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Chapter Text

Harry’s first memory is one of scalding pain and shame.

In it, he’s three or four, skinny and naked in the tub with his Aunt Petunia scrubbing at his left arm. The water is so hot it steams around him. His skin is pink and raw as she scrapes the rough brush over his arm again and again. His nose and eyes burn from the stink of bleach. His shoulder aches from being pulled tight. His wrist hurts, and his fingers are numb from Petunia’s too-tight grip. Tears run down his cheeks, and he uses his other hand to muffle his sobbing because he’s already been backhanded once for being too loud.

Petunia’s breath was fast and harsh, her voice low and poisonous as she muttered mostly to herself. “We’ll get this freakish spot off of him one way or another. I’m not going to let anyone in this house have this kind of nonsense around. Just what would people think? Seeing a boy his age with such a thing?”

She scrubs for hours. She scrubs until his skin breaks under the chemicals, and he starts to bleed. She scrubs until his arm is inflamed and his body trembling. She scrubs until Vernon finally comes home, yelling up the stairs for her, and she swears—soft and low like she didn’t mean to do it—and she leaves him in the tub to go start cooking dinner.

It’s just one of many times when Aunt Petunia tries to wash away the mark on his arm. 

It never works.

The only thing the Dursleys buy that is for Harry and Harry alone are the bandages. Not the little ones for scrapes or cuts. Those aren’t for Harry. 

The bandages for him are the big kind, the patches that go over a large patch of skin. They’re to cover up the mark on his left arm, which had started as a small splotch of black and green and turned into something detailed, something strange as he got older. Harry would touch the mark on his arm while tucked away in his cupboard and wonder about it. 

He knew no one else around him had a picture like his. He only saw people with pictures on the Telly, and they usually had them all over, not just on their one arm like Harry. He wondered what their pictures looked like as they grew. He wondered if he’d get more pictures than just the one on his arm. 

He wondered what it meant that he had one and no one else in his family did. 

He was obviously different from them somehow. That was why he got Dudley’s old things. That was why he wasn’t allowed to eat with them or much at all. That was why they put him in the cupboard instead of a bedroom like Dudley.

Harry wasn’t like Dudley. Dudley was a good little boy, and Harry was something else. Harry was a freak. He was cursed, maybe, with a scar on his forehead and a black and green mark on his arm that was blurry and strange and grew quite big. It didn’t take proper shape until he was six, and by the time he was seven, the skull was very clear, but the green part was still a strange wispy ribbon. Eventually, that ribbon turned into a snake of the most beautiful green, like jade or emerald, rich and shining like his skin gleamed.

And then, when he was about eight years old, he discovered the truth behind his mark in a marvelous way.

The snake spoke to him.

“Such jealous creatures. Do not listen to them, my chosen, my beloved, do not listen.” 

Harry heard the soft whisper beneath Dudley’s mockery of him. He stood with hunched shoulders and his arms around his belly, waiting for Dudley to get tired of insulting him and to start with the real torment. It was so quiet he almost missed it. 

He frowned, wondering who had said that. They were in the corner of the park, he and Dudley and his gang, so there wasn’t a radio or TV nearby to blame it on. It didn’t sound like any of the other boys, either.

And then Dudley got bored of yelling, so he shoved Harry to the ground and started pummelling him with his fists, and Harry forgot all about it.

He heard the voice again a few days later. While tucked into the cupboard, stomach twisting painfully with hunger and the smell of the delicious dinner still on his clothes and coming in from under the cupboard door, Harry lay on his bed in a tight ball, arms wrapped tight around himself. Sometimes, when he squeezed really tight, he could get his body to focus on the ache in his arms instead of in his stomach.

He lay like this for an hour before he heard the whispering sound, angry and sibilant. “How dare they. How dare they. Worthless muggles. Vile creatures. How dare they starve my soul, my chosen! How dare they! Do they not know who it is they anger? I will starve them and skin them! I will feed them their own roasted son!”

In the quiet cupboard, the words were surprisingly loud. And they sounded like they were coming from his belly. Harry looked down at himself, wondering what that could be. He knew he didn’t have any speakers on him. What was going on?

Now that he was paying attention to his arm instead of his empty belly, Harry could feel a strange tingling sensation on his skin. It itched, so he rubbed at it. Harry frowned. The itch was under his bandage.

Then the voice came again, softer and soothing. “Take comfort from me, my beloved, my soul. I will come for you, and the muggles will pay for all they have done. I will come. I yet live.” 

Curious, Harry slowly peeled back the bandage on his arm. He didn’t look at his mark often and only ever in the safety and privacy of his cupboard. 

