry thought about explaining that he was normally just her errand boy, before thinking better of it. ‘I’m not familiar with how to deal with ghosts,’ began Harry, and the man’s face began to fall, ‘but I’ll see what I can do,’ he finished, unable to turn him away (damn his saviour complex). But he didn’t have a choice, really; he had a funny feeling that the ghost would kill the man eventually, if left alone for too long. It was a surprise that the man hadn’t been murdered yet. 

The man’s face lit right back up. ‘Oh, wonderful!’ He pulled out a slip of paper and wrote something down, before shoving it at Harry. ‘Just send me an owl at this address when you figure something out.’ He paused. ‘There’s no rush, per say, but…well…’

Harry gave a smile that was more of a grimace, hand slightly wrinkling the paper. ‘I understand.’

*

Harry sat on the ledge of the half-torn room, legs dangling over a precipice. Despite the splintered wood that jut out and poked at the back of his legs, it did not hurt. It did not even puncture skin. 

He overlooked the endless void of what he now knew to be the train station. The shadowy figures were clearer this time, a wisp of grey flickering at their centres and spreading outwards. 

Death was already there, its intangible form draped over him like a blanket, confining him (it made him feel small and protected). A clawed and twisting finger dug into the side of his throat. Not deep enough to draw blood, and not a threat either. It was just there. 

Why do I keep showing up here? he wondered at Death. He took in a deep and full breath of crisp air. Ever since he found himself in Hadrian Storm’s body, it felt like he could no longer take in enough air, so he relished the feeling. Funny that Death’s realm was where he felt the most alive. 

‘No answer will satisfy. Sometimes, things just are ,’ was Its answer. 

He should’ve expected to get a non-answer like that. Fine. He made sure to convey his ire as clearly as possible through that thought.

Harry shifted, turning his body to look at the entity. He would’ve looked at Death in the eyes, except he wasn’t quite sure where they were, or if It even had eyes. Then tell me about these ghosts I’ve been seeing everywhere. Or are they even ghosts?

‘I suppose ghost would not be wrong,’ that massive yet weightless form shifted, ‘but it is also not sufficient enough a term.’ Those strange hands began to stroke the top of his head, making Harry wonder if Death saw him as some sort of pet. If the entity heard his thoughts, then It did not address them. ‘ Indeed, Ghost shall have to suffice.’ Despite it being the same word, the way Death uttered it felt like the word was layered with the echoes of another.

And why am I suddenly seeing them? Harry continued his questioning thoughts. It feels like everywhere I look, they are there, lurking in the corner of my eyes. 

‘You always saw them, but it is only now that your mind acknowledges them.’

And how would I get a Ghost to leave someone alone?

Death’s all-encompassing form curled around him tighter, seeping shallowly into his mortal shell. ‘ I suppose that you are ready, now.’

Those twisting and writhing fingers moved and covered his face, but instead of revealing to him the true reality of the void before him, they lowered his eyelids, suffusing his vision in total darkness. A moment, and something seemed to flash and dance around, before dimming. A strange, faint glow remained. 

Suddenly those too-many fingers seemed to press into his face, sinking through flesh and bone, and curled around his eyeballs, making them strangely numb and suddenly ill-suited for his face. Harry flew his eyes open, his mind rejecting this intrusion, this unnatural violation, out of instinct despite feeling no pain. It felt like there was something foreign sitting in his eye sockets, and with every blink the more wrong it felt (he wanted them gone, but whether those thoughts were directed at Death’s ever-reaching fingers or his own eyes, he could not tell). 

Once more he could see the train station, but this time it remained when Death finally withdrew Itself from his skull. 

‘Take a look at my book once more.’

Death’s semi-translucent form fully vanished then, though the heavy pressure of its existence remained. ‘ I hope you’re good at holding your breath,’ were Its parting words. 

*

Harry lay upright on the rickety bed in the attic, which was really less of a bed and more of a straw-filled mattress laid on top of precarious sticks that somehow stayed upright. Despite the uncomfortable lumpiness of his bed, his blanket was made of the same animal fur as the rug in the kitchen. A single cage lamp was on the bedside table, unable to fully chase away the shadows from the corners and wooden beams of the room. 

He sniffled and then let out a light cough. Despite having some time to get used to it, the musty and stale air of the attic still got to him. He hoped there was no mould in the room. 

He ran a hand over the hard leather of The Book, which was resting on his lap, its dark tendrils curling around his fingers like a friendly octopus. Harry might have even been fooled, had it not been for the sharp stinging of its magic at his skin, the sort of stinging that he once felt while running through a field of stinging nettle.

The Book had still not forgiven him for the Cloak Debacle, nor did it seem happy about being shoved in a drawer for the past week. In his defence, he didn’t mean to. He just…sort of forgot about it in the chaos of being so utterly displaced. 

The whispers from The Book were louder, and stronger, as if the hoarse and scratchy voices had had their everlasting thirst quenched. On occasion he could even catch a fragmented word here or there, though not enough to string together a coherent sentence. 

He opened it to the first page, but it was still as indecipherable as it had been for the past three hours, pages filled with too much ink. He wondered if he had misinterpreted Death’s words. When It made mention of Its book, he had assumed it meant the mysterious Book that was responsible for his current predicament. 

He blew out a harsh puff of air, all his frustration not only from The Book but everything else bubbling to the surface. He slammed The Book shut and tossed it to the floor. Harry made to turn in for the night, but then he paused, looking at the floor. The lamp on his table flickered, and The Book, which had fallen open to a random page, cast a long (unnaturally so, it being far too long for the size of The Book) shadow. 

And then he realised that there were words, faint and flickering things, within that shadow, and he could read them. It looked like English to him, but much in the way that parseltongue sounded like English: slightly shifted, and with a minute delay between receiving and comprehension. 

He tore the covers off himself, feet touching the floor, and then he sat down to the side of The Book. He didn’t dare touch it, for fear of dispelling whatever was happening. His eyes rapidly read the words, finding that they held answers to the questions he had posed to Death.

He doubted it was mere coincidence, but he couldn’t tell if The Book was bending to Death’s will or to Harry’s burning questions. He supposed that it didn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things, at least not in the current moment. 

According to The Book, the strange Ghosts he could see were definitely dead, always having died to unnatural causes, and they chose to stay in the In-between due to lingering attachments. Unlike traditional ghosts, however, their bodies looked solid and real, though they were not visible to most people. They could heavily influence the living world, and would be considered quite dangerous if the Ministry of Magic were aware of them. Conversely, however, the living could also heavily influence them, though it did require a living person to be able to see the Ghost first. 

Much like people, they were not inherently benevolent or inherently malicious, resting in the middle, though in order to stay in the In-between they had to sacrifice their destination in the train Beyond. The obsessions that chained them tended to be more ruinous, warping them into something crooked and decayed. Because of this they could be quite vicious to their fellow Ghosts, and thus their injured bodies were not always a remnant of their death, but a consequence of an altercation. 

Harry reached out a hand cautiously, flipping the page. The words in the shadow scattered and reformed. As he continued to read the whispers from The Book grew louder, and he realised that they were reciting the words he was reading from The Book’s shadow, in perfect timing with his mind. On occasion strange images would flash through his head, showing him things he had never seen before. 

Banishing Ghosts to the Beyond was actually not too difficult for one with a strong connection to Death, and could be done in two ways: sever their tether to the world completely, or guide them to the beyond. The first option would require Harry to ‘put them to rest in the same way they first left,’ which was pretty words for murder. The second way would require Harry to allow himself to be temporarily possessed and engage in a battle of wills. 

It was obvious what he would choose. 

*

Rodrick stepped into the store two days later, heavy bags still under his eyelids. He was wearing a pair of fashionable robes this time. The cut on his chin had scabbed over, the surrounding skin slightly inflamed. Harry wondered why he hadn’t sent a healing spell at it. While most wizards who weren’t Mediwizards couldn’t heal large wounds or diseases, a minor cut like the one he had would be of no issue. 

‘Hello,’ he said tiredly. He rubbed his nose. ‘I got your owl. You said…’ he jerked his head to the side, as if he had heard a noise, before seeming to shake it off, ‘...you had a solution?’ he said, a desperate edge to his voice. 

Harry nodded his head. ‘I believe so, yes. Could you sit over there?’ He motioned towards a random dining chair, its carved wood slightly worn and in need of more finish, but it was one of the more intact chairs within the shop (The Madame’s rocking chair was strictly off limits under the threat of her vanishing your organs). It did not have a cushion to it, but it was surprisingly quite comfy. 

The man settled down in the chair with a groan, the sort of old-man father groan that Arthur Weasley would give whenever he sat down in the parlour of the Weasley’s house, the twins following soon after with twin, exaggerated groans of their own. 

Harry looked down at the man’s shadow, waiting. He did not call out to the Ghost, because it had seemed pretty curious the last time he was there. And, sure enough, the man’s shadow began to wiggle, and that skinny figure rose from the depths. This time he made note of how her feet were firmly planted on the ground. 

‘Come closer,’ said Harry. Rodrick shot him a look and made to move, but Harry shook his head at him. ‘Slip into the seams of my very ego,’ he recited solemnly. ‘Reveal to me your triumph, your sorrow, your quietus.’

She took a hesitant step towards him. Harry nodded at her as reassuring as he could for someone who had no idea what to truly expect. Seeming more sure, she walked towards him, until they were face to face, and then she stepped even further, her body drifting into his, sending a deadly chill through his body.

His body gave an involuntary jerk, spasms rippling throughout his muscles, and suddenly he could not breath, all attempts at sucking in air futile. There was a tight pinching in his chest, his diaphragm contracting and curling inwards. It did not hurt, but it felt deeply uncomfortable.

Ah, so this is what Death meant , he thought. 

His vision became strange and floaty, though he was still distantly aware of his surroundings, and of Rodricks shocked face. He wondered what he was seeing, to have such a perturbed twist in his features. 

Images flashed through his mind, of places and people and things, all from his point of view and yet he still felt like he was a spectator. He was dancing outside, bare feet slapping against muddy water and damp soil; he was crying, a stabbing pain that was all too familiar clenching around his heart; he was in a bed, a looming figure above him, unyielding fingers gripping far too tight around his sides as pain and reluctant pleasure and thoughts of gold coins filled him—and then Harry’s knees buckled. 

His hands shakily grabbed at his throat, fingers and nails clawing at the thin flesh that covered the ridges of his neck, memories ( his…no, not his ) of hands encircling his neck and squeezing consuming him. His surroundings flickered, fracturing between his current surroundings and the Ghost’s. But one thing remained constant: blonde hair with a streak of grey, and light brown eyes. 

Please… said the spirit, before she released his body and vanished completely, the only proof of her existence a lingering chill and already fading memories. He took in big, gulping breaths, bracing himself on the floor, his mind still feeling floaty, a sharp ringing in his ears.

He blinked, and saw a pair of worn boots in front of him. At some point Rodrick had stood up and approached. As his eyes came into focus, the crooked shape of a wand revealed itself to him, hovering just before his forehead. His eyes moved upwards, meeting the sneering face of Rodrick, all pretences shed. 

He said something, though Harry couldn’t hear what. Time seemed to slow, the fine particles of dust in the air seeming to nearly still. The man’s mouth began to move again, opening to form the shape of a vowel, then teeth descended onto his lower lip, and Harry realised exactly what the man was going to cast. 

He threw his body to the side, time resuming its proper speed, and that sickly green curse crashed somewhere behind him. His hearing was coming back in slow increments, and he caught the sound of glass and liquid shattering. He hoped that wasn’t something too important. 

Harry caught the tail end of a sentence the man was saying. ‘...should’ve known better, but I didn’t realise you were actually a necromancer ,’ he spat out the word like a curse, and yet there was a tremble to his voice, an undertone of perhaps fear.

Harry pulled out his wand, sending out a spell on autopilot, though unfortunately the man dodged it. They tossed spells back and forth, Harry ducking and weaving around the natural terrain of the shop, the man’s spells continuing to be deadly and Harry’s working up to it. 

Harry’s mind was fully functioning on adrenaline, his movements unconscious as spell after spell flew out of his lips, and then a Sectumsempra snuck its way past, hitting the man in the shoulder. It was not a fatal wound, but it did cause him to fall back into a table and knock over its contents, including a marble candle snuffer. Normally that would have not been an issue, but Harry could see the putrid webbing of something nasty surrounding it.

The candle snuffer fell down with a clang , hitting the man on the way down. It did not touch his flesh, but that did not matter, that magical webbing having already latched onto the man, spreading rapidly. The man’s eyes widened, his skin beginning to wither and peel. He crashed to the ground. The curse spread all the way to his face before completely stopping, but it was already too late: he was dead. 

Harry, a small distance away, dropped his wand to the floor and rushed to the man’s fallen form. ‘ Fuck ,’ he exclaimed under his breath. 

He decided to go about things the way he had because he wanted to avoid killing anyone, even if they were technically already dead. 

And yet… 

Harry crouched in front of the body, as close as he dared without touching it, the webbing of that curse still there, waiting for its next victim. He reached out a hand, hovering, unsure what to do but feeling the need to do something. His magic surged to the surface, wild and erratic, reacting to his turmoil and his need to somehow fix this. 

Eventually his magic made a decision for him while he stayed crouched there, dithering. It darted towards the body, eating away at the curse, but it did not stop there, pulling an endless stream of magic from him and into the body. 

His limbs wavered, losing all strength, and he fell back onto his bum, just barely managing to make sure he would not fall forward.

The body twitched. 

Harry caught a glimpse of light brown eyes covered with a grey film before he lost the battle to stay conscious and his world tilted.

Chapter Text

Fingers combed through his hair, gently petting him. Occasionally they would briefly graze his scalp, sending a shock of coldness through him. At first, he thought that he was once again in Death’s realm, resting in it Its lap, but they were normal human fingers, thick and with blunt fingernails, made of ( strange ) flesh: not at all like the not-fingers of Death, which he had begun to seek out—begun to crave—when the nights grew too long and his thoughts too loud. 

Harry let out a low groan, snuggling his head into his pillow, which was just as cold as the fingers. It also felt as if it were made of a coarse material instead of the softer cotton. He frowned, reaching out a hand and patting it, noting how misshapen it was. His mind was still not ready to enter the waking world, the lure of sleep always ever so tempting (in sleep, there was no need to face his troubles; in sleep, despite all the nightmares it brought, there was no need to think). Eventually, however, he could no longer avoid waking. 

His eyes opened leisurely. He blinked a couple times, trying to chase away the blurriness and sleep out of his eyes, but when that didn’t work, he rubbed his eyes roughly, causing his vision to become woolly. His side ached slightly, no doubt from sleeping in a contorted position and, he now realised, from laying on the hard marble of The Madame’s ever pristine floors. 

He did not move from his position quite yet, for he knew exactly how he ended up there, the memories still vivid in his mind’s eye. He was quite certain he knew what his pillow was—or rather what his somnolescent mind had thought was his pillow. 

He closed his eyes for a few moments, and then sat up numbly, feeling those fingers loosen from his hair without any resistance. He stared at the man’s still half decayed face (Rodrick, his name had been Rodrick ). No longer did the man have that coffee-like magic hovering around it; instead, thin strands of Harry’s own magic swayed back and forth from his chest, expanding outwards in a fine network not unlike veins. 

Harry…felt muted; he did not quite feel sadness; did not quite feel remorse. Not for Rodrick, at least. What he did feel remorse for was the fact that he did not feel enough sadness; enough remorse. He had just murdered a man. Snuffed out his light with all the casualty of someone blowing out a candle.

He wondered why he felt so distant; why a part of him, foreign and newly born, felt happy . (Had the one thing that separated him from him broken? Left behind in the tear in space and time he had been wrenched through?) 

He swallowed, unsure how to feel about the fact that he had been laying down on his lap, a corpse’s lap, and quite comfortably at that, those cold ( dead ) fingers instilling a strange calm in him. Perhaps it was due to having lacked the warmth and comfort of a family doting on him, an empty hunger inside of him always demanding scraps of affectionate touches and yet recoiling away from them all the same. It was a bit ironic that he found the most comfort in the touches of Death and Its creatures, but he supposed that was precisely why (death was an old friend of his, afterall). 

Those dull, light-brown eyes met his, showing no particular emotion except for a strangely intense attachment to staring at Harry. He shifted to the side, watching as Rodrick followed his movements. Curious, he reached out a hand, poking at the ruined side of his face—it didn’t even twitch. It was smooth and sagged down, as if the skin had detached itself from the muscle binding it (it reminded Harry of Ripper, his hand pressing against its face in an effort to avoid vicious teeth). Harry dropped his hand, watching dispassionately as a piece of that withered skin sagged down further. Rodrick blinked slowly. 

He didn’t look like one of those Inferi Harry had seen before, shivering and doubtful as Dumbledore rowed him over that black lake, a sickly green bathing his normally flashy robes in foreboding light. For one, Rodrick still looked mostly human, if not a severely sick one, the majority of his moustache and hair on top of his head having been lost to the curse. But one could still tell that the reanimated corpse had once been Rodrick. For another, the eyes, while dull, were not covered by any sort of white, wispy film. 

He had many questions for Death when he next met It. 

He turned his gaze to the disaster around him, taking in the smashed glass, cracked objects and strange liquids half-dried on the floor. He really knew how to make a mess of things. Granted, The Madame’s shop was already a bit of a mess, but at least all the stuff was normally in impeccable condition. 

Harry stood up, staring down at Rodrick. When he remained sitting on the ground, unmoving besides looking up at him, he reached down, grimacing slightly as his fingers wrapped around a chilly bicep that didn’t have the same give as normal flesh and muscle. With a little effort and manoeuvring, Rodrick was up on his feet, and remained standing even when Harry let go.

(Strange . Rodrick was slightly taller—as if the spine had been stretched out—than when he had been alive). 

He supposed he should probably take care of this first—somehow—before he addressed repairing the shop. The last thing he needed was a customer, or worse, The Madame, to walk in and see Rodrick. 

*

‘And why would we be interested in joining your petty little squabble?’ said Litovoi, the current leader of the Romanian vampire coven. He sat back in his chair, arms crossed, the sharp canine teeth sewn into his hat swinging back and forth. Those teeth had once belonged to Litovoi’s Sire, the story of how he resisted the Sire Bond and tore through his throat a well-known tale in vampire circles. 

His right-hand man and sister stood at his shoulder, her slight frame and elfen features belying her true nature beneath. She was tightly coiled, ready to react to any sign of threat towards her brother despite the fact that Voldemort was in their territory, enclosed in their castle without a single guard (not that he would ever need one, the weaknesses of vampires well known and easy to exploit). Litovoi may be known for his ferocity, but it was his sister—Milica, ironically—who took after their Ancestor the most, cruelty etched into her every bone. 

‘Because I know that you want to reclaim the glory of your people; to live up to the Drăculea name,’ said Voldemort. The Romanian coven had ruled as the harshest and most influential coven for centuries before its eventual decline at the turn of the 18th century, following the downfall of its former leader Vlad III. ‘I believe you to be a smart man, Litovoi. It is no longer the days of olde; other covens have already made deals with their respective ruling governments, and it is only you who stubbornly resists.’

The Romanian coven was certainly no longer the most powerful, nor the largest, its vampires untethered and without purpose, haunted by the stories of a glorious past they were not part of. Voldemort did not need the most powerful coven, however; the Soviet coven, while numbering in the hundreds and enjoying absolute power over the Eastern Bloc, had grown far too arrogant to reason with. They despised wizards, too, and would never agree to an alliance even under the threat of death. 

What made the Romanian coven stand out was their resilience in the face of occupation. The other coven leaders were too scared or too arrogant, but Litovoi was hotheaded and sought greatness, only lacking a foothold in the international stage; he would be a perfect ally to manipulate. 

Litovoi narrowed his eyes. ‘And why should I join hands with you, instead of my own government?’

‘You mean your puppet government? We both know that the only thing they want from you is your head.’ Voldemort briefly glanced to his left. ‘And your sister’s hand.’

Litovoi clenched his jaw, eyes glinting, the first hints of hostility appearing in his normally easygoing facade. His sister stiffened, flashing an aggressive fang. The topic was a clear and obvious sore point, and normally something to be avoided in diplomacy, but what the Drăculea siblings needed was a tocsin; ignoring reality hindered them, and more critically instilled hesitation towards joining his cause. 

Eventually, Litovoi’s face relaxed, though his sister’s did not, his face smoothing into neutrality, and then resignation. He had made a decision. 

‘I believe we have an accord?’ Voldemort reached out his hand. ‘Shall we shake on it?’

‘…I suppose an immortal wizard would be the best I can do.’ Litivoi’s eyes flickered to his hand, contemplative, before firmly clasping it. ‘To our alliance.’

*

‘I have come to the decision that we’re going out tomorrow night,’ said Adelphus, still always the most sociable of the Lestranges, never having quite grown out of his partying ways. ‘You can’t just mope around forever. I’m sure a drink and some entertainment will cheer you up.’

They had just come from a meeting with their Lord, and were sat around Corin’s parlour at the Avery Manor. The meeting was supposed to be held at Malfoy Manor, but in consideration of the tragedy, their Lord felt it best to keep Abraxas’ home off limits for the meantime. 

It still didn’t prevent Abraxas from stubbornly attending, of course. Abraxas had always shown an astounding amount of loyalty to their Lord, the sort which Orion could admittedly never match. 

Corin set down his tumblr. ‘I think that’s a swell idea.’ 

‘I suppose if Abraxas agrees, I see no reason not to go,’ said Orion. ‘It has been a while since we all went out.’ The man in question stared down into his drink, unresponsive. 

‘It’ll be like our school days all over again,’ said Avery. ‘Remember when we first snuck out for a drink on the town?’ he chuckled. 

‘Yeah, I certainly remember that detention,’ grumbled Adelphus. 

‘Speak for yourself. It was your own fault that you took the fall,’ said Orion. 

‘So, what do you say?’ Adelphus looked at Abraxas. 

There was a long period of time where Abraxas did not answer, so long that they were ready to take it as refusal, but then came a simple reply, ‘Okay.’ He downed the rest of his drink in one go, setting it down heavily on the table. 

*

Harry half dragged, half carried Rodrick up the stairs, the corpse’s stiff limbs not agile enough to make the trip within a reasonable amount of time. The ascent up the ladder to the attic was even worse, and Harry eventually had to levitate him through the opening. 

Perhaps his solution to stuff Rodrick’s reanimated corpse in his attic room was not his brightest idea, but he didn’t really have any better ones at the moment. Especially when The Madame was due to return any day now. 

Sleeping at night would probably feel a bit creepy, though. 

Harry pushed him further into the attic, sitting him down on the floor. When he pulled out his wand Rodrick stiffened, moving his gaze away from Harry’s face to stare at it. He wondered if Rodrick could remember his death; remember who was responsible for it. 

A wave of emotions suddenly crashed into him, the numb haze he had been in scattering. Suddenly, the horror of what he had done truly hit him. 

Did it hurt? Had Rodrick been afraid? Was he still afraid, even now, his soul trapped somewhere deep down in a prison of decaying flesh? ( Had he once again damned someone else to an afterlife of suffering? ). 

Harry took in a shaky breath, cast a layer of silencing charms, and began to descend the ladder. Rodrick did not move from where Harry placed him, merely continuing to stare. 

Harry averted his eyes and shut the hatch closed. 

*

Orion wore a pinched expression, having been rendered speechless, before turning to hit Adelphus on the arm. ‘How insensitive can you be?’ he hissed.

‘I probably should’ve guessed this is what you meant,’ said Corin. ‘But I can’t say I’m complaining.’ He gave a roguish grin. 

The four men stood in front of a dimly lit establishment, the front embellished by columns of marble and heavy double doors with painted leaves of lush green. There was no sign above it, a common phenomenon in Knockturn Alley when an establishment did not just toe the line with the law, but Orion knew exactly what sort of place this was, even if he had never been before (many a pure-blood marriage had soured here, after all). 

‘Oh, come on,’ said Adelphus, ‘learn to lighten up. You used to be so much fun before that banshee dug her claws into you.’

His spine straightened, and he sent a withering look. ‘ That has nothing to do with it.’ Adelphus, despite only being one year younger than the rest of them, never seemed to truly grow up even when he inherited his Lordship; always cracking inappropriate jokes. 

Adelphus held his hands up, ‘Alright, alright.’ He gave a careless laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling. 

‘I think we should—’

‘We’re already here, so we might as well,’ interrupted Abraxas, face carefully blank, tone even.

Orion shot him a concerned look, but Abraxas did not look at him; did not look at any of them, instead leading the way in pushing open the doors. The moment they stepped inside the sound of mystical music filled their ears, slightly muffled by a curtain divider. 

They were greeted by a hostess who definitely had Veela blood in her, dressed in a modified chiton. She smelt faintly of peaches and roses, and her sea-blue eyes invited him to dive in their murky depths. 

He reluctantly adjusted the collar of his shirt, taking in deep, even breaths in order to calm his mind, just like his father had once taught him, and something that he too would teach his own son. It wouldn’t do for the heir of their Noble and Ancient House to fall prey to the whiles of someone tainted with creature blood, after all. 

‘Welcome to Amor’s Den, boys,’ she said, her voice low and nearly singing. She gave them a sultry wave, her sharp, painted nails glinting under the dancing lumos lights above. ‘If you would just follow me.’ She led them through the heavy curtains, revealing a large, open space that mimicked the outdoors, a blue sky with slow clouds moving across a domed ceiling. 

At the very centre was a theatre-in-the-round, with men and women alike dressed in loose and flowy fabrics, laurels adorning their heads. Delicate and graceful fingers teased out melodies from their instruments while their fellows danced around as if they were in a meadow, unrestrained and naive. A young man with curls of sunlight and baby-blue eyes sat at the edge of the stage, singing a sirenical melody, the patrons sitting in front of him absolutely spellbound. Galleons littered the surface of the stage, glittering under the artificial sunlight. 

Orion had to give the place some credit; it certainly knew how to cater to a pure-blood clientele, offering the illusion of sophistication and decadence. There were still some tells that revealed the place was still a whorehouse under all the gold and glister, however: nymph-like creatures sensually sitting on patrons’ laps, chitons that dipped lower than appropriate, and the occasional teasing flashes of bare breast and shadowed buttocks. 

They settled down into an empty area filled with chairs covered in royal blue velvet. The low coffee table in front of them was made of fissured marble, the cracked imperfections filled in with gold. Orion subtlety tapped his finger against the surface, inspecting the quality. To his surprise, the table was actually hand-crafted rather than magically conjured. 

‘I hope you have a lovely time,’ said the hostess before sauntering away. 

Not long after one of the waiters set down flutes of champagne on the coffee table. Orion did not drink it, champagne not being his preference of drink, but Adelphus reached out a hand and immediately downed the entire glass, Corin not far behind. Abraxas, on the other hand, silently nursed his drink, taking infinitesimal sips every few seconds or so. 

‘This is good and all, but I think that we need something stronger,’ said Adelphus. He waved over one of the waitresses, this time a petite brunette. ‘Can you give us your specialty drink?’ 

She gave a shy nod and hurried over to the bar.

When she returned Adelphus had consumed Orion’s flute of champagne, too, while Abraxas had not finished even half his own drink, having not uttered a single word since entering the place. The waitress set down four glasses of amber liquid with a hint of pink, the surface emitting an orange fog, and the rim garnished with a short stem of white flowers. ‘This is Helios’ Tears, Amor’s specialty,’ she explained. ‘It contains two fingers of firewhiskey, passionfruit juice, and moondew extract.’

Abraxas shifted in his seat, finally looking up to stare at the new drinks. He reached out a hand, fingers lightly pinching at the delicate petals of the flowers on the glass rim, before crushing them. Silvery, iridescent liquid dripped down his fingers, emitting a faintly bitter scent. 

Orion observed his surroundings before his mind started to drift, finding himself ultimately bored. His and Walburga’s marriage may have been arranged, and he may find Walburga to be annoying on a good day, but the thought of straying had never crossed his mind. He was, above all, a principled man, and as the Head he was duty bound to uphold its reputation. 

He turned to look at the entrance. Two people had emerged, led by that Veela hostess. He stared harder at them, something bothering him. Besides the fact that they looked very out of place, with cheap and eccentric clothes and an uncomfortable, almost hesitant twitchiness to them, they seemed terribly familiar.

He stared harder, eyes particularly drawn to the man with straw-like hair. Wait, they were…

Before he could complete the thought Adelphus gave Corin a nudge, and a harsh one at that, for he was already well on his way to being sloshed (if he were to fly a broom, he would certainly wind up dead). ‘Hey,’ he signalled with his head, ‘aren’t those your half-brother’s tagalongs?’

Corin’s head snapped over, zeroing in on the two figures, who plopped down slovenly into a couple chairs in the corner. Immediately, a scowl marred his face. ‘That bastard is no brother of mine.’ He then turned to direct his scowl at Adelphus. ‘How many times do I have to tell you that?’

‘Fine fine,’ Adelphus rolled his eyes, taking another large sip of his drink, ‘aren’t those Rodrick’s tagalongs?’ he corrected. ‘Braxy and oh, what’s his name…’

‘Jonah. Braxy and Jonah,’ said Orion helpfully, finally remembering why they looked so familiar. They were both technically of the Yaxley lineage, half-brother bastards to both each other and the current Lord Yaxley. Despite being one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, the Yaxleys were an absolute disgrace, lacking both decorum and discretion. The former lord Yaxley’s unrestrained lower half was proof of that. Orion had no doubt that Braxy and Jonah were not his only illegitimate spawn. 

The two sitting in the corner were well known for hanging around Rodrick, Corin’s bastard brother (like attracts like, after all). Orion felt his mouth curl slightly in distaste. While other families let bastards roam around the streets, supplying those leeches with monthly galleons to keep their mouths shut, the Blacks had a much more straightforward way of dealing with them: doing away with the mistress and whatever grew in her belly. Perhaps harsh, and a waste of magical blood, but extremely effective, for there had not been a Black bastard in centuries. 

Corin gave a sigh. ‘What about it.’

‘It’s just…,’ Adelphus gave a hiccup, ‘I haven’t seen Rodrick around for a while, now that I think about it.’

‘Good riddance.’

‘I mean, at least your half-brother is still a pure-blood,’ he attempted to mollify. ‘Those two on the other hand…’ he gave a tsk , ‘I’ll never understand what went wrong for them to be conceived.’ 

Corin tossed a nasty hex at Adelphus, one that causes liquid to feel like concentrated capsicum, causing him to spit out his drink. ‘You twat!’ he exclaimed. 

‘I’m just adding a little reinforcement so things will actually stick in that empty head of yours. He is not my brother.’ Corin went to take an angry sip of his drink before he paused, stopping and lowering it back down. ‘But, now that you mention it…it is rather strange he hasn’t been around to leech more galleons out of us,’ he couldn’t help but mutter.

‘See?’ 

Silence stretched between them.

‘Well, I’m sure it’s nothing,’ said Corin. ‘Let’s just enjoy the rest of the night.’

*

‘You sure you don’t want us to wait for you?’ asked Orion, Adelphus barely kept standing by hanging off his and Abraxas’ shoulders. 

‘It’s just a quick errand,’ said Corin. 

Orion gave him a measured look. He did not comment on the fact that it was nearly two o’clock in the morning, instead giving a short nod, and for that Corin was relieved. ‘See you later, then,’ he said, and Abraxis gave a nod of goodbye as well. 

‘Bye bye,’ slurred Adelphus, removing his right arm to give a wave and nearly crumpling down to the ground. 

Corin watched them grip Adelphus tighter, before apparating away with a crack . He immediately turned on his heel and re-entered Amor’s Den. 

‘Welcome…’ started the hostess, before stopping short and blinking, ‘back so soon?’ 

He ignored her, passing through the curtains with determined steps. 

*

Harry stared curiously out the window from inside Mary’s Victuals . Contrary to what The Madame said, she had still yet to return and supplies were running low—had even been low in the first place—so he was out in Diagon Alley, reluctantly grocery shopping. 

It was a bit funny: going outside in this time was so much easier. He had been almost certain that he’d fall back into old habits, never leaving The Madame’s shop, but it was as if a weight had been lifted off his chest. Perhaps it was because everything that went wrong had yet to happen (perhaps it was because he was no longer Harry Potter; would sometimes have doubts about if he had ever been, the only reassurance being the shade of his eyes and his lightning bolt scar-yet-not).

Outside was a man and a woman—siblings he assumed, since both their noses and eyes looked nearly identical. They were most certainly Vampires, if his knowledge from DADA was still accurate, their pale skin and gaunt features quite telling. They spoke in a language he had never heard before: it reminded him of a mix between Russian and Italian, the sounds both harsh and melodic. 

Harry wondered what they were doing in Diagon Alley, and in broad daylight at that. The hostile and disgusted glances the pair earned was not lost on Harry. Attitudes towards Vampires in his own time had been shaky, so he couldn’t imagine how much worse they were in this time period. 

For a brief moment the siblings stopped, and two pairs of red eyes (not at all like the red of Voldemort, whose eyes had been deep and full of a multitude of flickering shards) met his, their intensity disconcerting. But then Harry blinked, and the pair continued on their way. 

He turned back to the large selection of foodstuffs in front of him, crossing his arms, at a loss at what to get. He had never actually been to a Wizarding grocery store before; hadn’t even known they existed, if he were honest. At Hogwarts there was never any need, and certainly not at the Dursleys, either. Likewise, when he lived at Grimmauld Place, Kreacher handled all the groceries: the kitchen would always be stocked no matter what. 

Eventually, he decided on a loaf of Mandrake bread and Squonk eggs; it was a choice made out of novelty towards the items rather than any real desire to eat them, but in the end it was still food that went in his stomach (it was not like he would be able to taste it much, anyway, his interest in food still muffled). 

‘So you’re the one who’s weaselled his way into The Madame’s good graces,’ said a woman’s voice with a hint of an accent he could not place. It came from the left of him. 

Harry turned and was met with a woman with sharp and stern features. She was clad in a black dress, her face adorned with dark makeup that made her appear as if she were in mourning. In her hand she held a fan. He gave her a confused look. He was the only one near her, so he was pretty certain that she was talking to him, but he had no idea who she was. 

‘While having a pretty face, you don’t look anything special,’ she continued, bringing the fan up to rest on her chin. ‘I see no reason why The Madame turned down someone I recommended myself.’

‘Erm,’ was Harry’s articulate response, still stuck on being called pretty . He certainly had never been called that before. He cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry, but do we know each other?’

‘Does Sofi ring any bells?’

Harry paused, wracking his brain. He certainly hadn’t met her before; hadn’t met any Sofis before, for that matter, even in his time. But then he realised why the name seemed to tickle at his brain: she was the person The Madame had mentioned on their first meeting. The one who was supposedly ‘his’ reference for getting a job with The Madame.

He swallowed, nervousness filling him. He really should’ve known that his small lie would catch up to him, but at that time he had worse things to worry about. 

‘Did you know that The Madame came back to me, saying that she had already found help? Even though just the day before she had asked for one of my boys?’

‘Oh. Well…you see…’

‘No need to try and explain. I can hardly fault you for seizing an opportunity that presented itself.’ She smiled. ‘It’s my boy’s own fault for not being proactive enough.’

Harry gave her a surprised look. If that were the case, then why did she go looking for him? ‘Ah, I see,’ he said dumbly. 

She circled around him, inspecting him. ‘You look very much like a Potter,’ she said, and his heart felt as if it had jumped into his throat. ‘Perhaps not of the main line, but certainly closely related.’ Her fan tapped him in the shoulder, and Harry recoiled, her muculent magic making him feel rather uneasy. Faint, blackish tendrils rose and attached themselves to the fan; familiar tendrils. 

‘...Aha, so that’s why.’ She pulled the fan away, causing the fledgling tendrils to snap and sink back down into his shoulder. ‘I’m sure this shall not be our last meeting,’ she said, before slipping out of the shop. 

*

‘Did anything happen when I was gone, laddie?’ asked The Madame, taking off a lilac hat that she hadn’t left with from her head. Her keen eyes swept over the shop, pausing every once and a while. 

Despite the fact that her face was perfectly neutral, Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that she somehow, inexplicably, knew something. It was just a gut feeling, but he had learnt to trust his instincts. So he blurted out, ‘There may have been an altercation.’ 

‘An altercation?’

Harry licked his lips, shuffled his feet. ‘With a customer.’ He avoided her gaze. ‘Some things got broken, but I did fix them. Well, most of the things.’ His eyes drifted to a golden timepiece. It was no longer visibly broken, but the second hand was now slightly delayed, and no amount of Reparo’s seemed to fix it.

She stared at him, silence stretching between them, before she gave a big, toothy grin. It reminded him of a piranha sensing blood in the water ‘You’re a little too honest for your own good,’ she said, almost fond. ‘Next time, cover your tracks a little better. If no one is suspicious, then don't go blabbing that mouth of yours.’

‘ Next time?’

Instead of answering, her eyes moved to look at the ceiling towards the back of the shop.  And then Harry realised that that section was where his room was.

‘Anything else you’d like to explain?’

Harry unconsciously opened his mouth to answer, before hesitating and saying, ‘...No. Nothing at all.’

She walked up to him, far closer than he was comfortable with, the faint scent of gooseberries and something floral filling his nose. ‘That’s a good boy.’ She gave a pat on his cheek, the feeling of her wrinkled hand like cold leather.

Chapter Text

Harry was being watched. He had no evidence or proof aside from the lingering feeling of spiders crawling up his neck with those tiny legs of theirs, shifting the fine hairs on his skin just enough to unnerve. It was a familiar feeling, one he had become almost numb to in his own time, so inundated by the nosy stares of people wanting a glimpse of the famous Boy-Who-Lived. 

He had almost forgot about such a feeling; had wanted to forget about such a feeling, pleasantly spending his days in this corner of Knockturn Alley, where everyone knew to keep to themselves and mind their own business. It was dangerous to go poking around things better left secret, after all. Wasn’t good for one’s health. Harry had found his routine, one that he did not have to think too hard about, making it easy to shove aside any unwanted thoughts ( You’ll never truly belong here. All your friends and family will never be the ones you had grown with, suffered with, or loved with. They will live, but no longer for you. Was this not all pointless, then? ). 

Besides The Incident with Rodrick, nothing else of note had happened, the days blurring into monotony, and because of this, he had, admittedly, grown a bit complacent. The little voice in the back of his head that sounded a lot like Moody’s, screaming ‘constant vigilance,’ had become distantly muted, until it eventually seemed to fade away. 

He had woken up the day prior, staring up at the ceiling beams, light gently streaming from the small, four-panelled window and straight into his eyes. He blinked, noticing how a strange shadow seemed to cast on the wall, and then suddenly there was Rodrick, perched on a ceiling beam, shrouded in the shadows. He stared down at him with an intent, almost ravenous look.

Harry did not scream, or even startle. The first time this had happened he had let out a shout, blasting Rodrick in the face and falling off the bed ungracefully, the only thing hurt being his pride, but the shocking novelty had soon worn off when it became an almost daily occurrence. He still didn’t quite know what Rodrick had become, The Book being stubbornly unhelpful and Death frustratingly tight-lipped ( ‘It wouldn’t do for me to interfere with something that is destined to be known.’ ), but his company was not the worst. Besides, Rodrick had yet to leave the confines of the attic since The Incident, and that was all that really mattered; couldn’t have him randomly running around the streets, after all. 

He looked to the side, meeting the curious stare of the cadaverous girl in her green dress, as well as a new face: a bloated child with a wooden hand, looking as if rigour mortis had begun to set in. This too was an almost daily occurrence, with Ghosts—particular Ghost children ( so many—too many—dead children )—passing through the walls and hanging out on the floor, just waiting for him to trip on them. They were not very talkative, but much like Rodrick, they loved to watch him while he slept. 

Harry sluggishly pulled himself out of bed, getting ready for the day. When he was fully dressed and gave up attempting to tame his hair, Rodrick had not moved from his spot, though the Ghosts had scurried off. He craned his neck upwards, looking Rodrick in the eyes, ‘Are you going to stay there all day?’ There was, of course, no response—not even a small twitch in acknowledgment. Rodrick did not speak—could not speak, he suspected—though that did not stop Harry from talking to him anyway. ‘Fine by me. Watch over my things for me, yeah?’

He stopped just at the door. ‘And for Merlin’s sake, stop lying under my bed,’ he said, and then he leisurely descended the steps and into the storefront. There was a new collection of human fingers in the shop, he noticed. It probably said a lot that he barely flinched at the sight, even flicking against the glass container that held them, watching in morbid fascination as they twitched and spasmed, much like how the leg of a dead spider still continues to twitch after death.

The Madame was already there, occupied with a customer. It was a woman of indeterminable age, eyes red-rimmed and with a handkerchief clutched in her hands. The woman choked out, ‘And I just,’ a sniffle, ‘I just want to know the truth, you know?’ Despite the words there was a coldness to her that made Harry slightly wary. 

‘Perfectly understandable, Isolde,’ said The Madame.

The woman gave another sniffle, and then blew her nose. ‘Oh, look at me. I’m such a mess, aren’t I?’ She wiped her face, smudging around her makeup even further. She gave a self-deprecating smile. ‘I must look like some sort of banshee.’

The Madame patted her arm comfortingly, and said, ‘Not to worry, I have the perfect solution for you.’ She glanced over at Harry, signalling for him to come closer, and he did, although a tad bit warily. He had a funny feeling that he wouldn’t like what she was going to say. 

‘This is Harry, my errand boy,’ she introduced. Harry made to give a little wave, before The Madame snatched his hand. ‘No no, what are you doing, laddie? Is that how you greet a lady?’ She moved his hand so that it rested over his heart. Her other hand pressed against the back of his neck, pushing him down in a crooked bow. ‘Like this.’

‘Right. Sorry.’ Harry felt pretty awkward, but it was not the first time he had heard about such a greeting. He remembered all those years ago when he had to suffer through the Yule Ball, trying to adapt to an environment that he was not meant for—would never be meant for. Many of the students, though the Slytherins in particular, would give such a greeting before dancing with their partners. It had seemed all pretty stuffy to him, and he certainly hadn’t seen it outside of the Yule Ball, but he supposed he was living in stuffier times. 

Isolde gave a laugh, still nasally and tinged by sadness, but there was true joy peeking through as well. ‘Don’t be so hard on the boy, Madame.’ And then, more pinched, ‘It’s not like I’m a real Lady. I can’t be even if I wanted to.’ 

‘That doesn’t mean he shouldn’t show some manners. It wouldn’t do for him to encounter a witch less forgiving than you, especially in these parts.’ The Madame let go of him, and then said, ‘Anyway, Harry here is uniquely equipped to help you out.’ She leaned in. ‘He has quite the affinity for ghosts, you see. I’m sure he could help you out.’ She shot Harry with one of her crooked smiles. 

Harry stiffened, trying to keep his face neutral, but his mind was racing. Did she know about the Ghosts? About Rodrick? He would be in big trouble if anyone found out about Rodrick in particular. She hadn’t said anything to him about it, but he had quickly learnt that one could never be truly sure with The Madame. 

‘Really?’ asked Isolde. ‘If it were anyone else, I’d say they were taking me for a school girl, but if it’s you…’ She looked around the shop, making sure that there was no one else besides them, and leaned in, gossip in her dark eyes. They looked like muddy lagoons, and her magic was subtle and barely there, like salt in the air. ‘How’d you manage to find someone like that?’

‘It was by chance, really. He just stumbled into my shop one day, pretending to be one of Sofi’s boys.’ The Madame cackled, and Harry looked away a bit guiltily. ‘Could hardly believe my luck, though I certainly deserved it.’

‘Wow, children are really bold nowadays. But I suppose that is not a bad thing.’ Isolde straightened back up, a solemn look returning to her eyes. ‘Right, so, about the payment…’ she trailed off, hesitant, and with a hint of shame. ‘I’m afraid…I’m afraid I don’t have much to spare, in terms of Galleons. You know how succession usually goes. It was a kindness that grandfather left me what he did.’

The smile fell off The Madame’s face, replaced with something shrewder and contemplative. She looked up at Isolde, tilted her head, tapped a finger against her lower lip, and then began, ‘I don’t normally do this,’ she turned around, sitting down on her rocking chair, ‘but out of consideration of your grandfather, who was a dear friend, I suppose I can accept an alternative payment.’ 

‘Truly?’ She clenched and pulled at her handkerchief, worrying at her bottom lip. ‘Such as?’ 

A ruthless glint entered The Madame’s eyes, and Isolde shivered. ‘I always thought your eyes were very pretty.’

Harry snapped his head towards The Madame, incredulity and horror in his eyes. He had thought…well he wasn’t quite sure what he thought, but it certainly wasn’t that The Madame would do this. Sure, he knew that he was in Knockturn Alley, and he knew that The Madame had no regard for the law, nor was she a good person, but she hadn’t seemed bad either, to him at least (though he really should have wondered harder about where she got all her merchandise, especially the body parts). 

‘W-what?’ Isolde tried to take a step back, but at some point, The Madame had gripped her arm, those thin and wrinkled hands of hers firm and unmoving.

‘Don’t worry. I only need one.’

‘Are you…are you serious?’

‘Isolde,’ said The Madame, frost in her voice. Harry had never seen her quite so serious. ‘You knew very well what sort of person I am before you came here. It is only my fondness for your grandfather that prevents me from asking for both of your eyes. Now answer me: do you seek the truth, or shall you be content to live on in ignorance?’

Isolde reached up and touched her cheek, right underneath her left eye, and closed her eyes ‘Alright,’ she whispered. 

The Madame beckoned her closer, and she obliged. ‘Lean down for me.’ She did. ‘This will only take a moment,’ said The Madame, bringing her hands to Isolde’s face, and then a wailing scream filled the room. 

Harry was unable to look away. Or rather, he would not look away, much in the way he had not looked away as he watched a Death Eater torture one of his friends before his very eyes. He seared the image in his mind, a reminder to himself: don’t trust anyone here. 

The Madame withdrew her hands, a bloody eyeball held carefully in her grasp. She held up the eyeball like it was a prize, wearing a smile Harry had never seen on her face before; he had never seen her quite so pleased. He had a sinking feeling that that eyeball was worth more to her than any number of Galleons, though the why remained a mystery. 

Hiccupping sobs left Isolde’s mouth, the empty socket where that muddy lagoon once rested now sagging inwards and dripping blood. It trailed down her cheek, a morbid imitation of tears. She didn’t bother to wipe it, letting it drip from her chin and onto the floor. 

‘I’ll send the boy tomorrow morning.’