In the light that came in from beneath the door, Harry looked at the mark that sat right in the middle of his left forearm. 

The skull looked the same as he’d last seen it: eyeholes a black void, the black triangle for the nose, the jaw that was hung open just enough for the thick green snake to hang out like a tongue. However, the snake was different.

It still hung out of the jaw, but instead of dangling there, it curled back around the skull. Loops of coil circled the bone. The head of the snake was turned towards it, as if it were speaking to the skull. The snake was the same beautiful jewel tone that Harry remembered, though. He ran hesitant fingers along the coils, admiring how beautiful they were, green and shining and almost slick like real snakeskin. 

Right before Harry’s eyes, the snake’s mouth opened, and its tongue flicked out. A soft hissing sound emerged from the mark, and Harry heard that soft voice again, “Yes, dearest beloved, dearest chosen, be comforted. I will come and set you free. I will treasure you as you have never been treasured before. I will care for you as no one has cared before. I live. I live. I will come for you!” 

Harry wanted to believe, but he was eight now. He wasn’t a baby who would believe just anything that anyone said. He knew people lied all the time. He knew they lied to him all the time. 

“But how?” he asked the snake, running his finger along its delicate head. “How will you come for me when you are trapped on my arm?”

The snake turned, and for the first time, Harry noticed that its eyes were blood red. They stared up at Harry, tongue flicking in and out. “You speak to me in my tongue? But of course, you do. We are destined, fated. We are a chosen pair, beloved. Do not doubt me. I am beyond death. I shall come for you.” 

“But how?” Harry asked, “But when? How long do I have to stay here?” 

The snake coiled and uncoiled, slithering in a knot around the skull, never moving away from it but instead moving in and out of the open jaw. “I shall come for you. I shall. My chosen, my soul, I will find you and come to you. I shall take you from this place. I will find you and take you with me, and you will be mine own forever.”

Harry squeezed his eyes shut. Of course, even the strange snake on his arm wouldn’t tell him the truth. 

“Why are you lying to me?” he asked. He hated the whine in his voice; it sounded too much like Dudley. It sounded too much like he had believed the snake when he knew better the whole time. “Why tell me that? It’s not true.”

“It is, it is,” the snake insisted, “Time means nothing to the immortal. I am beyond such notions. I will come for you. My beloved, my soul, you will be mine forever.” 

“Time matters to me,” Harry mumbled back. He twisted around on his bed, curling up so he could stare at the mark now on his arm. It wasn’t just in his head that the snake was watching him; he could feel it as well. The eyes were staring right into his soul. “I’m not immortal. I’m going to starve to death.” 

“No!” the snake exclaimed. Its body rippled with anxiety. “No, you shall not die. I shall preserve you. I shall teach you magic, my chosen, my beloved. I shall teach you. You shall live, and then I shall find you. I will teach you.”

“Magic?” Harry whispered, wide-eyed. That was a banned word in the Dursley household. Not even Dudley was allowed to say it. 

“Yes, yes,” the snake settled again, tongue flicking out quickly, “You have such potential, my chosen, my soul. You have such sweet magic. I will teach it to you, and you will become greater than all others. You shall be my equal. You must. You are mine, and I yours.”

“I don’t think I’m allowed to learn magic,” Harry said worriedly. If he couldn’t even say the word, he probably wasn’t allowed to learn about it! “Aunt Petunia wouldn’t like that.”

The snake hissed angrily. “I shall burn the muggles. I shall teach you to control them! They cannot take from you that which is rightfully yours! My soul, my beloved, you shall wield magic, and the muggles will fear you as they should. You shall rule over them!”

Harry didn’t want to rule over his relatives. He didn’t want to rule over anyone. He didn’t know the first thing about ruling! “Can’t I just make them like me? Can I make them be nice to me with magic?” 

The snake curled tightly around the skull for a moment as if considering Harry’s words. Then, slowly, it admitted, “Muggles will never learn such a thing once they have known fear of you. You can command their respect, but they will hate you in their hearts even if they bow before you. They cannot be trusted. Listen to me, my chosen, my soul, there are those who are like you that are more valuable than these muggles. I will teach you everything you need to know; I will teach you so that they will fear and respect you and your power. You are my equal. It will be as I say.” 

Harry worried his bottom lip. He ran his thumb lightly along the snake’s scales. He wanted to learn about magic. He wanted to learn about other people like himself. He didn’t think he’d do everything the snake told him to; some of it sounded weird. 

“You will teach me magic?” 

“I will. I will. My chosen, my beloved, I will teach you all that I know, and you shall rise to your proper station as mine. And I shall find you. And I shall care for you. And you shall be mine. It is my will.” 