Isolde gave a shaky, trembling nod, and then left on unsteady steps. 

Harry watched her retreating back in conflict, and then turned to look at The Madame. He could’ve said a lot, right then and there. Could’ve asked her why, or what she would do with Isolde’s eye, or if all of that was really necessary, but instead he said, ‘I don’t…I can’t actually summon ghosts, or whatever it is you need me to do.’ Well, technically he could, if he had the resurrection stone, but he most certainly did not. And while Ghosts seemed quite fond of him, he had no control over which ones he encountered. 

‘Oh, not to worry. We’ll make a ghost-talker out of you yet, laddie.’ A pause. ‘Or at least the illusion of one,’ she cackled. 

Something in Harry’s heart unclenched. So she didn’t know about Rodrick, or the Ghosts. 

‘Isolde has always been a sheltered girl. She knows little of her grandfather’s secrets, but I do.’

He looked down, staring at the drops of blood on the floor. ‘Then why the ruse?’

She smiled, and said, ‘Sometimes, certain customers have to be lured in.’

Harry looked back up and stared at her blankly.

‘Now, I want you to listen very carefully…’

And that was how he eventually found himself in Isolde’s grandfather’s house, The Madame’s instructions still ringing in his head, inspecting the room her grandfather used to inhabit—and where he passed away in—the feeling of eyes boring into him the entire time.  

*

Straw-haired Man hurried inside, yesterday’s Daily Prophet held over his head to shield him from the rain. It had been surprisingly effective, since it did have a water-resistant charm on it, but because it was a very poorly done one it had run out of its usefulness, the paper having begun the process of disintegrating. His boots squeaked on the hardwood floor, and he threw the paper onto it carelessly. ‘Hey, guess who I just saw?’ 

‘Yeah?’ mumbled Moustache Man around the pipe in his mouth. The room was slightly hazy and filled with a fruity tobacco smell; he had been smoking that pipe for more than just a while, and with the windows closed too.

‘Isolde, in the flesh. I hadn’t seen her around for a while. Caught her leaving that old crone’s shop looking like a drowned rat. Was missing an eye, too.’

‘Yeah?’ he repeated, looking as uninterested as one can be. He pulled out a container of tobacco and refilled his pipe, adding to the haze. 

‘Are you even listening?’

Moustache Man looked up, and said, ‘Yeah, I am.’ He took the pipe out of his mouth. ‘So, do you know why she was missing an eye? Did she need some Galleons or something?’

‘Well, when I asked her about it—’

‘You asked her about it?’ He sent him a disapproving look. The fact that he hadn’t been murdered for his bluntness yet was always a wonder. 

‘— that’s what she said at first, but everyone knows that Isolde is too prideful for her own good, so I did a little more digging, and found out that her grandfather just croaked.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘So, I thought to myself: what could she possibly want, enough that she’d trade her own eyeball for?’

‘Get to the point, Jonah.’

Straw-haired Man held up his hands. ‘Alright, fine. You’re never any fun.’ He plopped down onto the couch, propping up still-wet boots onto the coffee table. ‘The only reason she’d see The Madame is to dig up information about her grandfather.’

He looked up. ‘But you just said that her grandfather’s dead. And if there’s one thing we knew about him, what all of us knew about him, it was that he was a paranoid bastard who hoarded secrets like they were common stones.’

‘Well, yes, but if it’s The Madame, I’m sure that she’d be able to figure something out.’

‘You don’t think…you don’t think she’d resort to that , do you?’

‘...Are you implying what I think you’re implying?’

He nodded.

‘But…I mean, The Madame is known for many things, and she’s certainly nothing to scoff at, but she’s no necromancer. We would’ve known, because she’d be summoning ghosts left and right to get them to spill their secrets. She only does that foreign voodoo magic of hers.’

‘True…’

‘But anyway, I was leading up to something. Rodrick hasn’t been around for weeks now. Do you think he bit off more than he could chew, and made a deal with The Madame? Something he’d have to recover from for a while.’

‘It wouldn’t surprise me. We all saw it coming. But what sort of thing would leave him bedridden? Because that’s the only reason that would keep him away from Amor .’

‘Well…’

‘And in addition to that, what sort of deal would he make that would leave him bedridden? I doubt that just Galleons would warrant that.’

‘Well, there’s only one way to find out.’

*

The fire burned dimly, but it was still warm enough to chase away the chill and the bugs of the Scottish Highlands. Harry looked up at the stars. It was a full moon tonight, though wispy clouds lightly shaded over its silvery light, dulling the shine. Ron was beside him, snacking on a roll of bread, while Hermione was catching some sleep before her early look-out shift. 

‘Why can’t we just…bring back the dead?’ he mused aloud, these nights always bringing out the strangest—and most morally dubious—thoughts. 

Ron craned his neck to look at him, stopping mid-bite into his bread roll, his eyes wide as dinner plates. He looked at Harry as if he had just proposed nuclear warfare, or stole his mum’s bacon sandwich right from his hands and proceeded to eat the entire thing. 

‘Not like Inferi, but actually bring someone back.’

Ron continued to look at him, speechless. 

’There are ghosts, yeah? Can’t we just…oh I don’t know, stuff them back in a body or something?’ He didn’t really mean it, of course, but it couldn't be denied that it was a thought he had had before while lying awake at night, images of Sirius falling through the Veil plaguing him, the thought what if? circling around his mind. Of course, even if it were possible, it wasn’t like he even could do it, his soul lost to the Veil. 

Ron resumed eating, finishing off the rest of the roll, swallowed, and then took in a great big sigh. ‘I can’t believe that I’m going to be the voice of reason for once,’ he began, dusting off the crumbs that had fallen onto his shirt, ‘but Harry, this is not a topic you want to go down.’ 

‘Why not?’

‘I know…that you didn’t grow up in the Wizarding World and all,’ he scratched his cheek, ‘so I can’t really blame you, but we just don’t talk about stuff like that.’ He looked down into the fire. It had started to dim. 

‘Stuff like what?’ Harry tossed a piece of wood into the pit. ‘And who is “we” exactly?’ 

‘Necromancy,’ said Ron. It was whispered under his breath despite them being the only ones outside the tent—the only ones in the entire forest, probably—so quietly that a mere turning of a page would have masked it, never mind crackling pops of the flame devouring a new meal. He looked almost paranoid that someone would overhear him and send him straight to Azkaban.  

‘Pardon?’ 

He looked up and raised his voice, ‘I said Necromancy, alright? And by we I mean nearly all of the Wizarding World. I’d wager that most Death Eaters wouldn’t even think about touching it, if they knew what was good for them.’ 

‘Really?’ He couldn’t help the spark of curiosity filling him. ‘But what about that one shop in Knockturn Alley,’ said Harry. ‘Coffin House, I think it was. Could’ve sworn that they claimed to sell stuff having to do with necromancy. Well, not that exact term, but stuff having to do with ghosts and the dead.’ 

He had chanced upon it when following Draco and his gang, the eerie, basement-level shop only visible through a dusty, grid window. He wasn’t quite sure where the entrance was, though he hadn’t been particularly inclined to go and look at the time. 

‘And what about Inferi?’ he added. ‘At the cave there were a whole bunch of them in the water.’

‘Well, yeah, that’s technically Necromancy, but surface-level stuff; the sort that anyone can learn.’ He fidgeted. ‘You can’t…become a necromancer, even if you wanted to. You have to be born one. It’s like being a metamorphmagus; a family trait. There are certain things that only necromancers can do, and anyone else attempting it would be driven mad. Or dead. Or worse than dead.’

‘For instance…’

Ron fidgeted some more. He looked more uncomfortable and nervous than when he had first tried to ask Hermione on a date. ‘Such as controlling ghosts, or stealing your soul like a Dementor, or creating a lot of different undead creatures besides Inferi.’

Harry blinked, digesting the information, before squinting at Ron. ‘You seem to know a lot about this. Do you have something to confess?’ he asked, trying to hold in a smirk. He knew, of course, that Ron would definitely not be a necromancer. He was far too squeamish for that. Though, just in case… ‘I promise that we’d still be best friends. So long as you help us do a few ghost pranks.’

Ron made a sound that resembled a laugh, albeit much more strained. ‘Come off it,’ he said with a scoff. ‘I know I’m not exactly the paragon of a pure-blood, but they tell us this stuff when we’re children. Through cautionary tales, and such. Oh, what was it?’ He paused for a long moment. ‘That’s right. Listen! oh little wandering soul, lest you glimpse those eyes of black, for then you must pay the Toll, else you’ll find it’s a soul you lack. ’ He shivered. 

Harry couldn’t help but shiver too. It was hard to tell if it was from the cold, the fire having dimmed to mere embers, fear, or a strange attraction to the forbidden. 

*

‘Tell me again why we’re following The Madame’s shop boy again, and not The Madame herself?’ asked Straw-haired Man. Said shop boy had exited The Madame’s shop, wearing some rather old fashioned and fancy clothes, and was briskly making his way through Knockturn Alley. For someone who was not particularly tall, the boy was certainly nimble—too nimble. He was certainly not made for chasing agile youths through the streets. 

‘What are you, suicidal?’ said Moustache Man, who was faring much better at power walking. ‘That old crone has eyes on every part of her body and every corner of the streets—she’d sniff us out in a heartbeat. Her errand boy, on the other hand…’ 

‘I mean, even if that’s the case, what do we hope to get out of a mere shop boy?’ 

‘If he was there when Isolde made the deal with The Madame, then he might have been there to see if Rodrick made a deal, too.’

‘Ahah! Why couldn’t you have just said that the first time?’

‘Wait, shh .’ Moustache Man halted in his tracks, causing Straw-haired Man to crash into him ( ‘Ow, watch it! That’s my foot you dolt!’). 

‘What is it?’ he whispered.

‘He’s meeting up with someone else.’ 

They watched as the boy approached another person in a cloak. It was a rather fine-looking cloak, the material embroidered on the edge.

‘Who do you think that is?’ Before the Straw-haired Man could answer, however, the person had lowered the hood, revealing Isolde’s one-eyed face. She wore an eyepatch now, adding a roguish quality to her that she wore surprisingly quite well. 

‘...What do you think she’s doing with him?’

‘I’m sure we’ll find out if we just keep following. Come on.’ 

They followed the pair closely, disillusionment charm still firmly in place, until they wound up in one of the nicer neighbourhoods of Knockturn Alley. The sort of neighbourhood that those with heavy influence and power liked to live in. From across the street, they watched as Isolde and the shop boy ascended the steps to one of the houses and disappeared inside. Their figures reappeared in a window on the ground floor. The curtains were not drawn, offering a clear view inside. 

They approached closer, stepping into the yard and then into the bushes, peering inside. He could hear their voices quite clearly: they had not put up a silencing charm. How amateurish, he couldn’t help but think. He didn’t know what they were going to do, but taking precautions was always advised; one never knew when they were being watched, after all. It was hard to believe that he was one of The Madame’s errand boys. They were normally a bit more street-worn than this. 

‘Can I…can I watch?’ said Isolde, her voice fearful but also filled with curiosity. 

‘...Do you think they’re about to fuck?’ asked Straw-haired Man. ‘Is this some sort of illicit affair?’ He leaned his body onto the window sill, nearly pressing his nose up against the glass. 

‘Now is not the time,’ said Moustache Man, tugging him back by the collar. ‘Stop fogging up the glass before they notice it, and pay attention.’

‘Erm…yeah, of course you can,’ said the shop boy. Funny, he still didn’t know what his name was. The shop boy wrung his hands, looking very nervous, then he pulled out a sachet from his pocket. He opened it, and a greyish powder sprinkled onto the floor. He made some sort of fancy pattern with it. It looked a lot like the sort of symbols that The Madame liked to use.

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes, and then he began to mumble words in a language that was neither English nor Latin or anything they had heard before. The air suddenly became dense and laden with magic, so much so that they could feel its oppressive weight from outside where they stood. 

Strange, wiggling shadows seemed to crawl across the walls, and he could’ve sworn that he could see his own breath. Suddenly the boy’s eyes snapped open, revealing a pair of eyes subsumed by black. Everyone held their breath, watching him in fascination and a sliver of true dread, not a word spoken, not a muscle moved. 

And then the boy seemed to sag, the surrounding magic vanishing as if it had never been there, leaving what felt like a gaping vacuum in its absence. His eyes were still black, but he suddenly seemed human once more, as opposed to that horrific, unworldly being they had only heard about in fairytales. 

The shop boy steadied his breath. 

‘So…what did you learn?’ asked Isolde.

‘Your grandfather has a sister,’ the errand boy began. ‘One that he had a falling out with, and regrets that he never made amends with before his death.’

‘A sister?’ repeated Isolde, a look of shock entering her face. ‘But he never made mention...’

‘She is still alive.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, she lives in Kastoria, Greece. There is an old house hidden away in the mountains. She lives there.’

An excited look entered her eyes, before she stopped herself short, wariness taking a hold of her. ‘How…how do I know that this is the truth? That this is not some wild goose chase?’

The boy blinked, eerie eyes staring at her for a moment. ‘Stop by The Madame’s with me. I’m sure she’d be happy to get you tickets for an international portkey sooner rather than later.’

‘Oh, thank you. Thank you so much. Let me at least offer you some tea?’

The boy clutched at his head for a moment, looking to be in pain. ‘I’m afraid that I’m going to crash soon, so let’s head out now.’ She glanced down at the still-powdered floor. ‘Oh, no need to worry about that. You can just vanish it all after.’ He held out his hand, and Isolde took it, and then they apparated away. 

Straw-haired Man and Moustache Man both turned and stared at one another, their eyes wide, unable to believe what they had just witnessed.  ‘Merlin’s saggy balls, he really is a necromancer,’ said Moustache Man. 

Straw-haired man nodded dumbly, before turning white as a sheet. ‘Wait, then what happened to Rodrick?’

*

Harry leaned in, staring intently at his eyes in the bathroom mirror. It was not the familiar green that greeted him, but a light-less black that eclipsed the entirety of his eyeballs. He could see the thin fabric of magic covering him over them, the magic more sluggish and opaquer than he was used to. It honestly made seeing things a little difficult, like back when he was as blind as a bat. 

‘Just sprinkle this symbol on the floor and mumble these words,’ The Madame had said, handing him a colourful sachet full of powder. ‘ And then pour as much magic as you can into the air. It’ll be foolproof.’

‘But what do I do after? Does the effect go away on its own?’

‘Just hurry back here as quickly as you can. I’m sure you can find some sort of excuse.’ She probably wasn’t too happy about the international portkey thing, but she couldn’t say he hadn't done what she asked. 

‘Wicked,’ he muttered, pulling down his bottom eyelid. It was still black. He wondered if whatever spell it was encompassed the entire surface of his eyes, even in the parts that he couldn’t see. 

He turned his attention to the vile on the sink, the curve of his lips smoothing out into something more pursed. He picked it up and held it up to the light, watching how the clear liquid seemed to shimmer through the glass. It had the consistency of water, but it definitely wasn’t that. All he knew about it was that it would apparently get rid of the magical spell on his eyes.

He popped open the cork and brought the vile to his nose, smelling it. It didn’t smell like much of anything. He rolled it between his fingers, hesitant. There was no telling if the vial would do what it said it did, but then again, he had already chanted The Madame’s mystery spell without much thought, so he tipped his head back and poured a couple drops into his left eye. 

It burned terribly, and he nearly dropped the vial by accident in his attempt to dull the stinging pain by pressing against his eye. But when it began to subside, and he re-opened his eye, it had returned back to normal, if not a tad bit bloodshot. He waited a few more seconds, seeing if there were any side effects, but when there were none, he continued to the next eye. 

*

‘Sofi! There you are.’

‘Braxy? What are you doing all the way over here?’ 

‘I have some information for you.’

She looked him up and down from behind her fan. She did not look particularly excited, but this was Sofi: she never looked particularly excited, always so dour. 

‘Is this like the last time you had information “I just had to have?”’ she asked. 

He winced. ‘That…well that was just a miscalculation on my part. But this time I witnessed it with my own eyes.’

‘That’s hardly reassuring.’

‘Just, hear me out, okay?’

She looked away for a brief moment, giving a long-suffering sigh, before levelling him with a stern look. ‘Answer me this, first: why are you coming to sell to me, and not Rodrick? I thought you guys were friends?’

‘Well…he just…hasn’t been around for a bit…’

At that, Sofi’s eyes gained a frightening gleam. ‘Oh? Not around? Is he missing?’

‘Not…not officially.’

She hummed. ‘I suppose I’ll accept your information then, since I found out something interesting in return. How much?’

‘25 Galleons.’ 

She snapped her fan closed, revealing downturned lips coated in dark mauve. ‘Is that something you’re willing to stake your life on? I have little patience for being made a fool of, and none for being made a fool twice.’

He hesitated for a moment, mind drifting back to what he had witnessed. ‘I can’t be absolutely certain, no one can, but you weren’t there, Sofi. That magic…it was like nothing I’ve felt before. And those pitch black eyes…’

She stared into his eyes, causing him to shuffle slightly. ‘20 Galleons—‘

‘Deal!’

*

Abraxas fiddled with his cufflinks, a nervous habit he had since he was a boy and hadn’t quite managed to shake off. Orion knew that they were made of black opal, and were an anniversary gift from his wife when they were on holiday in Australia. 

Orion did not prompt him, instead waiting for Abraxas to make up his mind and say what it was he wanted to say. He took a sip of his tea, and then continued reading his very boring account records for the Black estate this month. 

Eventually, Abraxas seemed to calm. ‘I know that you have your dealings in Knockturn Alley,’ he began. 

Orion looked up from the documents and set them back down on the table (perhaps too eagerly, but Abraxas did not seem to notice). ‘Yes,’ he confirmed, though he hadn’t actually been back in a while; or at least in a while for him. 

‘Have you heard the recent rumours?’

‘No. Did something new crop up?’ He leaned in.

‘It’s about a…necromancer…’ he trailed off. 

Orion paused, sitting back in his chair. Ah, now he knew why Abraxas was so hesitant. That was quite an outlandish sounding rumour, after all. 

‘Again?’ He gave a snort. ‘Every once and a while one of those so-called necromancers pop up. Scammers, the whole lot of them. Everyone knows that you can’t just become a necromancer, and no necromancer would be hanging out in the slums of Knockturn Alley.’ The only families who had any record of necromancers in their ancestors were his family and the Peverells. Some common folk wizard living in the slums certainly wouldn’t have such a rare and coveted bloodline. 

‘But…but what if there really is one?’

Orion frowned, feeling genuinely sorry for his old friend. The fact that he was willing to even consider mere rumours, when he knew very well that necromancers were extinct in Britain, was troubling. 

‘And apparently the necromancer works for The Madame,’ he added. ‘As her shop boy.’

‘The Madame? Then I would be even more wary.’  He remembered when he first met The Madame, a mere boy of eight, his father introducing him to Knockturn Alley for the first time. The Madame had not looked any different than she was now: terribly old, and terribly scheming. Even grandfather Sirius had had dealings with her in his youth. While her reputation was formidable, not a single customer not getting what they requested, however, there was no question that she was a crafty and wily old woman. 

Abraxas pursed his lips, his face crestfallen. It was clear that he knew he was grasping at straws. 

Orion sighed. ‘I can’t stop you, Abraxas,’ he eventually said. Sometimes it was best to let people find things for themselves. There was no doubt in the fact that Abraxas trusted him, but Orion knew that he would beat himself up for not pursuing every avenue, no matter how ridiculous. ‘But I do have to warn you: The Madame is not one to be trifled with. So be cautious, and for Merlin’s sake, don’t get on her bad side.’

‘As for her shop boy, the supposed necromancer…I’d be wary of him, too. Fraud or not, anyone who works for The Madame would not be simple.’ Even the small children The Madame would occasionally hire were not to be underestimated, for they could be quite dangerous, too. People tended to let their guard down in the presence of children, thinking them harmless, until they sliced you open, a giggle still on their face. 

Abraxas nodded, before pausing, a contemplative look on his face. 

*

‘A necromancer pretending to be a fake necromancer,’ echoed Death’s rumbling voice in his head. ‘ You always were the most novel human being I’ve encountered.’  

Harry plopped down at the edge, his body going boneless. He had not seen Death in a few days, and it was a relief to be in its chilly, all-encompassing presence once more. He reached down, playing with one of those long, wiggling fingers. They had just enough substance to be touched, but not enough to be gripped. 

What do you mean by that? he wondered at Death.

‘Surely you’ve connected the dots?’ Death shifted, pulling away Its fingers, only to begin playing with Harry’s own fingers, manipulating the joints as if he were a puppet. ‘ There was no need for you to go through all that trouble: you could’ve just used my stone.’ 

The resurrection stone? But I don’t even have that. 

 ‘Perhaps not in the physical plane,’ said Death, ‘but you only need to call for it — call for any of my Hallows — and that shall change.’

Harry frowned. …Well, even if that is the case, I wouldn’t have done that. It’d be very bad if he exposed himself as someone who could summon the resurrection stone at will. At least with the current state of things, he could always claim himself as a con-man if things get dicey. 

‘You cannot avoid them forever,’ said Death. ‘ They won’t let you. ’ And with those ominous words, Harry found himself pulled away from Its domain. 

*

‘My Lord, I may…have found a potential lead,’ said Abraxas. 

‘Did you, now?’

‘Yes, but I’m afraid that I might need your assistance.’ He swallowed. ‘Have you heard of The Madame of Knockturn Alley?’

‘Yes, I’ve had dealings with her.’

‘Well, it’s about her shop boy…’

Chapter Text

The boy was a ghost. 

Investigating him did not make him any less of one. Perhaps it even made him more of one, his existence as intangible as the rumours. It was almost as if he had sprung up from the dirty cracks in the walls, for no other reason than because he could, a true child of Knockturn Alley. Though it was still a mystery on how the boy found himself in the good graces of The Madame, known far and wide for her perspicacity and callous ways. 

What Voldemort did know, however, was that the boy was a swindler.

*

There was no question that Voldemort held death in contempt. 

As a boy, stuck within the tall confines of the orphanage walls, he had regarded it with all the fear that a foolish child holds. The mere thought of his existence being snuffed out for no other reason than sickness, or war, or the careless actions of another human being, had been enough to send his heart racing, and a cold sweat to disturb his already sleepless nights. Because despite the strange powers he held, powers that elevated him from his peers, he had also been so very—frustratingly—powerless, his birthright barred from him for those first eleven years. 

Such a feeling had been like mud sliding down his throat. He had hated it, resented it, let it stew inside of him and fester into rotten sludge. To be mortal was a state of being that was highly discomforting: the noose constantly tied around one’s neck, the shards of glass embedded underneath one’s skin, the flames licking up one’s feet. 

When he had stolen Billy’s rabbit, sneaking into his room under the cover of night and snatching it out of its cage, its life held in his hands, he had had a realisation. Perhaps it could even be likened to a revelation, not one bestowed by God but by himself, as it always had been (for who else but he himself?). As coarse hair and the warmth of life rubbed against his skin, Tom knew that if he did not want to end up like that rabbit, he would have to crush everything beneath his heel, starting with this. 