Harry smiled a little. Even if this was a dream, even if he was so hungry he was hallucinating talking to the snake on his arm, Harry thought it was better to agree than argue. If it wasn’t real, he wouldn’t lose anything. If it was…

“Okay. I want you to teach me magic,” Harry told the snake, “And I want to learn other things too. Like, what are you, and how are we able to talk? I didn’t know tattoos could talk!” 

“I am more than a simple, silly tattoo,” the snake sounded annoyed, “I am that which shows our souls are connected, my beloved, my dearest one. You are my soul’s mate, and we are bound together.”

“What?”

“Have you not been told? Has no one taught you anything?” the snake sounded exasperated, and Harry immediately apologized. This got him another sharp hiss and the snake bared its fangs for a single second. “Do not apologize for the negligence of others. You are a child, my chosen, my soul; I can feel your core is developing still. I will teach you all things you must know. I will teach you magic. But first, I will teach you what you are and what I am to you.

“You are a wizard, my soul, my beloved, and you will be powerful as our souls are bound, and no one who shared their soul with me would be weak. We are bound, my beloved, my chosen. We are fated. You are mine, and I am yours, and together we will be unconquerable, unstoppable, unending. I am beyond death, and I will bring you forth as I am.” 

Harry bit his tongue. He didn’t think the snake meant that he would become a snake on an arm, but it was confusing to understand. With the way the snake rambled and repeated itself, Harry had a difficult time following along. But he thought he might have figured something out. “You say I’m your soul; I’m your equal. You’re a mark that connects me to…to a soulmate? My soulmate?” 

Harry had heard about soulmates. Sometimes, Aunt Petunia’s afternoon telly programs talked about soulmates. They were supposed to be perfect for each other and make each other happy and safe, and loved. 

Even if they were real, Harry never thought he’d get one. Who would want to be soulmates with Harry, the criminal freak of number 4 Privet drive? 

“Yes, yes,” the snake hissed in delight, “I am a soul’s mark. I bind our souls together. Yet I am more than others. I live. I live. I am a part of your soulmate’s soul, more than all other marks. We are bound. We are fated. My soul to yours. You are my chosen. Forever and ever. I am beyond death. We will be free from death. We shall be immortal.” 

It sounded marvelous. It sounded too good to be true. Harry ran his fingers over the green scales of the snake, watching as it twitched on his skin. 

“You’re not lying to me?” Harry asked quietly, “You mean it? You’re really going to come for me?”

“I will come for you. Even if my body is shattered, my will remains. I am beyond death. I will come for you, my chosen, my soul. My will be done.” 

It was painful to hope. Harry had given up on the Dursleys lying about his parents being dead when he was six. He had given up on any of his Primary teachers helping him get away from the Dursleys when he was seven. He had given up on anyone ever helping him after that summer when even that nice new couple down the street had started to glare at him when he went past their house to go to the park. He had never met them, but he knew that Aunt Petunia had poisoned them against him. 

He didn’t think she could possibly poison his soulmate against him. She would have to find a way to talk to the snake on Harry’s arm, and that was just impossible. Even if she could, she would never do such a freakish thing. 

It might never come true, but maybe…just maybe. 

Maybe his soulmate would come for him. Maybe they would save him from the hell that was his life.

Maybe they really would hold him and love him, the way that the snake told him they would.

“Can you tell me more,” Harry asked quietly. His voice felt thick in his throat, and he had to blink sharply in order to keep from tears welling in his eyes, “Can you tell me more about who my soulmate is? What they’re like?” 

The snake coiled in and around itself several times before settling. Its tongue flicked rapidly in and out. “I am bound to you, but once was part of a greater whole. I am he; he is your soulmate. I am the most powerful, the most feared, the most respected, the Great Lord. I know magics that have been lost to time and forgotten by foolish wizards who turn their back on such magnificent truths. I am power. I am magic’s favored.” 

Harry’s mind spun a little. That wasn’t what he was hoping to hear, of course. But at least he now had a gender for his soulmate. They were a he. They were a boy like him, or, well, they must be a man if they were a Great Lord. 

He didn’t know what to think of that. He knew Vernon despised those who were unnatural and freakish. But if Harry was a boy and his soulmate was a boy too, Vernon would think even worse of him now. Now he was a deviant, a pervert. 

Harry ran his fingers along the edge of the snake. He curled tightly around his arm, the gnawing hunger in the pit of his belly forgotten as he came to understand this new truth about himself. 

His soulmate was a man. That meant Harry wasn’t just a freak; he was something even worse. 

“Are you powerful enough to stop my uncle from hurting me?” Harry asked the snake on his arm, peering at it carefully, “Because if he finds out my soulmate is a man, he’ll beat me half to death. And then they might send me away to try and change me.”