It had struggled, of course, feet kicking out in the feeble attempt to escape its destined fate, tiny heart rapidly fluttering, the burning instinct to live hardwired in its brain. But the power that coursed through his veins was relentless, encircling its thin neck and filling its lungs, cutting off all sources of air. And then Tom had let go, and it fell to the ground with a soft thump while Billy still peacefully slept, loud snores filling the room; snores that had aided in masking the terrified screaming that came from the rabbit before its throat had been completely blocked off. He had stared down at it, dead form contorted awkwardly, before glancing up in contemplation. 

The next day Billy had discovered his beloved pet, strung up in the rafters, his face in shambles, tears and snot running down his reddened cheeks. The sight had caused a bit of the discomfort in Tom’s chest to ebb. He was nothing like Billy, or his now dead rabbit; he was better, and he would make sure he always remained so. Death would not touch him. 

Years later, when it was revealed to him that he was a Wizard, that magic was the name for that mystical warmth swirling around his heart, he had become temporarily distracted. He could hardly be blamed, the tantalising lure of boundless magic and the need to put his jeering peers into their proper place a time-consuming task. But then the war had worsened, and he had returned to that young boy’s obsession with remedying that which everyone said was incurable.

And he succeeded, as was only natural.

As much as he sought to best death, however, it could also not be denied that Voldemort found it equally fascinating. For as long as mankind existed there has been an obsession with the unknown, a burning desire to chart the uncharted, a hunger for the poisonous, and this was a human malady that not even he was immune to. Unlike those bumbling fools wandering in the dark, however, he had boundless knowledge and power on his side.  

He was not a born necromancer, but that did not bar him from learning about their ways, nor did it stop him from exploring the limits to which bloodlines impacted magical talents. 

The useless tricks and gimmicks of Wizarding Britain were laughable, but his time travelling abroad and investigating the Necromantic Arts had been insightful. 

Albania, while rich in magicks of blood and family ties, had not seen a necromancer for nearly half a millennium, the only remaining records being from the musings of fanciful poets and fear-mongering academics. Greece and Lithuania had been no better, having not seen a necromancer for 721 years and 464 years respectively. Romania and Russia had many stories of necromancers in folklore, the tales even spreading out into the muggle world, but that was the only extent of it.

As far as Europe was concerned, Voldemort learned, necromancers were all but extinct, the shadow of their presence reduced to mere children’s tales that parents used to keep unruly children in line. So, he travelled further south, to Africa, where the barrier between muggle and magic-user still remained blurred. It was there, passing through Libya and then Egypt, through its modern capital Cairo and then following down the Nile, briefly finding rest in Tunah el-Gebel and Akhmim, that he finally found himself in the ruins of the famed city of Thebes.

Few knew of their existence, but there still remained a magical community there, hidden away deep beneath the ruins, which he had discovered upon crossing paths with a well-travelled vampire, who had commented on how the taste of blood has changed over the centuries, and yet there was one community whose blood still sang of silphium and calamites , that which had been lost to time. 

They called themselves the Hm Ntr , and they were still firmly tied to the days of old, when man believed that gods still walked amongst them via Avatars, holding great respect and reverence for the Egyptian gods. Considering that many of the Egyptian gods were closely tied to death, it was no surprise that it was there that Voldemort met his first necromancer.

It was there where he killed his first one, too. 

*

When Voldemort had first heard Abraxas’ request, he had taken it to be the desperation of a man consumed by grief, entrapped by his emotions like a guilty man standing on the gallows, hands gripping at the noose to keep himself afloat; one could only wonder when he would let go. Abraxas had always felt more than any pure-blood should, or more accurately acted on his feelings; it was a wonder that his surly father had not trained it out of him. 

Normally, Voldemort would not even bother with such a rumour, its origins unknown and its contents likely the exaggerations of a greedy fool seeking a quick galleon. Voldemort had already indulged Abraxas enough, investigating his wife’s death. He was not one to chase after Demiguises for his own entertainment. 

However, he could not deny that he was curious. 

The denizens of Knockturn Alley were not known for being gullible, so the fact that such a rumour had sprouted there and not immediately died on the vine, instead flourishing into golden blooms, was telling. Perhaps the rumour was not entirely true, but there was certainly something going on that was worth investigating, all centred around The Madame’s shop boy. Besides, he did find himself in need of making a trip to Knockturn Alley.

Voldemort stepped out of the shadows, the near-silent crack of apparition announcing his arrival, wrapped in dark robes of finely woven silks and mythical leathers. His hand rested on a cane made of carved wood and opal, and on his head was a dark witch’s hat. He was no longer Voldemort, or even Tom Riddle—he was Lord Gaunt, returned from his long trip overseas. 

It was early morning, the sky still slightly tinged in the orange glow of the sun awakening, and the streets were sparsely populated. This was not unusual, for daytime in Knockturn Alley was no better than nighttime in a sleepy, countryside town, mostly filled with daring children and curious wizards and witches seeking novelty. There were, of course, people going about their regular business as well, but everyone was aware of the eyes that followed within the shield of daylight.

It was only when ink bled into the sky and the green of the sconces illuminated the faint, seemingly eternal fog that swept the streets at night, the strange smog that clung to the air shadowing over the natural glow of the moon, that the underbelly revealed itself, crawling out like rats from the sewer. 

While there were some Aurors brave enough to patrol through Knockturn Alley at its best, not a single one dared step foot into the famed district when night had already fallen (lest they had a death wish). They were incompetent cowards, softened by the supposed peace that the Minister for Magic, Wilhelmina Tuft, offered for the presentable side of the Wizarding World. A couple arrests or shop investigations were done here and there on occasion, if only to reassure the general populace, but in general they were happy to let Knockturn Alley police itself, and Knockturn Alley was happy to do so too. 

A young witch glanced at him, the softness of youth still in her face despite the babe in her arms, and then gave him a wide berth. She was not the only one. Despite his friendlier disguise, lacking the glow of red in his eyes and the slightly unnaturalness to his form from years of submerging himself in the Dark Arts, his wild magic tightly hidden underneath the surface, he supposed that prey could still instinctually recognise a predator. 

He continued down a path that had seen his shadow grace it many times, the deeper he walked the quieter the surroundings became, until not a single soul accompanied him on the streets. Even though it had been nearly ten long years since he had traversed it, the twisting labyrinth of stone and false pathways was hardly an obstacle. His memory was something that would never fail him, after all, the kingdom of his knowledge well maintained in the borders of his mind. 

He turned a corner, going down what looked to be a dead end. He stood in front of the wall at the end of the alleyway, hand slipping into his breast pocket and pulling out something that resembled a pocket watch, which he had painstakingly carved runes into. Flipping it open revealed that, instead of displaying time, the face resembled more of a compass, the needle firmly pointing in the direction of the wall. And at its centre was a jewel bearing, a small ruby. 

Voldemort just stood there for a moment, waiting. To an outsider he would look quite strange, a tall and imposing man standing at the end of an alleyway, staring at a blank wall. But then, suddenly, there was a shift in the air, magic creeping its way into the old bricks. The ruby jewel-bearing was now glowing a pulsating red, as if it had been tossed into a forge. Voldemort stepped into the wall, and then through it. 

For most, the travelling portals that would occasionally appear across Wizarding Britain were a mystery, seeming to come and go at random, and spitting people out at random too. But Voldemort did not believe that there was a puzzle that did not have a solution, a knot that could not be untied, and had set out to unravel it. If he could utilise the portals to his own advantage, the amount of strategic power it offered would be shattering. 

As it turned out, the portals worked off the principle of shifting ley lines, and were a remnant of the magic users who had lived across Britain during the height of the witch trials. They served as confusing and unpredictable means to escape capture, but no one had written down their inner workings for fear of potential betrayal.  

Considering the portals operated off of ley lines, the solution had been obvious, and thus he commissioned a special compass to be made and carved in runes that would seek out disturbances in the magnetic field. 

He stepped out of the wall, and into another alley. Walking a few paces, and then taking a right turn, he came to a familiar door. 

*

Soft whimpering in his ears, shaky breaths that barely held sobs at bay, hushed chatter and murmurs echoing throughout the crowd... 

Harry was at a funeral, the skies painted in blotches of greys and blues, the air still with not even a single breeze. The chill of the air—of summer bleeding into Autumn, the transition as gentle as a splinter—bit into his skin. He blinked, taking in the sea of mourners in their best blacks and finest tears, the weight of their combined sorrow like a sandstorm rolling in. It was clear that whoever’s funeral this was, they had been dearly beloved—or revered—though he could not see anything from where he was.

He pushed through the crowd, lace and satin and cashmere and wool brushing against his shivering, exposed skin, moving further into the heart of the cemetery. Squeezing by two large figures, he finally broke through the crowd. Polished cherry wood came into sight, dark brown with a hint of red, a delicate lace covering laid over the top. The casket was still there, yet to be lowered in the ground.

There were two figures standing at the casket, shoulders rigid and spines straight: one short and with bushy hair, the other tall and with fiery orange hair. 

His throat constricted, a wintry pain shooting through him. He rushed towards those two figures, bare feet crunching on grass and squishing into soft earth. He slightly slid the rest of the way, barely preventing himself from crashing into them. ‘Hermione! Ron!’ he exclaimed, grabbing at their shoulders. When they turned around, however, he recoiled, hands letting go, the sight of them wrong and twisted. 

Was this…was this a dream?

His best friends’ faces were decaying, as if melting and withering under the hot sun, revealing the wet meat underneath their skin. And their eyes…they did not have eyes at all, the sockets empty and smoothed over with flesh. Harry watched as a maggot slid out of one of the openings in Hermione’s face, right below the cheekbone, its wiggling, tiny body slick with blood and fluid. It dropped down, vanishing into the grass below. 

No, dream was not the right word. This was a nightmare, surely. And yet, it was a nightmare that he both wanted to wake up from and didn't. 

 Ron and Hermione’s mouths opened, revealing inflamed gums, but he could not hear what they were saying, nor could he manage to piece out the words they were uttering from the shape of their lips. He merely stood there, taking them in, shock having quickly dissipated, making way for an unspeakable emotion. He no longer cared about their ghastly appearance. 

These were his friends; his best friends. They were here, standing before him, standing with him…

Harry reached out trembling hands, touching both of their cheeks, uncaring at the strange waxy feeling, or the wet sensation covering his fingertips, or the squirming of more maggots underneath the flesh. The skin seemed to sag further down at his touch, revealing more of the muscle beneath. Words failed him, so he simply did not even try to speak. He wondered if the painful stretch at the corner of his mouth was a smile, or an agonised grimace. 

Were these truly his friends standing before him, now Ghosts, having foolishly paid whatever the Toll was to meet him once more? Or was this merely the sick conjurings of his mind?

Regardless of the answer, he would cherish this moment, entertaining a delusion of his own mind if he had to. 

Harry leaned in, pulling them in a hug, burying his face into their chests. The embrace was not a warm one. He felt arms wrap around him in return, the feeling of an abnormally shaped hand resting on his back—the result of a nasty blasting hex that Ron’s hand had caught the brunt of in the Final Battle. Harry sniffled, lifting his head slightly, the world before his becoming slightly indistinct, like looking through his glasses when stepping out of the cosy warmth of Hogwarts and into the night air. 

But then movement caught his attention, his vision focusing once more, and he peered behind Ron and Hermione, beyond the casket. His gaze settled on a gravestone. It was made of white marble, and a carving of a firebolt cut across the middle of it, smoky stone trailing from behind it and curling around the gravestone. 

And in front of the gravestone was a house-elf; a familiar house-elf, face contorted in what could only be described as agony, body deathly pale. He was knelt before the grave, bashing his head against it, blood smudging across the polished stone from the strength of the blows. Reddened, blistered fingers gripped at the grave, so tightly that they looked locked in place. 

Harry’s eyes widened, heart lurching, as he watched Kreacher show complete disregard for himself. There was a low muttering coming from Kreacher, too low and disjointed to make any sense of it. It was at that point that Harry was sure that this was just a bad dream ( wasn’t it? ). Despite that, however, he couldn’t help but make a motion to rush towards Kreacher, only to find himself bound, Ron and Hermione’s grip unyielding. 

Ah, thought Harry, these truly aren’t my friends . His friends wouldn’t have held him back like this, forcing him to watch such a terrible scene. They knew better than to try and stop him, instead letting him rush in without a thought, the sound of their footsteps and curses following closely on his heels, ready to bail him out from his madness. 

Eventually Kreacher’s movements stilled. His small and frail body slumped against the stone, until gravity had its way, and his body tilted to the side, wrenching his fingers from the stone. Kreacher’s body fell onto the ground, lifeless, revealing the entirety of the gravestone. 

Harry swallowed, staring at the bloodstained, looping letters that spelt out a name; his own name:

HARRY JAMES POTTER

The world wavered and seemed to melt around him—though that wasn’t quite right, he realised. It was not the world that was melting and wavering, but himself. He could only look down, distant, as if he was not looking at his own skin melting off, but merely some Harry lookalike’s skin. 

And then he blinked, finding himself in Death’s realm once more. Strange, that it was here that he awoke to, rather than the real world. Or perhaps the real world was in fact here, the recent events in a time not his own a mere distant dream, and he was in fact dead. 

‘I have not embraced you in such a way,’ came Death’s voice. ‘Not yet, and not for many fathomless suns to come.’

Harry slid his hand over his heart, feeling how it had yet to calm. A part of him wished it to cease movement altogether, if not just for a brief moment. Distract me , thought Harry at Death. Please .

‘...Very well,’ said Death, and then Harry found himself encircled once more, his vision blanketed in black. The entity tucked him inside Its embrace, his body sinking into that comforting presence. He wondered if this was what it felt like to be a child comforted after a nightmare by loving parents. 

‘A brief blink ago, innumerable blinks for those who call themself by the classification human , there were once three brothers, who were said to have defied Me, though that is not quite how things unfolded…’

*

The shop was just like how Voldemort remembered it a decade ago, with dim lighting and a dust-filled air that poisoned one’s lungs. The shop was also thick with the heavy intermixing of various magic, particularly the distinct magic of cursed objects, and the organisation left much to desire, new merchandise stacked high behind the counter. This was not too surprising, considering Borgin was lazy: if he could cut corners, he would, and then some. 

A plain-faced girl stood at the counter, face dusted lightly with freckles and dark blonde hair tied up into a messy bun. She was the picture of an underpaid employee at the height of their boredom. 

He had wondered who Borgin would find to replace him all those years back, not out of worry or curiosity, but out of malicious amusement. He knew that Borgin would find no better help than he. Borgin had been lucky that Voldemort had tolerated being in his employ for those years following his graduation from Hogwarts, and had not killed him upon their parting. 

‘Bring me Borgin,’ he said. ‘I know that he is here.’ He could feel that greasy magical signature in the shop, contaminating the already repulsive air. 

She looked up, eyes wide and lip quivering. Her eyes darted around. ‘C-could I not assist you, sir?’

Voldemort did not grace that with a response, staring down at her, watching as she squirmed. She would not take much intimidation, the weakness of her heart clear for all to see. People like this were particularly contemptible, merely wastes of space that stole oxygen from the air. 

‘...Okay, I’ll go fetch him. He’s j-just in the back.’ Light feet shuffled across the floor, and she disappeared up the stairs at the back of the store. Shortly after, the sound of lumbering steps descending the stairs, accompanied by a disgruntled and grumpy voice. 

‘I told you not to disturb me,’ came Borgin’s slippery, slightly nasal voice. ‘Can you not even listen to simple commands? I have no interest in entertaining some nobody, I won’t—’ Borgin paused his mutterings, having fully descended the stairs. Those dark blue eyes looked Voldemort up and down like one would examine a lost wallet full of money, greed glinting in his smile, no doubt cataloguing his bespoke robes and ornate cane.

‘This was hardly the sort of welcome I was expecting, or deserve,’ said Voldemort. ‘A nobody, was it?’

‘Of course, of course, very sorry sir.’ He rubbed his hands. ‘I don’t know what came over me. Perhaps just still a bit grumpy from a bad night’s sleep. So, what can I do for you? You asked for me specifically?’

Voldemort hummed. ‘I believe that you should tell your shop girl to go home.’

‘Excuse me?’

Voldemort let a portion of his glamour waver, revealing the crimson of his eyes and the thick fog of his magic to rise beneath the surface. Immediately, Borgin’s smile fell, his face turning pale rapidly, recognition sending his hands trembling. 

‘Y-you! What are you doing here?’ he stammered. 

‘I’m hurt,’ said Voldemort, though he did not even bother to act as such. ‘I thought you would’ve been overjoyed to see me.’

Borgin remained quiet, lips pressed thin, before turning to the girl and saying, ‘You, go home. I’m closing up early.’

‘What?’ she said, eyes flickering back and forth between them. ‘But…’

‘Are you deaf? I said go! Get out of my sight!’

‘Okay,’ she said timidly. And then, so quiet that she could barely be heard, she added, ‘Though…what about…what about my pay?’

‘Pay?’

‘F-for the…rest of the day…’

Voldemort nearly raised an eyebrow. Perhaps the girl had a little more spine than he had first thought. 

‘You think I’m going to pay you for hours you won’t even work? I’ll give you what you’ve worked for and not a Knut more, you hear?’

‘...O-of course, sir.’ She clutched her bag to herself, turning and leaving. 

Though clearly it was not very much spine. 

Before she could slip out the door, however, Borgin hollered, ‘And lock the door behind you.’ He wiped his greasy hair. ‘I swear, if it weren’t so hard to find help these days…’ he muttered darkly when it was just the two of them left. And then, as if realising who exactly stood before him, his shoulders hunched, and he rubbed his hands together, the low light streaming through the windows catching on the grease on his skin. ‘How may I be of service?’

Voldemort turned around to peruse the store. ‘Should I be honoured?’  

He reached out and picked up one of the various baubles cluttering the shelves: a severed ear, clearly that of a Veela. 

‘No, rather than that, I don’t believe you are honouring me enough.’ 

While Veela were famed for their bewitching beauty, the coveted lover of every weak-willed, hot-blooded wizard (or witch, if they were so inclined), they were much more useful dead than alive. The very magic weaved into their flesh and bone was far too useful, after all. From potions to rituals to runes, they served as powerful amplifiers, particularly with things that had to do with the mind. 

The poisoned magic radiating off the severed ear snapped around it, trying to do him harm, trying to beguile him, but it was no trouble to wave away that pesky, lingering malice. It was obvious that the owner of this ear had, with their dying breath, cursed their own flesh in the hopes of posthumous retribution. A useless endeavour, as it most likely worsened their suffering, but he supposed it was much more admirable than most people at Death’s door, who would prefer to wail and beg or simply lie down and wait. 

He held it up under the dim light, examining the pale blue of a tiny, branching vein that ran through the ear, the skin so pale that it appeared nearly translucent. The ear appeared quite fresh, but this was Borgin and Burke’s; there was no doubt more to it, and Voldemort knew that this ear was merely a convincing imitation of what it presented. 

‘You know what happens if you don’t honour me properly, don’t you, Borgin?’ Voldemort turned around, and pulled out his wand. 

Borgin’s eyes widened, terror filling his body. 

And then, instead of pointing his wand at Borgin, like he no doubt expected to happen, Voldemort turned his wand to the ear, casually making an incision into the antihelix, revealing that the vein was not a vein at all, but a piece of cleverly inserted thread. Blood did not leak out, the entire thing dry. He wondered if Borgin had purchased the ear knowing that it was old and damaged, or if he himself had been fooled. Either one of these options would not be a surprise. 

‘How quickly you forget.’ He let the severed ear drop to the ground, watching it dispassionately, and then let his glamour completely fall, and his magic to fill the shop like a suffocating smog. ‘Kneel,’ said Voldemort, ‘before all of Knockturn Alley knows what really happened to Burke.’

Borgin dropped to his knees, tucking his chin into his neck. ‘My apologies, my Lord,’ he said. ‘I find that I am more forgetful these past few years.’ He gripped at the fabric of his pants. ‘S-so…what brings you here, to my humble shop?’

Voldemort tilted his head, looking down at that greasy and balding head. Borgin looked much older than when he last saw him, hair greying at the temples, wrinkles branching across his face, age bearing down on him like a hammer, reducing him to this pathetic thing before him. 

‘I am here seeking information.’

Borgin’s face became pinched. ‘...Information?’ he said hesitantly. ‘You know I don’t really deal with that…my Lord.’

‘Indeed, you do not. Subterfuge and espionage never were your strong suit.’ Despite all the deception he employed at his shop, all it really served to do was discredit him, the more discerning customers sniffing out Borgin’s scams. It truly was a wonder that he had been a Slytherin in his youth, though he supposed it could also be because no other house suited him, as well as the advantage of blood status. 

‘But despite your many shortcomings, you are Sofi’s brother,’ said Voldemort. If one sought information in Knockturn Alley, there were three people to seek out: Sofi Borgin (though she had renounced that name long ago, when she had left the family), Rodrick Avery (not that he was allowed to ever go by that last name), and The Madame. For his purposes, Borgin would be the easiest way to get information without any additional inconveniences, even if it were not from the source. Besides, Sofi was the most well-known, her information network stretching throughout the streets of Knockturn and bleeding out to all corners of wizarding Britain.

A sour look appeared on Borgin’s face, and Voldemort could tell that he was bristling inside. Borgin never did like his sister very much, even if he kept in touch with her, jealousy eating away at his already jealous heart, at war with his need to be in her good graces. It was no surprise, considering Burke was an all-around failure, while Sofi had managed to make an empire for herself. 

Voldemort could still remember when Sofi had been cast out, still working at Borgin’s shop, and how absolutely gleeful Borgin had been at the news.  To be cast out from your family as a pure-blood was normally a death sentence, but Sofi had quite deliberately caused her disownment, something that Borgin was too stupid to realise. 

‘Do you need me to…get her for you?’ asked Borgin, the words visibly painful for him to say. 

‘Not quite,’ said Voldemort, before plunging into Borgin’s mind none too gently, his defences so paper-thin that it was laughable. Here was a pure-blood, born with all the knowledge and privileges that it afforded, and yet he knelt here, old and weak, unable to resist something as simple as Legilimency. 

He rifled through his mind, uncaring of the ruins he left in his wake, until he reached a memory that he was looking for. It was of Borgin and Sofi meeting, quite recently at that.

‘Is it true?’ Borgin had asked. In addition to his many shortcomings, he was a terrible gossip, looking for any scraps of information that he could put people down with. ‘I know the rumours came from you, this has your handiwork written all over it. Is it true that The Madame is in possession of a necromancer?’

‘I never said that he is a necromancer, just simply that someone witnessed him doing a ritual and mumbling strange words, the entirety of his eyes eclipsed in black, and then that he knew information that no one but the dead should know. At some point the rumour shifted and morphed, people choosing a word that could adequately describe this phenomenon. Perhaps it is true, but it is not I who shall declare that.’

‘…I should’ve figured that would be the case.’

‘So then what is he?’

‘Who knows. But there truly is something strange about the boy…’ Sofi looked to the side, a distant look entering her gaze, fingers opening and closing her fan. 

‘Fine, don’t tell me then.’

Voldemort pulled himself out of Borgin's mind, causing the man to gasp and hunch over. He turned, walking up to one of the bookcase displays. His eyes scanned the titles, searching for a book in particular. Upon not finding it, however, he settled for pulling out an old and worn book on the use of snake venom in potions.  

‘I’ll be taking this,’ he said, and then he departed. 

*

The Hm Ntr were very welcoming of strangers, so long as they showed proper respect for their gods. Voldemort did not believe in any gods, whether it be the singular God of the Christians, the rich pantheon of the Hindu deities, or the boundless divinities of the Japanese. The only one he pledged himself to was Lady Magic, and she was less of a god and more of a force of nature; a boundless and indistinct consciousness that coursed through every magical being’s veins, and which Voldemort sought to harness for himself. 

He would play nice, however, and place offerings at their shrines and stretch out his hands in feigned prayer under their watchful eyes; he would let their hearts warm and soften at his respect. Unlike the conservative witches and wizards of the West, who scorned and feared the notion of raising and communing with the dead, these Egyptian wizards embraced it, or more accurately, they embraced Lord Osiris, whose role in the afterlife was as weighty as a sinner's heart. 

It was there that he met Osorkon, the head priest and whom they claimed to be a manifestation of Osiris. Voldemort could see it in the head priest’s eyes, how he truly believed himself a living god, the weight of responsibility bearing down on his shoulders. Voldemort, however, knew that he was merely a necromancer lucky enough to be born in a society that revered and respected death. 

Osorkon had been a sallow man, with dark hair braided down his back, and he specialised with communing with the dead, his skills in resurrection paltry. He was the first necromancer that Voldemort had encountered in the flesh, not a man of fable or hushed whispers, but a living and breathing peculiarity before him. The opportunity that presented itself was priceless, though it was a shame that the necromancer was such a weak wizard, his magic like diluted wine. 

It took hardly any time or effort to gain the necromancer’s trust. Osorkon, while revered by his community as a mortal god, was terribly lonely, raised so high on his pedestal that not even his own family could brush against the bottom of his feet. And with that trust came an invitation to witness his rituals, something that was highly private and normally done with a single priest as witness, there to guard over him. 

Deep within the underground ruins, past the worship hall and one level further down into the earth, was Osorkon’s private temple, one solely dedicated to Osiris. Blinded by trust and a desire for friendship, the necromancer had led him there without another priest, honouring him with the task of witness. He was welcomed through the stone gateway engraved in hieroglyphs, and into the sacred space. 

The interior of the temple had been spacious, though surprisingly barren, empty beside large columns holding the ceiling up and a stone dais at the centre. 

‘Is there anyone you would like me to call upon?’ asked Osorkon. 

‘Call my uncle,’ said Voldemort, not out of any sentimentality, but rather as a way to affirm that the spirit called was indeed someone deceased. He was also curious about the despair and anger that would fill his dear uncle at being wrenched from death to greet his killer. ‘Morfin Gaunt.’

‘Of course.’ The necromancer had walked up the shallow stairs leading to the dais, and then stood at its centre. Taking in a deep breath, he closed his eyes, and a magic unlike anything he had felt before rose to the surface. It was such a shame that it was so weak. It was almost insulting that this wizard carried such an elusive and mysterious magic. Was Voldemort not more worthy of such magic? Of such a gift? It was wasted on Osorkon. 

The necromancer’s eyes snapped open, revealing that the iris of his eyes had become eclipsed in black, as if the pupil had expanded without limitation. That inky darkness seemed to bled out towards the white of his eyes, invading but not fully consuming it. He merely stood there, motionless, unresponsive to Voldemort’s calls or even the bite of a stinging hex. Necromancers, as it turned out, were highly vulnerable when communing with the dead, their very soul a bridge between two worlds, the burden crippling. 

Voldemort could hardly be blamed for seizing the opportunity.

He wondered how the Hm Ntr had reacted when their beloved god in human skin had been found on the dais of the temple, splayed out and flesh nearly absent of blood, the red spreading out through the intricate carvings on the stone. Perhaps it had been horror, and sorrow. Or perhaps it had been reverence, in the knowledge that their beloved Osiris had returned to his true domain once more. They did not see death as the true end, after all.

Regardless, it was a shame that the magic he had harvested from his corpse had dissipated within the week, lacking a suitable vessel to cling to. He was given hardly any time at all to experiment with it. But perhaps there was another avenue for him to truly wield that which only necromancers could. 

*

What exactly makes a necromancer? thought Harry, tilting his head back, his vision still consumed by comforting darkness. Why is it an inherent trait?

‘Oh? You’re curious now?’ said Death. Those wiggling tendrils slid down the side of his face, before lightly sinking into his shoulders. ‘I thought you would avoid the subject more, considering how much time has passed.’

Yeah, well…it’s just…it’s hard to ignore the recent rumours. I’ve had more than one person enter the shop to merely gawk at me. It was like being the Boy Who Lived all over again. 

‘A necromancer’s powers lie within the soul,’ echoed Death’s voice in his ears. One of Its too-many fingered hands slid down further, over his chest, where his heart lay. And then It plunged that not-hand further in, wrapping around his heart. Harry’s breath stopped short, unable to properly comprehend the sensation filling him. He had a feeling his heart had stopped short, too. And then Death let go, and his heart beat once more, as if it hadn’t stopped at all.

Does that mean I was a necromancer in my first life?

‘Why do you suppose you found yourself in that white limbo, which had manifested itself into King’s Cross?’

‘Well, I figured it was because of the Horcrux…’

‘Indeed. Why is it that you encountered the Horcrux, instead of its soul being swept away beyond? Why is it that your former Headmaster greeted you at My door, giving you a choice? 

‘I have always been a part of you, before your very conception, before the green of that spell wrapped around you, before the planet you call Earth formed.’ 

*

Rodrick was missing.

Harry paced back and forth, wearing a hole in the floor, anxiety rising in his throat. He had checked every nook and cranny of the attic, and then the kitchens, and then the shop, and yet Rodrick was nowhere to be found. He wasn’t even sure how he had escaped, but it must’ve been when Harry had left in the morning, since the door had been locked shut when he returned. What he knew for certain, however, was that it would be very bad if someone came across Rodrick. There would be no talking himself out of that one.  

Gripping at his hair, Harry walked out onto the streets, the air having turned biting, the sun already set. He looked down at the ground, where a scattering of leaves lay, having travelled through on the wind. Autumn had already arrived, something he still had trouble comprehending at times. 

He let his magic rise to the surface, spreading out into the air around him, and then he sent it outwards in thin, gossamer threads, not unlike the mesmerising, branching growths of mycelium. No matter how much time passed, or how much he witnessed it, he felt like he would never lose that bit of wonder towards magic; that such a wonder had come from him . It was just so achingly beautiful ( even when it was used to harm ). 

Those threads of his magic spread out through the streets, as far as he could push them, and then he chose a direction at random and began to walk. This wasn’t really a magical spell, or at least Harry didn’t think so, but it was something he had done as a young boy, when he did not yet know his own name, nor that the threads were his own magic. It had spared him many punishments, alerting him to his Aunt and Uncle’s presence, and the general mood they were in. 

At some point, a point he could not recall, he had stopped using them (or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he began to believe that the threads were the fanciful delusions of a lonely boy, and that he should really stop playing pretend, or believing himself to be something special). He wasn’t sure if he would’ve ever remembered these magical threads, if not for a casual mention of them from Death, and brief experimentation while left to his own devices in the shop.  The only unfortunate thing about them was how tired they made him. 

At first, his magic did not alert him to Rodrick’s distinct presence, and so Harry wandered the streets for a few minutes, avoiding eye contact with the people on the streets. But then something piqued his magic’s interest, the threads tugging in one direction, deeper into the shadows of Diagon Alley. 

It was most certainly Rodrick. 

He followed the tugging of his magic, the smog thickening and an unpleasant odour causing him to pull up his shirt and breath into it. He had, like the fool he was, forgotten to bring a cloak, being in so much of a hurry as he had been. The Book would probably act up, upset at not being taken along. 

He turned into a dark alley illuminated by a single, flickering sconce, where the tugging in his magic stopped. There was a shadowed form in the middle of it, laid down on the ground. 

It was a corpse. A human corpse. 

A small bird was perched on top of it. It was a crow—or perhaps a raven (Harry wasn’t quite sure what the difference was)—and it was nibbling at the dead body with all the enthusiasm of a starving man. 

Harry let his magic settle back down and slowly approached, letting go of his shirt. The corpse was fresh, he could tell, the body lacking the rotten and sickly odour of a human in decay, rigour mortis yet to set in. Very fresh. Harry glanced around warily, wand gripped tightly in his hand, wondering if there was a culprit, and if so, if they were still hanging around in the shadows, waiting for a new victim. 

When there was nothing save for the sound of a beak tearing into flesh, however, he approached closer. The crow didn’t move from its spot, continuing to glut itself. He stared down, unblinking, until the crow paused in its feast, turning its head towards him. Familiar, dull eyes set in that tiny skull greeted him, and he sucked in a breath, crouching down. 

‘Rodrick?’ he whispered, feeling a bit silly despite the surety in his gut. The crow blinked up at him, beak gleaming with blood under the green flame of the torch, a piece of uneaten meat stuck to the top. The crow tilted its head to the side, until it was perpendicular to the ground, and then it did it again on the other side. The crow hopped towards him, before flapping its wings.

Harry flinched back slightly, shielding his face on instinct. When he only felt a small weight on his shoulder, curved talons digging through the thin material of his shirt and piercing skin, he lowered his hands. ‘ Ouch ,’ he complained, looking at the crow. He reached out a finger, poking at its feathery breast. ‘How exactly…why are you a crow?’ he said. He knew that Rodrick was an anomaly, but he didn’t expect him to be this much of one. 

In response, the crow moved closer, rubbing its head against his cheek, the still-wet blood on its beak smearing across his skin, familiar and sticky. He surrounded the crow with his magic, watching as the glowing tendrils wrapped around it, inspecting. There didn’t seem to be anything abnormal about Rodrick, and yet he was no longer a strange undead creature, but a strange undead bird. 

Frowning, he turnt his attention back to the corpse on the ground, raising his wand and casting a lumos . The light from the spell revealed dirty blonde hair, and the face of a woman whose left eye was hardly there anymore. The crow hopped around his shoulder, the guiltless culprit of said missing eye. There were no signs of a struggle, or any indication of wounds, besides some dirt dusting her form. There was a chance that she merely collapsed here, succumbing to some unknown illness.

A shuffling noise caught his attention, and he realised that there was a small figure sitting deeper in the alleyway, back pressed up against the wall, having originally been obscured by the darkness and smog. It was a Ghost, a small boy without shoes or toes and a face half torn. He was far too small to belong to the corpse on the ground, though there had to be a reason that he was there, blankly staring at the corpse.

Harry hesitated for a moment, looking at the boy’s matted, blonde hair, before asking in a gentle voice, ‘Is this…your mum?’ 

The boy’s blank eyes shifted to look at him. 

The weight on his shoulder lessened, and he could feel blood drip down his shoulder. Rodrick had flown back on top of the corpse, and begun pecking at the other eye. ‘Hey, stop that!’ exclaimed Harry, hand shooting out and grabbing the crow, and then holding the crow in both of his hands, bringing him close to his chest. 

Bare feet slapped against stone. Harry looked back at where the Ghost was, only to barely catch a glimpse of him running away, most likely spooked by his abrupt motion. 

He looked back down at the corpse of the woman, thinking for a moment. Eventually, however, he stood, legs slightly tingling from staying in that crouched position for too long. Giving one last glance, and a whispered ‘Sorry,’ he began walking once more, leaving the alleyway and the corpse to whatever fate had in store for it. 

He supposed that this made him a bad person. He could’ve stayed and tried to investigate her death, or alert the authorities, or even give a proper burial. But this was Knockturn Alley, and thus he would be inviting more trouble than it was worth, potentially even putting him in jeopardy. The last thing he needed was his questionable identity to be discovered, and for Unspeakables to come knocking on his door. Besides, whoever the woman had been, she was not one of his close friends or family, and thus she was none of his concern ( that’s what he told himself, at least ).

He may have been such a bleeding heart once, ready to rush to the aid of any distressed soul, but there were only so many pieces of his heart to give out, before he hardly had any heart left to himself. 

*

Voldemort smoothly bent down and entered The Madame’s shop with ease despite his towering form. The Madame was there, sat in her rocking chair as always, fingers weaving those vèvè braids of hers. ‘Hello, Madame,’ he said, approaching her. ‘I know that it’s almost closing time, but I figured that I must stop by for a visit.’

‘Oh my, Lord Gaunt,’ she said, setting down those glinting threads. ‘I haven’t seen you in many years.’ She hopped off her rocking chair. ‘What brings you here, after all this time?’

‘As much as I would like to say that I am here to visit you, I am afraid that would be a lie,’ he said, upturning the corners of his mouth and tilting his head minutely to the side, knowing that it properly conveyed sheepishness. The Madame squinted at him. He was almost certain that she was not fooled, but she always let it slide with him. 

‘Why am I not surprised,’ she said, shaking her head, but it was clear that she was not unhappy. ‘But I have a business to run, and so I shall welcome this. You always were my best customer.’

‘Always so understanding, Madame.’ He gave a smile. ‘I am looking to acquire a particular book, called The Rites of Seasons . It’s written by an unknown author, but it is a rather thin book, written in parseltongue.’

She hummed, wrinkled fingers tapping at her chin. Despite her visible age, unlike Borgin, she wore it quite well, though Borgin could hardly even be used to compare to her. ‘Hmm, tricky tricky. I’m afraid I don’t have that in my possession, but I shall keep it in mind, and contact you if I catch wind of any leads.’

‘Thank you, Madame.’ He inclined his head. 

‘Anything else, laddie?’

‘Yes, actually…’ he began, only to cut himself off at a sudden disturbance.

The door burst open, a small figure walking inside with hardly any grace or subtlety, like a storm rolling in with hardly any warning. It was a boy, perhaps in his late teens or early twenties, with blood smeared across his cheek, a large raven cradled in his arms. 

The boy froze, eyes widening, no doubt upon realising that there was a customer in the shop. And then, as if a hound catching the scent of blood, the boy snapped his head towards him with a single-minded focus, staring up into his eyes. Voldemort stood taller, meeting those green eyes the shade of death, something in him rising to the surface. 

So, this was the famed shop boy of the rumours. 

Voldemort continued to stare down at the boy. Peculiar. He was certain that the boy was no necromancer, merely another swindler seeking glory and fame. A true necromancer did not need to do a silly ritual or recite anything to summon the dead, after all. And yet, there was most certainly something different about the boy.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that the boy was not looking at him but through him, piercing eyes examining his heart, weighing it on Ma’at’s scale against the ostrich feather, and finding him sorely lacking. 

I know you , said the boy’s eyes. And I am not impressed, those eyes continued to say, stubbornly, cheekily, so very sure. 

He felt… seen . Seen in a way that made him want to pluck those eyes out. It was a detestable feeling (and yet he still couldn’t bring himself to look away).  

The thick fog of his magic spread out, towards the boy, and the boy flinched, sending a frigid glare. Thin, golden tendrils rose from the boy, swirling around, meeting his own magic, lashing out at it. The feel of it was warm. But in addition to those golden tendrils, something darker still lurked beneath, gelid and ancient, murderous, barely held at bay within those thin shoulders. 

And then the boy looked away, shattering the moment between them, his magic curling back within himself, as if it had never been there in the first place (as if the brilliant glow of it had not left Voldemort hungry).

‘I find myself in need of your shop boy,’ he found himself saying to The Madame. 

‘Oh?’ she said. 

‘I have a need for a necromancer, and I have heard much of yours.’ 

He had come to a conclusion: he would test the boy. It could not be denied that the boy was more than he seemed, and possessed a magic far greater than the average witch or wizard. Perhaps the boy was not a necromancer, but the taste of that lurking, abyssal magic still lingered. Surely the boy could be useful in other ways. 

He stared down at the boy once more. 

A puzzle. How intriguing.

He looked forward to solving it.

Chapter Text

Do you have a name? thought Harry, balancing precariously on one of the wooden boards that jutted out into the air, staring down at the white-limbo of King’s Cross. And then he looked behind him, craning his neck upwards. Being this far out, he could see how it was not only this room that was half torn, but the entirety of not-Grimmauld Place, revealing guts of rotten-wood and torn tapestry and broken jewellery.

‘A name?’ said Death, its presence inching closer. 

Harry looked back down at King’s Cross. The train had arrived once more, like clockwork. He wasn’t sure how time worked here, in Death’s domain, or if it even existed, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something seemed to govern when the train would arrive, and that something seemed to work to an invisible schedule. I mean, I know that you’re called Death , but do you have a name you go by? 

His foot slipped, a piece of the wood he was standing on cracking underneath his weight. He did not fall, however, instead seeming to float around in the air, his body weightless. It was hard to tell if that was Death’s doing, its all-encompassing presence keeping him suspended. 

‘No, not in the same way you humans do.’

‘Then how do you communicate with other…entities? Are there other entities?’ He kicked out his foot, a strange resistance pushing back at it, which caused him to somersault in the air. 

‘Communicate…it cannot really be called communication, what We do.’ Something grabbed at his ankle, stopping him from drifting beyond the house. ‘Perhaps it is best described as Us being aware.’

Harry furrowed his brows, trying to understand. And then he felt movement messing up his hair. 

‘Do you feel the need for Me to have a name? I do not mind, if you desire to give me one.’

Harry tilted his head back, looking at the now empty train station. The passengers had already boarded, and even the Ghosts were nowhere to be seen, perhaps having returned to the cracks and walls of not-Grimmauld Place, or to the In-between. 

No, I think…I think that Death fits. To call you by anything else…doesn’t feel right. 

*

The first time Voldemort met The Madame, it was nearly eight years ago under the dry heat of South Africa’s winter, sun beaming down from a cloudless sky. It had been seven and a half months since he left the ruined hearts of Hm Ntr , heading southwards through the great continent, the shadow of each country stretching out behind him underneath the daylight. He had not encountered another necromancer. His travels in Africa, however, were coming to an end. Johannesburg had been his final destination, where he stopped to replenish his supplies before he planned to continue his journey eastwards. 

Unlike in Britain, where dark ingredients were illegal without exception, South Africa was a country that could be regarded as quite lenient in that regard. The Prime Minister of Magical South Africa had passed a law that banned the selling of ingredients that could be used for dangerous rituals, in a bid to appease the increasingly uneasy witches and wizards who felt echoes of the new apartheid in muggle Johannesburg. However, there was no clause that didn’t allow those ingredients to be gifted or exchanged, and thus, like the old days of barter and trading, it was common practice for vendors to trade ingredients for something of equal value. 

It was there, at the crossroads of the Jukskei River, where muggle Johannesburg bled into magical, that he spotted her right away, a small carrying case gripped in those wrinkled, calloused fingers, skin like night darkened even further by a wide-brimmed hat. Strange little wooden dolls dangled from her ears, marks etched into the chests, a subtle power radiating from them. At the time he had had no interaction with the branch of magic known as vèvè , but he soon learnt to associate that beating, almost mechanical hum with it. 

The Madame didn’t look any different from how she did now: still tiny; still ancient; still with decades of mockery carved in the upturn of her lips.  

She approached him first, knowing in those eyes. ‘It is rare that I meet someone else like myself,’ were her first words, her voice almost whimsical. ‘Would you care to come over for some tea?’ It was clear that she was not referring to the fact that they were both English, despite how that was what it would seem to outsiders. To this day Voldemort would still wonder if it had truly been mere coincidence that they met there, or if that eternally scheming crone had something deliberate in mind. 

He had stared down at her, frail form doing nothing to conceal the murder on her teeth and the echoes of a clock stopped ticking in the air. It was then that Voldemort knew that she too had carved her own path to immortality. A much more bitter and bloody path, though he was unsure if her immortality was of the undying kind, such as himself, or merely of the unageing kind, like that of the Flamels. Regardless of the answer, however, he could not see the appeal in eternity as an old woman. It may be true that it was still eternity, but it was an eternity of aching bones and scornful glances. 

In the end, he responded with, ‘I am not opposed to tea.’ And then he followed her through the winding streets, her steps not slow for one of her height, but still too slow for him. He wondered what exactly it was, that she wanted to discuss. 

*

Harry had never been known for his smarts, or his looks, the lightning bolt scar forever twisting people’s impressions, making sure that it became his identity. And that was fine, because he truly wasn’t some brilliant genius, or someone who could rival that charming face of the Diary Horcrux. But what he was very good at was rolling with the punches and dealing with unforeseen surprises. He had to be, considering his track record. In fact, he actually preferred such spontaneity, which had admittedly been a source of great frustration to his friends. It was just easier to react to things, rather than meticulously plan things out only for something to fall through. However, just because he was good at dealing with the absurdity that was his life, that didn’t mean he always wanted to deal with it. 

Meeting his former-future arch nemesis was certainly not on Harry’s to-do-list today (nor was it ever, really). And the man standing before him was most certainly his nemesis—Voldemort as he lived and (unfortunately) breathed—even if he wore a different face, and shoes too. 

His scar-yet-not-scar ached. He wondered if it was a phantom ache, his soul remembering that which this body had never experienced, or if there was something more to it. He didn’t want to know the answer. Both seemed to imply things he would rather not confront. 

With the many rotations of the earth, his memory of his childhood had become fragmented and blurry, a mirage in the distant landscape of his mind (sometimes he wondered if what he remembered truly happened, or if history had been stitched back together with both distorted truth and wishful fantasy). But there were certain things that he would never forget; could never forget. His Hogwarts letter—the very first one, his first ever letter, the one that his uncle had snatched away from his hands—for instance, and sitting in that precarious boat, crossing the black lake as Hogwarts cut through the mist and clouds, for another. 

What he could also recall, with near perfect clarity, was Quirrell. He was the very first man he killed, after all. And, to his eternal horror, to his eternal shame, he would not be the last.  

When he met Quirrell all those years ago in the dim lighting of the Leaky Cauldron, he hadn’t been able to place the significance of that peculiar, unnatural magic that hovered around the stuttering man. He had only been eleven, after all, and he was far more concerned about what had transpired between Hagrid and his uncle, and how mad Uncle Vernon would be when he saw his face again. And then, when that dread slipped away, the fantastical sights of Diagon Alley had been far more interesting than a brief meeting with an eccentric man. 

But in that dark and damp room in the Underground Chambers, confronted with the truth of Quirrell’s existence—of Voldemort’s existence—memories of that peculiar magic had come rushing back. It was parasitic and insidious, surrounding Quirrell’s own, suffocating and fog-like, a beast consuming stone.

Harry could still remember the feeling of that brief but intent touch on Quirrell’s face: warm, slightly oily, and, he now realised, still so young (Harry is older, now, than Quirrell was ever allowed to become. He doesn’t know how to feel about that). And he remembers the unravelling: a putrid, oddly sweet smell of burning flesh and fat filling the air, Quirrell’s muscles stiffening and locking into place from shock, an unbearable and primal screaming…

That fog-like magic consuming Quirrell’s had been screaming, too, its form nearly indistinguishable from the dark cloud that rose from where Harry touched flesh. 

Was he a bad person, that the screams of Voldemort’s magic haunted him far more than Quirrell’s ever did? (The answer, obviously, was yes . The fact that he still breathed was proof). 

The man before him had that same fog-like magic surrounding him, except it was thicker; the sort of fog that buried mountains, rather than merely confusing weary travellers. Harry supposed not being a wraith attached to the back of someone’s head would do wonders for one’s magic. 

‘Oh, you’re just in time,’ said The Madame. ‘Come, meet a dear old friend of mine.’ 

Rodrick squirmed in his arms, talons digging into his skin, as Harry made his way over with cautious steps, feet dragging across the floor. He wondered if Rodrick could sense the magic filling the room too, the keen senses of an animal able to pick up that which most human wizards and witches could not. It was probably quite unpleasant, the mixture of fog and burnt flesh and ozone from all three of them. 

He looked Voldemort up and down, feeling a slight irritation at the fact that he was an unnaturally tall bastard even before he became all snake-faced. It was almost comical to see The Madame stood next to him, the loose strands of her bun barely reaching his stomach. Harry squinted, boring a hole into his face, until the air seemed to waver and shift, and the skin ripple. Or perhaps he was already snake-faced underneath that glamour of his, or at least approaching it. He imagined that splitting one’s soul into pieces was highly likely to have physical side effects, even if it wasn’t as severe as when Voldemort split himself eightfold. 

And then Harry turned his attention to his hat, and cane, and very formal robes, and wondered how Voldemort had gone from someone as pompous as Lucius Malfoy to a snake-man who walked around barefoot in robes that were only one step above a bathrobe. 

‘Why are you so far away, laddie?’ The Madame’s leathery, wrinkled hand grabbed his forearm, the strange texture of it perceptible even through the fabric of his shirt. Harry stiffened, surprised, realising that this was the first time that she had actually touched him before. She continued to drag him until he stood right in front of Voldemort. 

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you,’ said Voldemort, looking down at him, mouth upturned in a way that would suggest friendliness were it anyone else. There was an intensity to his eyes that was both familiar yet foreign. ‘I’ve heard so much of you, and yet nothing at all,’ he practically purred, the low, smooth notes of his voice pleasant to the ears. 

Harry gave a short laugh, that was really more a strange exhalation of air that managed to vibrate his vocal cords. Those were not the sort of words he wanted to hear from Voldemort of all people. Harry bit his tongue, holding back the urge to say, ‘And I of you, Riddle,’ lest he find himself faced with questions he had no wish to answer. 

‘I am Lord Gaunt, but you may call me Tom,’ he gave a short nod of the head, and then reached out his hand, offering. 

Harry stared down at it.

A part of him, the one that was impulsive and full of old wounds, contemplated burning all bridges, whipping out his wand and severing Voldemort’s hand from its body. The more rational part of him—small and feeble as it was—managed to win out, however. While there was certainly disdain, and anger, towards Voldemort, it was not a brightly burning, ugly hatred. Instead, there was even a hint of pity. 

Perhaps it was because he was staring at a dead man—one that he had killed, many years ago, in many years to come, many universes away. Or perhaps it was because he knew his Voldemort so well; knew his past and his fears and his obsessions. It was jarring to look at what Voldemort had once been, knowing the pathetic, ruined thing he would become, and of the mutilated little creature in King’s Cross Station all those years ago, by no fault other than himself. 

(A part of him was even a little disappointed that the one before him was not his Voldemort. For all that he had done to Harry, and, he supposed, for all that Harry had done in turn, it could not be denied that their shared history shackled them together by the throats. The man before him may be Voldemort at the core, but he was also a stranger. Ironic, that he preferred the monster to the man that would become one). 

Regardless of his feelings, however, he could not afford to be—too—impulsive. He had goals; goals that did not involve declaring open war with Voldemort. Going on another Horcrux crusade was not something he wanted to do again, especially when he didn’t even know where Voldemort put them all in this time period. As long as he could ensure that his friends’ futures were secured, he would leave Voldemort alone—for the most part. If he saw him doing anything particularly egregious, he would stop him, of course. Just because he didn’t want to didn’t mean he wouldn’t if his hand was forced (besides, being the bane of Voldemort’s existence was admittedly quite fun at times).

A loud clearing of the throat. 

Harry blinked, glancing at The Madame’s disproving eyes. He had spaced out. And then he looked back at Voldemort, who looked down at him almost daringly, though daring him to do what, he could not say. Harry adjusted Rodrick, so he was cradled in his left arm, and then he shook Voldemort’s hand, very deliberately maintaining eye contact with those fake brown eyes. 

Invisible sparks seemed to dance up his skin, and suddenly he felt a slight ache, right where his not-scar was. Voldemort’s magic was a greedy thing, invisible yet so very tangible, latching onto him with a rude invasiveness, as if doing so would peel away answers to questions Harry could not even begin to guess he had. He felt his own magic begin to rise to the surface, eager to meet this rude challenger once more, in addition to something else; something deeper, and darker, cold and twisting tendrils that could only belong to Death (and yet somehow, they felt wholly his ). 

Harry frowned, shoving down his magic, and then tried to pull his hand away. Voldemort did not let him, however, his hand clamping down on his own in an almost painful grip. It was no longer really a handshake but a one-sided restraint. Voldemort leaned in, and a hint of crimson flickered across those irises, so quick that it could’ve been mistaken for the warm glow of a candle catching in his eye. 

‘Do we know each other?’ he said. It was a question and yet it was not said like one, the words slipping out unbidden, as if he were speaking a passing thought aloud. And then he straightened back up, holding his body still in a way that was unnatural. He slowly loosened his grip, fingers sliding across his palm, eyes narrowed. 

Harry’s hand dropped to his side, fingers twitching, the imprint of his too-tight grip lingering. 

‘What was it you said your name was?’

‘I didn’t,’ said Harry, tilting his chin upwards, feeling a long-buried insolence unearthing itself in the face of that arrogant voice. There was a flicker of irritation in those eyes; a hint of that crimson once more. That fog-like magic tried to reach out towards him again, to latch onto flesh, but Harry shuffled back half a step, shooting him a look of warning. Surprisingly, that was enough.

‘Harry,’ chastised The Madame. ‘Where did your manners go?’ Despite her words, she looked towards Voldemort, something contemplative in her gaze. She looked as if she were presented with an object she had never seen before, but was certain that it had immense value. 

‘It’s quite alright, Madame,’ said Voldemort. ‘He— Harry, was it?—is just a boy.’ He gave a warm chuckle. ‘He can hardly be faulted for being a bit bold.’

Harry’s lips twitched, and then said, ‘No, actually, we’re only a few years apart.’ And wasn’t that a thought. It was strange for Voldemort to not be an old man at least fifty years his senior. It was almost disappointing that he would not be able to use any old man jokes, not without sounding strange, but he was sure he’d find something new to taunt Voldemort with. 

‘Are we?’ Voldemort tilted his head minutely. ‘How fascinating. I suppose you are just especially…youthful.’

‘I could say the same,’ he couldn’t help but retort.  

The Madame gave a huff. ‘Whether he’s a boy or a man, that doesn’t mean he should give such cheek.’

‘I think it’s quite charming,’ said Voldemort, who most certainly didn’t think it charming at all. Harry had a feeling that, if he weren’t in The Madame’s shop, then he probably would’ve been flinging curses at him. ‘Besides, I’m sure he’ll warm up once we get to know each other better.’

‘Right. You said you needed a necromancer, laddie?’ 

‘That is correct.’

‘Well,’ began The Madame, giving Harry a look he could not interpret, ‘I’m afraid I’m quite knackered, so I’ll be heading to bed. But feel free to discuss your matters with the boy—he’ll be perfectly willing to help you out.’ And then, after throwing him under the herd of hippogriffs, she went upstairs. 

They both stared at the top of the stairs, where she had vanished, before they turned to look at each other. Immediately that thin veneer of politeness seemed to shed away like skin off a snake, and an oppressive pressure filled the room, pressing against Harry. It could not be denied that it was impressive, even intoxicating, the fog-like magic carrying notes of a siren’s allure. It was no wonder that Voldemort had amassed such a loyal and nearly obsessive following as he did. 

But Harry was not one of Voldemort’s simpering Death Eaters, nor would he ever be one. There was certainly no chance that he would submit to this blatant intimidation. His own magic continued to squirm under his tight control, insistent on baring its fangs against a formidable foe, but he kept it buried. There was no need to show Voldemort all of his cards, nor blow up the shop. The Madame would not be pleased at all. 

‘So, you’re the…necromancer,’ began Voldemort. Crimson eyes flickered into existence completely, casually, deliberately. 

He was, technically, though he had no idea what that exactly entailed. But he wouldn’t let Voldemort know that, so he said, ‘Yeah, I am.’ To others he might appear to be a hare willingly jumping into the jaws of a fox, but Harry thought differently. He was not a hare, but rather a jackrabbit brandishing its horns, ready to pierce through the fox’s mouth like he once did the great basilisk. 

Harry had a feeling that he wouldn’t be getting much sleep tonight. 

*

‘The soul remembers,’ began Death, breaking the mutual silence in Its domain, ‘and it remembers fiercely.’ The air seemed to shift like water, tiny little specks of night the only indication that It was there. It wasn’t always the case that he could perceive Death in such a way, at least not so visually. But recently it seemed that he could see more of Its form than before. He couldn’t tell if that was Death’s doing, or if something had changed; if he had changed. 

Why do you say that? thought Harry, stretching his hand out, feeling a slight resistance as he did so. The specks of night swirled towards his hand, naturally drawn to it. Death was most easily attracted to the living, after all. 

‘Because I can still hear it: the cries from your soul, calling out for that which was lost.’ Suddenly, Death became even more tangible, consuming his hand in darkness, much like The Book had all those months ago. ‘Much as a tree grows over a boulder, roots pushing and expanding, burying itself deep, so too did your soul. What do you think happens, when you take away that boulder?

‘How long have you felt unsteady, unsettled, unmoored - as if you cannot quite get your balance?’ 

Harry did not answer, instead wiggling his fingers. 

‘And yet it is that unbalancedness that gives you so much potential.’

Harry blinked. Potential? 

‘You have cracks, running up and down your soul, that never quite healed. You have died many times, after all, each time visiting my domain, even if you do not remember every instance. And with each death, a little piece of you was left behind.’

Harry felt a slight alarm go through him. Considering what happened with Voldemort, that certainly didn’t sound good. 

‘The more cracks, the more potential for other things to slip into those empty spaces in your soul, the more potential for you to see More. 

‘Not every necromancer can see Ghosts, did you know?’

*

‘But what’s it to you whether I’m a necromancer or not?’ said the insolent boy. Others may look at the boy and think him a Hufflepuff, but it was clear that he was full of a lion’s boldness. 

Staring down into those swirling green pools, little flecks of moonlight and gold dotting the centre, Voldemort wondered what thoughts exactly lurked behind those eyes that pierced through his very being, and then so haughtily dismissed him. There was a surety in the boy’s shoulders that was rarely found in men twice his age, never mind a boy like this. It did not seem to be merely arrogance emboldened by youth—or rather, not only that (he could not help but think back on the barest glimpse of the boy’s magic, now hidden beneath thin shoulders, so very peculiar; so very delectable). 

Voldemort could be patient; was well versed in waiting for the best opportunity to strike, but even he would feel impatience knocking at his door from time to time. Perhaps it was because this boy was an anomaly, or perhaps he was just bored, the limits of his patience spread thin from having to deal with Abraxas’ grief-filled desperation, but he found himself dipping into those eyes, feeling his consciousness brush up against another’s. 

A light buzz filled his ears, the outside world becoming more muted as he allowed a part of himself to slip further into the boy’s mind. Instead of the characteristic sound of surface thoughts, which were often fragmented and split, however, he was only met with a gnawing silence. It was almost as if the boy did not have a mind at all, except that was not quite right. Something lurked there, beneath; something different, and yet something familiar, trying to pull him in without any intent. He allowed himself to sink deeper, following that pull, his vision wobbling as he plunged fully into the boy’s mind.  

As The Madame’s shop melted away into mindscape, he found himself, for the first time in many years, truly surprised. People liked to say that each individual is unique, carrying characteristics that no other person has, but for one who has peered at the innermost thoughts of many, who has stepped foot into landscape after landscape of a person’s inner mind, he would beg to differ. At their very core, they were all the same: driven by their hopes and fears and emotion. Even the most accomplished of Occlumens could not completely hide this, their true nature revealed in the architecture of their defences. 

The boy’s mind was like many others before him, and yet there was something distinctly other about it as well.  

Before Voldemort stood a wall. 

It was tall, the top of it vanishing into a murky mist that blocked out the sun, filling the mindscape with a grey-yellow tint. This was not uncommon, the impression of the wall as defence against outsiders firmly engraved in people’s minds. What was peculiar was that there were fissures in the stone, running up and down it. They were not the sort of fissures one might see as a result of time, jagged and irregular, but the sort of fissures one might see if a great beast had sliced into it. 

A fool might mistake these imperfections for a weakness in the defence, but Voldemort knew better. Lurking within those deep fissures were strange, twisting tendrils of living black, much like what he had briefly glimpsed beneath the golden threads of the boy’s magic, beckoning him closer. 

He stepped forward, reaching out a hand to touch across the cold stone. It was not smooth, the tiny granules making up tiny bumps on the surface, nor was it still, seeming to hum with a strange life. And then he slid his hand closer to one of those fissures, though not quite touching. One of those tendrils reached out, as if it were blind but could sense his presence, and then tentatively curled around his finger. Immediately a strange shiver filled him, the echoes of a thousand whispers filling his mind. He shook his head, trying to rid himself of those sounds, and yet they only seemed to get louder. His ears seemed to throb, both in the mindscape and in the real world. 

He moved to pull his hand away, before abruptly stopping. There, in the distance, he could’ve sworn he heard a familiar echo, deep behind the wall. It was faint, little more than an impression of perhaps what was once there, the sound nearly drowned out by the whispers, and yet he knew without a doubt that it was distinctively his. 

The question, then, was what it was doing in the mind of a boy he had never met before. 

Never before had he been presented with such an intriguing and mysterious situation. He wanted to break through the wall; to crack it open without mercy and peer inside the boy’s mind. However, the throbbing in his ears worsened, and he was finally forced to pull his hand away from the wall. 

Silence returned. 

And then he withdrew his mind, blinking a couple times as reality reformed right before his eyes, feeling a trickle of liquid pool into the cavum of his ear, warm and distinctly metallic. 

It was not impossible for an Occlumens to create a defence so powerful that it physically affected a Legilimens. Voldemort’s own defences, for instance, were so well fortified that it could even drive someone mad, the synapses in their brain forced to fire at such a high rate that it rendered them permanently damaged. But it was an entirely different matter when said Occlumens was just a boy barely on the cusp of manhood. 

The street children of Knockturn Alley, while crafty and wily, were not known for their magical prowess. In part, they could not be faulted for that, considering how most were unable to even glimpse Hogwarts’ towering form. While Hogwarts was boasted for being a magical school for all, one of the best schools of magic one can attend, there was far more at play beneath the surface. 

There was indeed an education fund for the poor and the pitiful orphans, but that funding tended to mysteriously dry up when it came to the magical children of Knockturn Alley. Thus, when a child of Knockturn received their letter, eyes full of excitement, they would soon dim upon receiving the news that they would have to cover all of the expenses themselves. They would then have to make the choice between declining to attend, or convince a witch or wizard to take a stupid gamble and fund a penniless street urchin.

This was no shock, if one was well informed on the internal politics of Wizarding Britain. To the Ministry of Magic, Knockturn Alley was a permanent thorn in their side, filled with evil-doers and the vermin of society. Any children who came out of such a dark and troubled place were seen as potential future threats, and it was silently agreed upon that it was better to strangle them in the crib, so to say. And to the influential and haughty pure-bloods, particularly those with darker inclinations, Knockturn Alley was a useful eyesore, better kept hidden away and shunned until they needed something from there. 

‘Rude bastard,’ said the boy. He did not break eye contact with Voldemort, however, still continuing to stare into Voldemort’s, almost as if he were daring him to try again. And then a smirk formed on his face, and he stood a little straighter, fearless and audacious, and said, ‘Though, how’d that work out for you?’ 

A stab of irritation filled him, and his wand hand couldn’t help but twitch, but he refrained from retaliating. It was clear that the boy was trying to provoke him, though he did not know why. Besides, it was best not to start anything in The Madame’s shop, if they were to continue doing business together. 

Now, to lure this little lion in. 

‘A beloved pet of mine has passed,’ he began. ‘However, I find that I do not want to say goodbye to her quite yet.’

The boy stared at him in suspicion, as if he didn’t quite believe him. 

‘Would you be able to bring her back?’

While he had many doubts towards the boy, all that he knew of necromancers before contrary to the rumours, it would not hurt to test him. Besides, there were still many mysteries circling around the boy; mysteries he intended to solve. It didn’t matter if the boy was a necromancer or not, all that mattered was if he would be useful. This would give him more time to observe the boy. And perhaps a part of him was curious to see how the boy would squirm and struggle to complete his task.  

‘I’m willing to generously pay you for your services, of course.’ Or rather, Abraxas would, if he knew what was good for him.

‘You want me to…bring back your pet?’

‘Yes, her name was…Inanna, and she was a little moon viper.’

 ‘And how did she die?’

‘An unfortunate encounter with a wildcat.’

The boy went quiet, clearly lost in thought. 

‘Are you unable to do it?’

The boy twitched.

‘You said you were a necromancer, did you not?’ He approached closer, giving a smirk. ‘Or was that a lie?’

The boy’s hands closed into fists, and then he said, ‘Of course I can.’ Despite his words, Voldemort could hear the hesitance in his breath, see the quick flick of his eyes to the side, the curl of his fingers—as if the boy did not quite believe the affirmation that left his lips.

‘Brilliant. Shall I go fetch her now?’

A flash of panic in the boy’s eyes. ‘Oh, I can’t do it now. I need to…gather some ingredients first. And consult my book.’

‘Book? You are in possession of a book on necromancy?’

‘...Something like that.’ 

*

Harry trudged his way back upstairs, feeling slightly drained now that he was no longer faced with Voldemort. Safely back in his cramped attic, he tossed Rodrick onto his bed, who let out an indignant squawk. As much as he wanted to dive under the covers and go to sleep as if he didn’t have a giant headache knocking at his door, however, he knew he had more pressing matters. 

Opening the desk drawer, he pulled out The Book.

When Harry first attempted Dark magic, rage and anguish setting his nerves alight, the memory of Sirius’ grey eyes briefly meeting his own before he vanished to his death replaying in his mind over and over and over, his magic had failed him. 

Even now, there were nights, very long nights, where he could not seem to let go of the past ( but when could he ever, really? ). Where he could still hear that soft and choked noise Sirius had made, as if he had been punched in the gut, followed by Bellatrix’s high pitched, reedy cackles. And it filled him with a deep, ruinous hatred. 

Nights like those, he couldn’t help but wish that his fifteen-year-old self could’ve been more ruthless; could’ve felt as much hate for her that he felt in those damning moments, alone in his bed, dark and ugly thoughts dripping into the ocean of his mind like a poison. A part of him, one that he would deny existed, wished that he had been able to crucio her, until her body locked and her mind shattered, so she could never laugh again; so she could experience even a fraction of the pain that refused to stop haunting him. 

If he had been a better person, the saviour that the Wizarding World both revered and spat on, the Golden Boy that people looked up to, that one shameful attempt would have been the end of it. 

And yet it wasn’t. 

With each attempt—and then success—of those dark and terrible spells, it became easier. Perhaps a little too easy. 

Over the years his stance towards Dark Magic had softened, perhaps more than most in the Wizarding World would have appreciated. Wartime had proven that both ‘good’ and ‘bad’ alike would utilise those spells, for better or for worse. And in those moments, he had begun to realise that it was truly the person that determined how terrible those dark curses were. A person that flung a thousand crucios at a dummy was far better than a person who shot it at a living person, after all ( then what did that make him? ). 

That didn’t mean, however, that he felt comfortable about delving into the Dark Arts once more, especially one so daunting as necromancy. Admittedly, a part of his reluctance was due to all the negative stories about necromancers influencing him. He also could not help but feel that it was wrong, to try and bring back or control that which was already dead, even if Death did not seem to have any issue with it. 

Even more than that, Harry was afraid; he was afraid of what he might become, if he were to cross this path into the truly forbidden. Because there was a hidden hunger, one that he couldn’t help but notice, whenever dark magic left his lips. It was not quite like being a moth drawn to a flame, but rather like a struck match hitting oil, igniting elements that already existed inside of him. 

But despite all of his reservations, he knew that avoiding it would hurt him in the long run.

He sat down on the floor, his back leaning against the bed. He placed it on the ground, and then, with a quick flick of his wand, the tip of it ignited, a tiny little flame. He grabbed it, pulling it closer to himself, and then said, through gritted teeth, ‘You’re going to give me some answers, or you’re going to burn.’ 

Hermione would have been absolutely horrified. Even he knew that book burning was something that the worst villains of history did, but desperate times came desperate measures, and he had quite enough of not knowing. Besides, something told him that fire might not be enough to get rid of it. It was something of Death’s, after all. 

The Book vibrated in his hands, turning a burning cold that was nearly unbearable. 

Harry reached behind him, grabbing a hold of Rodrick’s, and pulling him off the bed. He held the bird in front of The Book. ‘First, what’s going on with Rodrick?’ He dropped the bird into his lap. A stretch of silence passed, Harry opening and closing his mouth, before he said, much more quietly, nearly choking on the words, ‘And second, how do I bring a snake back to life?’

The Book flipped open, and then those thin tendrils emerged from the pages, stretching out towards him. Harry moved his body away instinctually, remembering what had happened the last time he let those tendrils touch him. And then he stood up, shuffling towards the hatch, when it became clear The Book was not relenting. 

Before he could slip out, those tendrils lunged with a shocking ferocity, and he was subsumed in darkness once more. This time, instead of finding himself in a new and strange body once more, much to his relief, he found himself in Death’s domain.

‘Finally stopped running, Master?’ came that echoing, all-consuming voice. 

*

Voldemort stepped out of the floo, shoes lightly tapping against the varnished floors of Riddle Manor. With practised movements he removed his hat and shoes, before moving at a leisurely pace towards his desk. He pulled out the ornate chair, sitting down. 

And then he pulled out his wand, summoning a small snake. A moon viper.  

Hello, little one, he hissed. 

A speaker! said the little snake, her tongue flicking in and out of her mouth. She slithered closer to him, the white of her scales a stark contrast against the dark wood of the desk. A speaker!

Yes, indeed. He reached out a hand, picking her up. Her thin body coiled around his wrist. 

Why has speaker summoned me?

I have a very important task for you, little one. He gently stroked the top of her head, staring at red eyes so similar to his own. No, Inanna . Your name is Inanna. 

Inanna? Inanna, Inanna! Inanna is so honoured to be of use to a speaker.

Wonderful.

And then he sent a slicing hex her way, splitting open her scales and soft flesh. Blood dripped down his fingers, slightly cool. The snake curled and contorted, her mouth opening and closing in noiseless pain. One could not read lips with snakes like with humans, even if they understood parseltongue, but he had a feeling he knew what she was silently trying to say. Shhh, it’s alright. This won’t be the end, if you live up to your namesake. Her body gave out quickly then, the tight muscles wrapped around his wrist loosening.

He lifted her higher, so that she was eye level, examining the gaping wound. It was a little too perfect of a cut; perhaps too perfect to be a result of an animal attack, so he pulled at the edges of the wound, letting the edges become more jagged and torn. When he was satisfied with his handiwork, he set her back on the desk. 

I’ll make sure you don’t go to waste, either way.

Chapter Text

Do you not…I don’t know, resent him? Harry couldn’t help but ask, tucked away in Death’s embrace, a moth in a spider’s cocoon.

‘Resent?’

Harry tilted his head back, staring up at the entity. You know. For trying to cheat you?

‘Why would I resent him? Whether Voldemort had split himself into a thousand pieces or just two makes no difference.’

Harry felt himself sink in deeper, the half-torn surroundings of Not-Grimmauld Place vanishing into beautiful night. His vision was not fully obstructed, Death’s form not opaque, but he could only make out the vaguest of shapes from the world outside its embrace.

‘I collected him, in the end, just as I have collected everyone and everything before and after time exists. There shall come a time when I collect Myself, too.’

Harry furrowed his brows, unable to figure out how exactly that would work.

‘So, whether it had taken your precious sun to run its final breath first, its burning form gracing my door, before I collected Voldemort, it matters little.’

Is that why necromancy is, well, a thing people can do? I would’ve thought it an antithesis to You, pulling away souls you’ve already reaped. But if You simply don’t care…

‘It is not My duty to interfere with such things, only to collect souls when it is Time. Sometimes that Time is split up into multiple instances.’

Then…then why am I so different, if you are so indifferent? Something tells me you don’t bring everyone here, to your Domain.

‘You already know the answer, Master.’

…Surely I’m not the only one to have collected all of the Hollows.

‘You were the only one meant to.’

*

Light glinted off pale gold as it rose and fell in a graceful arc, the inactive snitch expertly caught in Harry’s awaiting hands each time. His messy and slightly overgrown hair spread out against the green of the sheets, and the beginning of some stubble had begun to form on his chin. Like most days, he was avoiding his problems, though today’s said problem happened to be a grumpy house-elf that caught Harry vanishing the food off his plate, eternally-narrowed eyes watching him through the crack of his bedroom door like a childhood monster.

Currently he was hiding away in one of the many rooms of Grimmauld Place. He wasn’t sure who’s room it used to be, back when the Black family was not a thing of the past, but they must have been rather young. While the colour scheme was in a typical Slytherin green, it was rather cosy, brightly coloured Quidditch posters and charcoal sketches—including a silly doodle of a snake riding an owl—hung on the walls.

He turned his head, still absentmindedly tossing the snitch up and down, to stare at a messy pile of books on the floor. This would not normally be anything that warranted looking at, except for the fact that there was a perfectly good bookshelf next to said pile, the shelves half empty. He would’ve thought the former occupant didn’t care much for studying, if it weren’t for the detailed and uniform notes and a single open textbook on the desk.

It was a bit odd, how the whole room was still arranged in a way as if still waiting for its owner to return.

The snitch bumped into the side of his fingers. He tried to catch it, but was unsuccessful, and the golden snitch hit the ground, the sound of it bouncing and rolling somewhere filling the room. Harry sat up, scanning the floor for it, but it was nowhere in sight. He got off the bed, getting onto his knees, and lifted the bed skirt. Peeking underneath, he saw the faintest reflection of light off gold.

He reached his hand under the bed, but his fingers merely brushed the surface, causing it to roll deeper under the bed. Harry let out a groan—he left his wand back in his bedroom—before getting down onto his stomach, cheek pressed against the wooden floor. He slid himself forward, so that he was half under the bed. As he let out a noise of triumph, fingers curling around the snitch, however, his hand bumped against something startlingly cold.

He squinted. It looked to be some sort of box, made of a material so dark that it nearly melted into the shadows. Reaching with his other hand, he grabbed that too, and then sat back on top of the bed. The golden snitch lay lonely and neglected to the side, Harry far more intrigued by the box now held in his hands.

It was a box made entirely of some sort of dark stone, the surface delicately carved with designs. Harry went to open it, half expecting it to be locked, but it wasn’t, the lid silently opening to reveal satin-lined insides. And resting right on top was some sort of object, or at least it was some sort of object at one point, but now it was nothing more than bits of broken glass scattered around, as well as what looked like a lock of hair and bits of sand.

Perhaps it had been an hourglass? But that wouldn’t explain the hair, dark and wavy strands that were slightly tangled and locked together by some sort of dried substance. There was the faintest lingering magic coming from, but it was a mere taste, giving no indication to what former purpose it might have served.

‘Master Harry.’

He nearly jumped out of his skin, hands gripping the box tightly so he did not drop it. Looking to the door, there stood Kreacher, eyes uncharacteristically blank.

‘Oh, Kreacher…’ Harry let out a nervous laugh, ‘I swear I don’t normally do that with my food, but today I just wasn’t feeling well, and I didn’t want you to worry…’ He paused, taking careful note of how Kreacher did not seem to react, nor did he wear that disappointed and chastising stare of his. ‘Kreacher? Are you alright?’

Kreacher turned his head, looking at something further in the room. And then he walked in further, tilting his head up to look at one of the charcoal drawings. He raised his hand, as if to touch one of them, before seeming to think better of it, dropping his hand. ‘Does Master Harry know who drew these?’

‘No…’

Kreacher continued to stare at the drawings. ‘Master Regulus liked to draw.’

‘Oh,’ was all Harry said, because he truly didn’t know how he was supposed to respond. He knew very well of Kreacher’s fierce devotion and loyalty to his former master, as well as the quiet grief he held for him even to this day. ‘They’re very nice,’ he said lamely.

Harry looked around the room again, this time with more informed eyes. So, this…was Sirius’ brother’s room. Sirius hadn’t liked to talk about Regulus very much—granted, he hadn’t liked to talk about many things—but Harry knew that Sirius loved his brother fiercely, even in spite of their falling out. And he also knew that Sirius felt terrible that they never got the chance to reconcile before his death.

He couldn’t help but wonder who Regulus was, as a person (he couldn’t help but wonder what a lot of people were like as a person, rather than the indistinct constructions born from history).

‘I…I didn’t know that this was his room. Sorry.’ Harry awkwardly stood up from the bed, smoothing the bedsheets and pocketing the snitch, attempting to erase as much of his traces as possible.

Kreacher shook his head. ‘Kreacher did not lock the door.

*

It was only much later, when the cautious barrier between Harry and Kreacher had begun to crumble, that Harry dared ask what had been in that box. That he felt like he was allowed to ask it. The wounds in Kreacher’s heart had not lessened—would never truly lessen, he suspected— but it had become different. Not different in a better way, just different. The mere mention of his former master’s name no longer caused him to shut down, but his ears always drooped whenever it came up.

‘Hey, Kreacher?’ said Harry, as he walked down the halls, Kreacher in tow. They would do this, on occasion, merely walking around the house without purpose.

‘Yes, Master Harry?’

‘What…what exactly was in that box?’ He did not elaborate on which box he was talking about, and he didn’t have to. There was no doubt that Kreacher knew exactly what it was that he spoke of.

They walked a few more steps before Kreacher answered. ‘Kreacher does not know. But Master Orion taught Regulus how to make it.’ A pause. ‘And it had to do with Sirius.’

‘Sirius…?’

‘That be all that Kreacher knows.’

‘That’s quite alright. No—that’s more than alright. Thank you, Kreacher.’

They began to walk again.

‘If…if Master Harry would like, he could look at it again.’

Harry stopped walking, looking back at Kreacher in surprise. The house elf stared back at him unflinchingly, staring him in the eyes. Harry didn’t bother with ‘Are you sure?’ or ‘You don’t have to.’ He could see in Kreacher’s eyes that the elf had made up his mind. He was terribly stubborn, after all. Harry would know, being stubborn himself.

‘Okay.’

*

Harry stared down at the object laying innocently in the box. Kreacher stood just beyond the doorframe in the hall. The house elf was trying to be subtle about it, but he could still tell. When he had invited Kreacher to come in with him the house elf had refused.

And then, with a lift of his wand, he shot a reparo at it. The shards of glass and sand swirled to life, slotting back together and surrounding that lock of hair. As it restored itself, the face of a clock revealed itself to him, made entirely of glass. It wasn’t time that it told, however, but a single name: SIRIUS BLACK.

It reminded Harry very much of the special clock at the Weasley’s.

*

Harry did not find himself back in not-Grimmauld Place. Instead, he scarcely had time to blink before he registered himself plummeting towards a white platform and into a sea of soon-to-be-passengers. It did not hurt, the landing, but he laid there on the ground anyway, unmoving, as if it had. He felt strangely winded, as if he had just run a marathon. Or maybe down here, in this strange limbo for the dead, the very air was thicker, sliding down his throat sluggishly and sitting heavy in his lungs, oxygen intrusive in his bloodstream. Though he couldn’t recall there being anything odd about the air the first time he was here, back when he was so sure of his own death, walking unflinchingly towards it.

He had never told anyone, how truly terrified he had been; how it all felt so unfair (he just wanted to live; did he not deserve that, too?). That bitterness had circled his heart, vile and rotten, a rose bloomed too long, whispering temptations for him to give up; to let all who pushed a war on a mere boy’s shoulders to drown in Voldemort’s pitiless rule. And yet he had gone anyway, head held high, to stop a war that had already taken so much; too much.

Shoes and feet and legs entered and exited his vision, the souls of King’s Cross seemingly uncaring about this new intruder. Occasionally the long skirt of a dress would drag against his face, or the carved wood of a cane would hit him in the side. Despite this, they clearly were aware to some extent that he was there, careful to step around or over his supine form.

He stood up, feeling a sense of unease.

The souls were not tangible, their forms flickering and slightly misty as they wandered around, waiting for their train to arrive. They held no substantial weight when they brushed up against him. So, in theory, they shouldn’t have affected him, and yet the crowding of their bodies pressed up against his felt unbearable, the weight of their souls nearly suffocating. He wasn’t claustrophobic—and even if he had been, that would’ve been squashed during his time in his cupboard—but he imagined that it felt a little bit like this.

The shine of golden tickets could be seen in some of their hands, or barely peeking out of pockets, or held in the mouth of a passing canine. He hadn’t noticed the tickets the other times, so high up in Death’s realm that such a tiny little piece of paper would be hardly noticeable to even the keenest of eyes. It seemed a little strange, that even the dead would be required to have a passenger ticket to the train to the afterlife, but who was he to question it.

Harry glanced around, his body turning.

Death? he called out, the thought swirling around his mind like a beacon. When there was no response, he craned his neck upwards, staring as far up into the sky as he could. He could only just make out the silhouette of not-Grimmauld Place in the void of the sky, floating solemnly. His feet felt firmly planted on the station platform; it didn’t seem like he’d be able to float up into the air like the last time, nor did Death seem keen to carry him upwards.

A hand tugged at his sleeve, and he looked down. A tiny child looked up at him with big eyes. Blind eyes, the pupil completely white. He looked quite ordinary: perfectly combed hair and with a smart outfit that fit the times, shiny shoes on his small feet. He was plump around the face, clearly well-fed before his death. But despite that, Harry somehow knew that the child was a Ghost. It was the first of the dead to directly acknowledge that Harry was there amongst them.

Satisfied that he had Harry’s attention, the boy raised his hand and opened it, presenting a sweet in offering. Harry blinked down at it before gently taking it. It was some sort of taffy, by the looks of it, a light brown wrapped up in plastic, slightly squishy to the touch.

He mouthed a thank you, before realising how silly that was, considering the boy couldn’t see it. Before he could think of a way to convey his thanks, however, the boy continued on his way, pulling the sleeves of other unsuspecting souls, offering sweets of all kinds to them. Unlike Harry, the souls continued on their way, seeming to ignore the boy’s offerings, though that didn’t stop him from slipping them into their pockets nonetheless.

Harry wondered why the boy was doing this, or where he even got the sweets from. This was some sort of afterlife—or rather, the station before the afterlife (whatever that exactly entailed), after all. Or could it be that the candy died, too?

Harry shook his head, dispelling himself of the strange train of thought he began to have before he had a profound, philosophical crisis.

He rolled the taffy in between his fingers, hearing the faint crinkle of plastic, before pocketing it in his trousers. And then he began to walk.

Further down he spied another Ghost, this time a young woman. She weaved through the crowd with ease, as if she had done it a thousand times and would continue to a thousand more, her bare feet silently slapping against the ground. Sly fingers snuck their way into the coat pocket of a burly man, pulling out a golden ticket in triumph. She gave a satisfied grin, before rushing off and disappearing into the crowd. Something told him that that ticket wouldn’t be enough for her to board, however.

And then he saw it.

His steps slowed into a standstill, his heart giving a lurch.

Harry had thought…well, he wasn’t quite sure what exactly he thought, but it certainly wasn’t to ever see it again.

He stood frozen there, feeling wrong-footed, and then with quick strides he pushed against the ghostly bodies, suddenly uncaring of the discomfort it caused him, of the ants that crawled up his skin at their touch, seeking that one glimpse of flesh covered in dried blood and unnaturally stretched limbs. Bursting through a group of souls, he stopped, looking down at his feet, staring at what he knew to be that tiny piece of soul that had seen him all the way through his childhood and adolescence.

Voldemort’s Horcrux. (Harry’s Horcrux).

It didn’t look quite the same as how he had last seen it, its form so translucent it felt like looking at a mirage. And it was much bloodier and more skeletal, the finger bones extended to look like claws, its skin nearly torn right off at the hands, muscle and skin barely clinging on to its frame. But he knew with a fierce certainty, as those eyes blinked open and stared at him intently, that it was. He could feel it in his soul, the gaping void where it used to be, stretching out to it with familiarity; with hunger (but was it his own, or the wretched thing’s that lay before him?).

He took an unconscious step forward, before stopping himself.

What—why is this…here?

‘Ah, that one,’ suddenly came Death’s rumbling voice, choosing now to break Its silence. ‘It clung so fiercely to you.’

What?

‘When it was time to leave, it refused, greedy fingers hooked into your soul so deep even when its very being began to stretch and tear.’

Was it…was it not destroyed? Didn’t Voldemort himself kill it? Otherwise, how could he have died?

‘It did die, yes, but as I’m sure you now know, things like death are not so straightforward. Its echoes still remain, ripped from a fraction of a fraction, not there enough to be a tie to the living world, but enough to remain here still. One is not obligated to board the train, after all. You know this very well.’

The sound of the train rolling into the station rang out through the vast space, so much louder now that he was down here. The smoke from the engine billowed out, filling the white space with a cloud, obfuscating Harry’s view of the Horcrux for a brief moment. As it screeched to a halt Harry could barely see anything at all. It probably wouldn’t do anything, but Harry held his breath anyway until it dissipated.

The passengers began to queue up, beginning the process of boarding. In one of the queues he spied that young woman, the Ghost who had stolen the ticket from that man. Compared to the sly look on her face when she had first stolen it, now Harry could only see a deathly pale pallor and lips torn from nervous teeth. She seemed, deep down, to know that her little trick would not work.

‘Go on, now.’ Harry felt the gentlest of nudges. Death’s presence felt stronger, down here, where the barrier between Death and Afterlife lay. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to call it colder. A wandering, wiggling tendril slid its way up his neck, tickling at his cheek.

What?

‘The train. You seek answers, do you not?’

But won’t I…I mean… He still remembered the last time he had been here, given the choice to board, Dumbledore’s solemn form looking down at him with unreadable, twinkling eyes. ‘To the next great adventure,’ he had said. But Harry didn’t want to go to his next adventure, not when this adventure here, the adventure where he had a chance to save those dearest to him, had barely even begun.

‘Did I not tell you before? It is not time for Me to claim you, yet. Not for many blinks to come. You will come back, eventually. Perhaps changed, perhaps different, but you will come back, nonetheless.’

Harry looked down at what remained of Voldemort’s Horcrux, watching how it squirmed and struggled, half-gone fingers reaching towards him with intent agony. He felt a piercing pain in his own chest, as if the mere prospect of leaving that which his soul had grown around would tear open a wound he didn’t know he still had.

‘It will still be there when you come back. There as it always has been.’

He took in a shuddering breath, and then turned around and began to head towards the train.

‘Or,’ began Death, and Harry’s footsteps abruptly stopped, ‘you can take it with you, if you’d like.’

Take it? But…it's… he trailed off, unsure how to articulate it.

‘There is no shame in doing so,’ said Death, as if It knew what he meant anyway. Or perhaps it really did, incomprehensible being that It was. ‘It is your soul just as much as it was Voldemort’s. Perhaps even more so yours, now.’

Harry stared at the queue. It was much shorter now, the passengers making good time and boarding in an orderly and neat fashion. It was the Ghost-woman’s turn to board. With trembling hands, she clutched the ticket close to her chest, the thin paper becoming wrinkled and bent. She was able to board, to his surprise, as well as hers. But soon that surprise morphed into horror as she began to deteriorate rapidly, flesh and muscle rotting, sliding off bone with a startling ease. She ran back onto the platform, but by that point it was too late, and her form crumpled, unmoving. None of the passengers even flinched.

‘Well?’

He looked back, hesitant, staring at the remnant of the Horcrux with the same amount of ferocious intensity that it stared back at him with. Thinking. And then he walked back to it, crouching down in front of it. He reached out a wary hand, and so too did the Horcrux. Its misshapen finger hooked around his, sending scorching flames towards his chest despite the iciness of the flesh. And then he picked it up. He cradled the mutilated and ruined thing in his arms as if it were something precious, feeling how its thin and unnaturally long fingers latched onto him like a hunter’s trap, right at his throat. It should’ve been unsettling, or concerning, but it wasn’t.

And then he boarded the train.

Wait, don’t I need a ticket? he asked, but by that point the doors had already slammed shut, and the world splintered.

*

Straw-haired Man jammed his elbow into Moustache Man’s side, earning a grunt. ‘Hey Braxy, isn’t that Rodrick’s brother?’

‘What?’ Moustache Man whirled his head around, spotting the tall and blonde figure of Lord Avery. ‘Morgana’s tits,’ he cursed, before making a beeline for the back exit, Straw-haired man not far behind. They weaved through the patrons of Amor’s Den, uncaring of the dirty looks they received as they none-too-politely shoved those who were too slow to move out of the way.

They barely made it outside before Avery stepped out of the shadows in front of them, like a pale ghost emerging from beyond. ‘You two. Stop right there,’ he said.

They cursed. He must have apparated.

Avery walked up to them, closer than what was considered polite in pure-blood circles, a clear play at intimidation. Straw-haired Man hated that it was working, but it could not be denied that there was a clear difference in both power and station between them.

‘Lord Avery, fancy seeing you here,’ said Straw-haired Man with a nervous laugh. ‘I’m afraid your brother—’ Avery gave a particularly nasty glare ‘—I-I mean Rodrick, isn’t with us today, if that’s who you’re looking for.’

‘And where is he, exactly?’

‘Ah, well…erm…’

‘Hmm?’

Straw-haired Man and Moustache Man shared a look. ‘About that…we’re not actually quite sure.’

‘Is this like the last time he vanished? It better not be, considering I had to clean up his mess.’

Moustache Man rubbed at his shoulder. ‘We honestly don’t know.’

Avery pulled out his wand, pointing it at him. ‘Do you, now?’

‘W-we swear! Last we saw of him he had some sort of dealings with The Madame. Haven’t heard from him since.’

Avery continued to point his wand at them, before finally relenting. Slipping his wand back into his sleeve, he said, ‘Fine. I’ll choose to believe you. For now. But if this is another one of your tricks, I will take much pleasure in disposing of you two.’ And then he turned on his heel and apparated away.

‘Tosser!’ shouted Straw-haired Man, earning a nasty glare from a passing Witch.

*

‘Osorkon,’ said a woman’s voice, low and breathy and not at all like the harsh rhythm of English. ‘I apologise for disturbing your rest, but you’re needed in the Hall of Mourning.’

Beiges and yellows filled his eyes, and Harry felt himself sit up, a light hand-stitched quilt sliding down to reveal yellow-tan skin and a concave stomach. He tried to reach out and pull the blanket back up, but instead his head turned. The silhouette of someone beyond brightly coloured silks—some sort of privacy diver—came into view. ‘I’ll be there in a moment,’ his mouth responded.

‘Of course.’

He tried to move again, to do anything, but his body refused to obey, instead standing up. A fully nude body revealed itself in the mirror, reflecting a man with long, black hair and a slightly sunken face. Panic filled him at realising he was once again in a body that was not his own, this time with no similarities at all. But that wasn’t his biggest concern. It was the fact that he didn’t seem to have any autonomy at all. He willed his brain to take control, for his hand to even give a small twitch, but it was like tossing a pebble into an ocean and expecting it to cause waves.

‘Don’t fight it,’ came Death’s voice, that soul-rumbling voice suddenly anchoring him. ‘Watch, listen, remember—here lies the answers you seek.’

The man in the mirror slipped on brilliantly coloured robes that still revealed the chest, and then sat down in front of the bureau. Picking up a fine-toothed comb that looked like it was made of ivory, he began to meticulously comb through his hair. His sight vanished, curtained by lashes, only the repetitive movements of his hand sliding up and down grounding him in reality—or rather Osorkon’s, whoever he is—was—reality. His eyes snapped back open, and he set down the comb. And then he began to braid his hair, not in any sort of hurry at all. Tossing the braid behind to lay against his back, he then began to carefully apply makeup, adding kohl wings to the corner of his eyes and blush to high cheekbones.

It was all so elaborately meticulous that Harry couldn’t help but be impressed. He could hardly sit still long enough to try (and ultimately fail) to tame his hair.

The man stood up. Just as Harry believed that he was done preparing, however, he opened a box and pulled out ornate pieces of jewellery, all made of gold or sunset metals. He slipped on armbands and bracelets and necklaces, and then finally a headdress in the shape of some sort of bird. And then Harry suddenly recognised the man in the mirror—or rather, what the man looked like: an Egyptian, of the ancient kind.

Once, the Weasley’s had talked about going back to Egypt, and bringing Harry along. (‘You’ve never been out of the country?’ exclaimed Arthur. ‘Unacceptable! We really must remedy this. How do you feel about sand?’) At the time Harry had believed they were talking about bringing him to some tropical island and beach, perhaps to relax by the ocean and get awful sunburns, but one look at Fred and George’s snickering faces disabused him of that notion.

(‘Not that kind of sand—think hotter. And a lot more of it, every which way, blowing in the wind—’

‘—in your face—’

‘—in your pants—’

‘—in your ar…’

‘Boys,’ came Molly’s disapproving voice.

‘Your arms. You know, these things.’ Fred proceeded to flop said arms around.

‘What did you think we were going to say?’ George gave a cheeky grin.

Molly opened her mouth, as if to retort, before sighing, not even bothering to retort).

Only when the man was dressed in enough elaborate finery to fund a nation did he finally push aside the fabric divider and leave. He walked, at a leisurely pace, through a long corridor made entirely of pale-yellow stone. Harry took note of the statues of animals, as well as people with animal heads. But what really stuck out to him were the writings on the walls, which were most certainly hieroglyphs. Normally, he wouldn’t even be able to hope to understand what they meant, foreign languages never quite his forte. And yet, as he glimpsed those strange symbols as Osorkon walked down the halls, he couldn’t help but comprehend. It was something beyond the level of the word, stories weaving themselves into his mind.

It felt very much like reading The Book, now that he thought about it.

He was most certainly in Egypt, Harry concluded (a part of him felt sad that the first time he witnessed Egypt was like this, and not side by side with the Weasley’s, suffering together under the sun getting up to mischief that would surely send Molly into a tizzy). The only question was when he was. His impression so far was that it was long, long ago, in a time of Pharaohs and plagues and ancient wonders that had yet to be.

There was a low rumbling, sending dust scattering into the air, and then the pair of ceiling-high stone doors in front of Osorkon began to slowly open on their own, revealing a large, open room. And in the centre was an armrest-less chair; a throne, perhaps, though it didn’t appear as any throne Harry had seen before. Ascending the steps with purpose, Osorkon sat down on the throne. ‘Let her in,’ he said.

The doors opened once more, revealing a woman adorned in jewellery much like what the man had put on, though she did not wear a headdress. She approached the throne, until she dropped to her knees right before the steps.

In her arms was a young boy, swaddled in pale cloth and skin an unnatural purple-blue, laying limp and boneless. His eyes stared sightlessly at nothing. The woman shifted the bundle in her arms, the head lulling to the side before she tucked it back into the swaddle. It was clear that the boy was no longer amongst the living. Harry felt disgust that was not his own course through him, though whether it was towards the corpse or the woman, he was unsure.

‘High Priest, please, I beg of you,’ she began, her voice quivering, arms clenching around the boy so tightly that it would’ve been painful had he been alive. ‘Please bring back my son.’

Osorkon’s hand flicked off what seemed to be invisible dirt from his clothes, looking around the room. There was no sense of urgency or sympathy. ‘Do you truly want to disrupt his trial towards the afterlife?’

At that the woman paused, as if she hadn’t thought about that. But it was not for long, and determination sharpened her features once more. ‘Please. He…he is just a boy, not yet a man. The trials are too harsh and arduous for him. I fear what happens if he doesn’t make it to the afterlife.’

Harry stared at her through Osorkon’s eyes, conflicted. While a part of him wanted to hate her selfishness, he knew that would be hypocritical of him. He was selfish too, after all. Perhaps even more so, considering that he was willing to manipulate the future of a world that was not even his to make sure his friends would live. It was not just one person who would be affected by his actions, and yet, despite the guilt that would occasionally grip him when he got lost in his thoughts too much, he wouldn’t change his mind.

‘He will live a half-life, unageing and forever frozen in that body, until it eventually gives way to decay. If you can accept that, I will bring him back.’

‘I know. I know, but he will still be my son despite that. So please.’

If Harry could frown right now, he would. While he would go to a great many lengths to have his friends safe and sound once more, he wouldn’t do it at the cost of their very selves. Forcing her own son to live like that sounded cruel.

‘Very well,’ said Osorkon. And then he stood, descending down the steps. He reached down, his arms held open, a silent command. The woman looked down at her dead child for a moment, gently brushing his hair, before handing him over to him. ‘Do you have something important of his? Preferably something he cherished, or spent a lot of time with.’

‘Y-yes,’ she said, pulling out an ordinary looking stone from her pocket. ‘He kept this with him all the time; said it was his lucky rock.’ She looked down, and muttered bitterly, ‘Didn’t give him much luck, now did it?’

‘That’ll have to do,’ he said, before taking the stone from her hand. He slipped it into his pocket.

‘Take her away,’ said Osorkon, addressing a tall man who had been silently standing guard, and then he walked away with the boy in his arms. This time he left through a different door, which led to a different and more shadowed hallway. The woman—the one who had woken him (a servant, perhaps?)—followed closely behind. Eventually, he reached a pair of tall double doors, and with a wave of a hand they opened, revealing a large and empty room, which contained only a stone dais.

The boy was laid down on a dais, his body having already begun to turn stiff and bloat. Osorkon frowned down at the body, in contemplation, before closing his eyes. Immediately Harry felt a strange energy coursing through his veins, a heavy presence amassing into the air. It felt a lot like Death’s presence, though not nearly as formidable or comforting. In fact, it felt even a little bit off, for some odd reason.

‘Remember,’ echoed Death’s voice once more. ‘Remember this feeling.’

And then that magic rushed into the dead body, making the muscles jerk and twitch unnaturally. It sounded like bones cracking and flesh tearing. When Osorkon finally stopped, the corpse had opened its eyes, revealing still sightless pupils. It gave a groan, or perhaps it would’ve been more aptly described as a warble, and then it turned its head to look at him. Despite its appearance, which was hardly any better than when it had been an unmoving corpse, Harry couldn’t help but feel that the corpse was very aware of its unfortunate predicament.

‘An imperfect creation, but the method was correct. This one just lacked the power, and the will.’

Does that mean that, had he been more powerful, he could’ve brought her son back fully to life? Not this pitiful existence, wondered Harry.

‘I suppose it depends on how you define being alive. But the child would have been closer to human. Not fully, but enough to live normally enough, if one does not factor in the un-aging aspect.’

‘Do not look at me so,’ said Osorkon. ‘I have merely brought you back at the request of your dear mother,’ he said.

The corpse made another warble, mouth moving in a way that Harry suspected it was trying to speak.

Suddenly the doors burst open, and then man quickly turned.

‘How dare you enter this sacred place without permission,’ said Osorkon. The woman who had accompanied the man began to walk towards the boy, her face full of steel.

The intruder—a boy of perhaps fifteen—looked spooked, taking a half step back. But for all his trembling he did not leave. ‘Forgive me, High Priest, but there is…there is a foreigner.’

‘What?’

‘A foreigner. An English Wizard, to be precise, at the periphery of our wards. It was no coincidence—he knows that we are here.’ The boy locked his lips. ‘Should we…should we allow him entry? Should we prepare for battle?’

‘…Let me meet him first,’ said Osorkon. ‘You, guard the body,’ he said to the woman.

‘But High Priest…’ she began to protest, but he was already briskly walking through the halls, following the boy. They ascended tall and steep steps, until they reached the surface. It was shockingly bright outside compared to the underground ruins, and Harry felt himself mentally squinting. And in the distance, he could see a tall figure leaning against a tree, his shadow stretching across the sands.

And then the world melted away, before Harry could see the Wizard’s face.

*

Harry let out a gasp, the interior of a train cart blinking into view. The Horcrux’s fingers dug in his neck so deeply he was surprised it did not draw blood. And, inexplicably, there was a burning (familiar; so very hauntingly familiar) pain in his head, right where the not-scar was. Before he could truly right himself, and digest what he had just witnessed—experienced—he found his surroundings warping and splintering once more.

‘Again,’ said Death.

Harry blinked, and then he found himself humming a little tune, in a kitchen, ingredients flying around and a spoon furiously spinning around in a bowl. The house he was in was made of old, grey wood, an endless forest stretching out from the other side of the window. He—well, the person he was playing spectator to this time—had long brown hair, which swished side to side with each movement. He seemed to be possessing a witch, this time.

The witch walked up to the fire that sat burning in the middle of the kitchen. A black pot hung over the top of it, filled with simmering water. She grabbed the bowl out of the air, getting ready to pour it into the pot, before suddenly freezing, the bowl slipping from her fingers and shattering on her feet, filling Harry with a blinding pain. But the witch didn’t seem to care at all about the ceramic pieces in her feet, or the blood. Instead, she rushed out of the kitchen with hurried steps, until she reached what Harry assumed was her bedroom.

Stepping inside, she headed straight for the bureau. On top of it was broken glass and sand and blood-soaked hair, the source of the noise. Harry couldn’t help but jolt at the sight of it, the object in question startlingly familiar. He had seen an object nearly identical to it a couple years ago, hidden away under the bed in Regulus’ bedroom. But instead of a lock of dark hair, like in his memories, it was a lock of hair like snow turned brown from dried blood.

With trembling hands, the witch gathered up the pieces, shards embedding themselves into his skin, before falling to her knees and sobbing.

Harry wasn’t sure how long she stayed there like that, the jabbing pain of familiar heartbreak echoing in his chest, but then his world swirled and melted into a new scene.

*

The witch was walking around in the night, the surroundings barely visible under the moon. Harry could feel the squelch of damp earth curling around her bare feet, caking her skin. She was wearing the same dress she had been when he first began to watch through her eyes, and he could feel her heart pounding nervously. A graveyard emerged from the dense line of trees. She walked up to one of the headstones, and dropped to her knees. And then she began to dig at the earth with desperate fingers with a fervent madness.

Eventually she pulled out a half rotten body—it seemed that it had been a shallow grave—and let out a hoarse, high-pitched laugh. She rested what remained of the head gently onto her lap, and then Harry felt that dark and heavy magic fill him once more, and then sliding out of his veins.

‘You asked what Rodrick was, did you not? Behold, your first creation.’

The corpse’s rotten flesh began to knit back together. It was not perfect by any means. The skin looked oddly leathery, and bits and pieces of flesh had not correctly healed, but what had once been an unrecognisable thing soon resembled a human once more. The corpse began to twitch and move, the white hair that had still remained on its head falling off. And then it finally opened its eyes, revealing blue eyes with a grey film over them.

‘She was more powerful than Osorkon,’ said Death. ‘But she lacked skill, and was far too hasty. She, much like you, knew not what she was doing, only filled with a desire for her love to live once more by any means.’

The corpse blinked, turning a hungry gaze behind her.

Footsteps squelched through the damp earth, and the witch turned to look behind her too. A young man holding a torch approached, steps slowing as he looked down at her and the corpse.

‘Crina?’ he said cautiously, the ‘r’ rolling off his tongue. ‘What are you doing here this late?’ Much like when he was experiencing a part of Osorkon’s life, he could understand what was being said. But unlike that place in Egypt, Harry hadn’t a clue as to who he was or where he was, never mind what language was being spoken. It seemed vaguely European, but that was hardly helpful.

The young man lifted the torch higher. ‘And what…what is that? What have you done?’ The light from the flames illuminated the now living corpse.

‘Strigoi,’ breathed the young man, taking half a step back.

‘Wait, don’t!’ said Crina, directing the command towards the corpse. But by then it was too late. With an unnatural speed, the corpse leapt at the young man, tearing into his throat. The torch dropped to the ground, quickly petering out in the grass, which soon became damp with dark blood.

*

Harry’s eyes snapped open and he let out a gasping cough, curling in on himself. He did not awake in the train again, but in the familiar attic of The Madame’s shop. His forehead burned fiercely, and the air felt too crisp and dry for his lungs. It felt like he hadn’t been breathing for a very long time, but that couldn’t be right. He wouldn’t have been able to survive without breathing for so long, surely.

‘I nearly thought you dead, laddie,’ came The Madame’s voice, a shuffling of small footsteps stopping by his crumpled form. Harry turned his head and peered up at her, causing a warm drop of liquid to slide down his forehead and drip towards his eye. The thin rays of light from the window above fell onto The Madame like a halo, but it also had the effect of casting her face in shadow, making it hard to discern her expression. ‘If it weren’t for the pure silence being interrupted by that beating heart of yours, I would’ve tossed you into one of the graves out back.’

Graves, he wondered. Plural? A shudder went through him. He hadn’t been aware that there was some sort of backyard behind the shop. There certainly had been no doors that led to one.

When it felt like he had finally settled back into his bones, his soul returned to its rightful home (though that wasn’t right; his rightful home was gone, lost to the tides of space and time, never to wash ashore again), he sat up. He rubbed a bead of sweat from the corner of his eye—or was it a tear?—and fixed his collar. His clothing was soaked with semi-dried sweat, causing his skin to feel chilled and uncomfortably sticky.

‘How long,’ he began, before stopping, wincing at the harsh rasp of his voice. He cleared his throat. ‘How long have I been…out?’

‘Been nearly three days.’

He mulled over that answer. Three days—not a long time in the grand scheme of things, but it was still a terribly long time to not be in the waking world (to be presumably laying here, completely defenceless). He had never been in Death’s Realm for so long before, his visits prior always constrained within a night’s rest. He was surprised he could even be there for so long. Did that mean that time passed as normal when he was there?

‘Sorry,’ he said.

‘You’re lucky that one of Sofi’s boys could cover for you. But it’ll be coming out of your pay, of course.’

‘Yeah, of course.’ He licked his lips, eyes unable to truly focus on anything.

‘I’ll leave you to get yourself in order—you look ready to keel over.’

Harry gave a hum, not really registering what she was saying, his mind drifting elsewhere, still digesting what had happened.

And then suddenly a wrinkled hand was grabbing his face, turning it left and then right, and then pulling down the lower lids of his eyes. Harry flinched, pulling his head as far away from her as possible. She let him go without any resistance. He scooted back, looking at her warily. The last time those hands had been near someone’s face it hadn’t boded well for that person at all.

‘Never thought I’d see the real thing in this country again,’ murmured the Madame, almost wistful. ‘Next time you do…your thing, I recommend wearing a blindfold.’

Harry blinked, and said, ‘Yeah…yeah, I’ll go do that.’ He wasn’t quite sure what he was promising to do. All he wanted was her to leave, so he could sort things out without anyone there watching him.

The sound of her shuffling got further away. As she descended the ladder, only her eyes peeking above the opening of the door hatch, she said, ‘Lord Gaunt’s been looking for you, by the way.’ And then she slammed it shut.

He looked around, head moving in what felt like slow motion. He could see Rodrick up in the rafters, fingers curled around the beam so hard that they began to dent the wood. He hadn’t realised that Rodrick carried such physical strength. But despite that, he could tell that Rodrick was weaker, too, the half-ruined face looking paler and dryer, the skin beginning to peel off in flakes. Not dry in the sense of a lack of moisture, but dry in the sense that it looked like liquid had been leached away from within, turning the skin prune-like. He looked starved. (And now he knew why).

He pulled himself to his feet, swaying slightly, and began to peel off his clothes. The slightly warm air reaching his skin felt pleasant. When he began to remove his trousers, there was a light sound of something dropping onto the floor. He paused, one leg in the air, trousers half peeled off, and looked down at his feet. He let his leg drop to the floor, right pant-leg bunched up around his ankle, staring at a familiar piece of taffy that lay innocently on the ground.

It was the piece of candy that that boy in King’s Cross had been passing out to everyone.

*

Harry crouched down, so that he was eye level with the jar on the table. He stared at the moth trapped inside, and the moth stared back at him. It was a white moth—Harry had no hope of knowing the exact species; it certainly bore no resemblance to the moths that would occasionally inhabit his cupboard—with fluffy legs and even fluffier antennae. It had long since given up trying to escape, small body smacking against the jar and leaving explosions of powder on the glass.

He let out a puff of air, gently tapping against the glass. The moth twitched, but didn’t move from its spot.

It was just a bug, he reasoned. He hadn’t thought twice about squishing a creepy spider that had crawled into bed with him, or the times he had stepped on those ants on his trek through the grass. But somehow this felt a little more intentful. A little too premeditated. He wondered if the fact that he intended to bring the moth back to life made taking its life in the first place better. But it was in for a penny, in for a pound, as they say. No turning back when he had already begun to traverse this path. And this was a much better start than a human; than another Rodrick.

He lifted his wand, wondering what sort of spell to cast. He didn’t know the limits to raising the dead. If he completely destroyed the moth’s body, would that mean he wouldn’t be able to bring it back to life? Or would it make what he did bring back to life more monstrous? Rodrick’s half melted face had remained when he was reanimated, after all, but Crina’s Strigoi had repaired itself from decay, to some extent. The lives of those necromancers he had witnessed—experienced—hadn’t shown him what the limits were. Though maybe it was a little different when the subject in question was made of flesh and bone, and not the delicate chitin that made up the moth’s tiny body.

He bit at his lip. He knew, logically, what spell would snuff out the moth’s life quickly and with the least amount of damage. He had witnessed the fake Moody demonstrate as such on that enlarged bug, watching how its legs had instantly curled in on itself, continuing to twitch even in death until finally stilling. But the fact of the matter was that he had never cast the Killing Curse before, and he wasn’t sure if he was ready to start now. While he could admit that he could see scenarios where it was okay to do so, it could not be denied that he had no good memories of that blasted spell.

So, instead, he whispered out a ‘Glacius,’ watching as ice rapidly encased the jar, reaching the moth so quickly that it hardly had a chance to flutter its wings before it was completely consumed in an icy tomb. He pried open the lid of the jar, and released the spell. Carefully lifting the moth out of the now melted ice, he let it drop with a plop onto the table. Its wings were nearly translucent, the brief time in water enough to completely remove all the remaining powder on its wings.

Death’s words echoed in his head, ‘Remember this feeling.’

And he did. Didn’t think he could forget, even if he wanted to (could still feel that desperate magic, crawling under his skin like squirming parasites). His magic rose to the surface, coursing through his body like blood in veins. There was a tug, slightly painful, deep within his heart, and then he could feel a wiggling darkness emerge too, rapidly dominating the normally golden threads of his magic. They reached towards the moth, wrapping around it, burrowing deep—deeper than merely into its water-logged exoskeleton.

Nothing.

And then—a twitch, so minute he thought he imagined it. But then there was another. And another, and suddenly the moth’s wings were weakly flapping. It could not move very well, still too damp and weighed down by icy water. He would have to see if it made a full recovery, once it dried and got some sunlight. But it was indeed alive, once more (was it wrong that it felt so satisfying?).

He wondered if this meant that bugs had souls, too.

*

Harry frowned at his reflection. He was…changing. Or rather, more accurately, he was reverting back to his former—his true—self. His skin was returning to a healthier, golden wheat colour, and his scars…He ran a finger down his arm, across the jagged scar from when Pettigrew had sliced through him all those years ago, and then trailing further down to the top of his hand. He traced the looping letters on the top of his hand, still just as red as when it first carved itself into his skin.

And then he raised his hands to rub across the faint line around his throat, so faint that one wouldn’t notice unless they were looking for it. When the locket Horcrux had tightened around his throat, full of desperation at the prospect of its destruction, it had burned like a brand. After Ron had torn the locket from his throat, preventing it from choking him to death, his neck had been inflamed for days, and a faint mark from the chain had remained.

He let out a sigh, buttoning his shirt all the way up to his throat. And then he carefully moved his fringe so that it covered the lightning bolt scar, which had, of course, been the first scar to resurface. He tried not to think too hard about any possible implications of that: whether it was just the scar that had returned, or if something else had returned there, too.

*

‘You must be hungry,’ said Harry, looking into those grey-filmed eyes, the dry prunes around Rodrick’s eyes making them look too big for his head.

He twirled his wand in his hands, contemplative. ‘That must’ve been why you were pecking at that poor woman’s corpse. But we really can’t have you doing that, Rodrick, or I’m going to get in some serious trouble. So instead…’ Harry sent a slicing hex at his arm, letting it drop into a cup. ‘This will have to do, for now.’ When no more blood continued to run, he sent an episkey at the cut and then downed a blood replenishing potion.

Instead of reaching for the cup, Rodick just continued to stare at him. Harry was surprised that he didn’t attack him, considering how starving the creature must be. But maybe it had to do with the fact that he had brought it back to life, or perhaps it was simply a Necromancer thing. Crina’s strigoi hadn’t attacked her either, after all, instead choosing to go for that young man.

He slid the cup closer to Rodrick. ‘Drink,’ he said. As if that was the magic word, Rodrick grabbed the cup, quickly gulping it down. He supposed that this was proof that Rodrick could indeed understand him, at least to some extent. He should probably figure that out fully…but not yet. He still had more important things at hand.

Rodrick did not spare a single drop, licking the cup clean. The difference was almost immediate, life seeming to return to his complexion and making his face look less sunken. He stared at the half-ruined side of his face, which did not show much change. He wondered if he could fix that, now that he was a little more familiar with necromancy. Perhaps he could get Rodrick to even talk. Though then again, maybe he shouldn’t, considering what little he actually knew of the man besides his callous murder of that woman.

*

Harry drummed his fingers on the table, looking out the window at the people in the streets. A plate of uneaten scones lay in front of him. And across from him sat Voldemort—or rather Lord Gaunt, supposedly. Voldemort took a sip of his tea, and Harry turned his attention back to the man. He was dressed in a pair of formal robes, hair perfectly styled with not a hair out of place.

Despite wearing a disguise, it was not, in Harry’s opinion, the greatest. In fact, he would be quite bold to say it sucked, and that it was a wonder that he hadn’t been carried off in magical chains (though perhaps the connection between Tom Riddle and Voldemort was not yet known at this time).

First and foremost, Voldemort didn’t look all that dissimilar from what he’d imagine an older Tom Riddle to look like. Perhaps the hair colour was a tad bit lighter, and of course his eyes were currently a blue-grey, but the facial structure was startlingly similar. Secondly, with a name like ‘Thomas Gaunt’ he was practically flaunting his relation in everyone's faces. Harry wondered if Voldemort had just been lazy, or if it really did only take a few minor changes to fool most people.

Voldemort gave one of his charming smiles, and Harry stopped the staring, turning his attention on the scones. They admittedly looked quite appetising. The whole cafe was very charming, though it certainly hadn’t existed in his time, to his knowledge. He wondered what had happened to it. His stomach suddenly gave a growl, and Harry began to scarf down one of the scones—a chocolate chip one. He might as well take advantage of the fancy, free—and no doubt highly expensive— pastries.

Harry wasn’t sure why he agreed to meet Voldemort at this cafe. It seemed hardly the sort of place to talk about highly illegal, super taboo stuff, even if there were silencing wards around them. He briefly glanced at said silencing wards, grudgingly admiring the pretty patterns the magic made. He supposed that it was expected for Voldemort to have absolute confidence in his wards. Still rather strange, though. He wondered if it had to do with some ridiculous power play, or some other nonsense like that.

‘I was concerned, when The Madame told me you had fallen ill,’ said Voldemort, setting down the cup of tea with nary a clink, the picture of perfect manners.

Harry could read in between the lines: I was concerned that you had backed down. ‘Sorry about that, it was just a bit of a cold. Highly contagious, you see.’ He gave a thin smile. ‘Wouldn’t want to get anyone else sick, especially not you.’

Voldemort gave a hum. He didn’t look convinced, but he let Harry’s excuse slide. ‘It’s reassuring to know that you feel well enough to meet, now.’

The corner of Harry’s mouth twitched. He almost wished he really had been sick and highly contagious. Giving the Dark Lord a cold seemed like a highly appealing prank. Though with Harry’s luck he would end up the only one miserable.

‘So, about my dear pet...’

‘Right. I’ve gathered everything I need, but I do need one more thing. Something that was special to your pet, like a toy or her lounging rock. If you could bring that and her body to The Madame’s…’

‘Oh, I was thinking that it would be much more convenient for you to come to my manor.’

‘Pardon?’ Harry slowly blinked, wondering if he had heard him right.

‘I’m afraid my dear Inanna liked a great deal of things—it would be much more convenient for you to come to my place and make use of all of her possessions. Surely it would not hurt, and even increase the efficiency, no?’

‘W-well, yes, I suppose…’

‘And don’t worry—I’ll make sure to pay you extra for the trouble.’

At that Harry paused. He had been thinking about the payment for a while now. While a bunch of Galleons would no doubt be welcome, and highly beneficial, he had something else in mind. Ever since he experienced that Romanian Necromancer’s life through her eyes, he couldn’t stop thinking about that familiar artefact.

‘About that—I actually had something else in mind, for payment.’

‘Oh?’

‘Do you happen to be acquainted with Lord Black?’

Voldemort tilted his head to the side. His action felt distinctly predatory. ‘I do. We are quite close, in fact.’

Harry wondered at the veracity of that statement. He doubted that Voldemort was ‘quite close’ with anyone. Besides Nagini, perhaps. And he supposed the pet snake he wanted Harry to resurrect.

‘There is something I would like to ask him about.’

Voldemort was silent for a moment, thinking. And then he said, ‘I don’t foresee there being any issue with that. But are you sure that you want that instead of payment?’

Harry opened his mouth to immediately agree, before thinking better of it. ‘Well, perhaps instead of the main payment, but well, the extra you mentioned…’

He gave a light chuckle. ‘Of course.’