The snake on his arm trembled and coiled itself tightly into a knot, hissing dark threats. “I shall strike him down. I shall flay his skin. I shall burn his home and consume all that he values. He will not touch you. He will not harm you.” 

Harry shivered at the words. They reminded him of his darkest thoughts, of those times when he sat in the backseat of the car, hoping that a truck would drive into them and crush Vernon behind the wheel, or when he lay under the stairs and heard them thumping up and down and prayed that Vernon would fall down and break his neck. Maybe his aunt would like him better, be nicer to him, if Vernon wasn’t there, but probably not.

He brought his arm up to his face, pressing his cheek against the snake. His mark was cool and tingled faintly whenever the snake moved. Was it magic that made that so? 

“I wish you were here now,” Harry whispered to the snake, to his soulmate’s soul, “I wish you would open up the cupboard door and take me away forever. I hate this place.” 

He never said those words out loud, always afraid that one of his relatives would hear him. They were the worst when they thought he was being ungrateful. 

“I will come for you,” the snake hissed back, gentle, promising, filling Harry’s chest with painful hope, “You are mine, and I am yours. I will come for you. I will keep you forever, my own, my soul, my chosen.” 

Harry hoped beyond hope that that was true. 

“Please,” he whispered, “Hurry up and find me, soulmate.”

There were two truths that Harry knew and would always believe in.

He could use magic.

He had a soulmate.

Those two things burned with certainty in the center of his chest day in and day out. They were the two things that kept him moving even when his body ached from the daily chores and starvation and Dudley’s ‘games.’

Ever since their first real conversation, Harry’s mark spoke regularly to him, the soft hissing edge to its voice a familiar buzz in his ear. He didn’t know how his relatives never heard the snake speak, but he figured it had to be magic since they never said a word about it, and he knew they would have. 

It spoke to him as he did his chores, sometimes echoing the anger that he felt at having to do everything while Dudley did nothing and Petunia did next to nothing. Sometimes it guided him in feeling the ambient magic around him, especially when he was working in the garden. Sometimes it whispered threats toward people, especially if they were being cruel to Harry. 

At night, when he was tucked away in his cupboard, it would tell him all about magic. It whispered of creatures Harry could only imagine, of dragons and unicorns and basilisks and manticores. It told Harry about spells he would one day cast, about runes that could make put up invisible shields of protection, about alchemy that could transform metals, about crystal balls that could reveal the future. It told Harry of magical villages, where people rode winged horses, where they lived in cliffside castles, where they danced in circles beneath the moon to feel the tide of magic in their blood.

He gave up trying to pry specific information about his soulmate from the snake eventually—it didn’t seem capable of speaking more directly about him, which Harry decided had to be caused by some magical effect. He could tell his soulmate wanted to be known and wanted to know him, but the snake would twist itself into complicated knots of frustration when he tried to get concrete information like what his soulmate’s name was or what they looked like. 

So instead of asking about that, Harry asked about magic.

Long hours spent locked away left Harry plenty of time to learn how to meditate in order to feel his own core of magic. It gave him time to decipher the shapes of runes from the twists of his snake’s mark and to replicate them over and over and over with his finger in the dust on his cupboard floor. It gave him time to whisper the Latin words, carefully mimicking the snake’s pronunciation and pushing his magic through his fingers, again and again and again until it worked. 

Until he cast his first spell.

Harry twisted his wrist and flicked his fingers, and whispered, “Lumos,” in a hiss just like the way he’d been taught.

A faint silvery light formed at the end of his fingers. He stared at it, heart hammering in his chest, a burning sensation on his arm that he knew meant his mark was aware of what he was doing and was so pleased. 

“My soul, my beloved,” the snake hissed, and Harry somehow tore his eyes away from the magic light he had conjured, “You have done wonderfully. You have cast the spell perfectly. You shall become a great wizard.”

Harry flushed at the praise. He brought his glowing hand closer to his other arm, admiring the way the light glinted off the green of the snake’s scales and how the red eyes seemed to glow with their intensity. “Thank you, I would never have been able to do this without you.” 

The snake coiled a little tighter around the skull. Its tongue flicked out so fast it tickled. “I will teach you another spell. I will teach you all magic that is known to me. This one will help you now, for it will give you freedom. Listen to me, my beloved, my chosen, and learn well.” 

Harry listened and learned well.

Harry’s ninth birthday passed with him still living beneath the stairs, his soulmate mark as his only company.

And yet he was filled with hope, believing the whispering of the snake that his soulmate would come for him. He only had to wait a little longer.

Harry’s tenth birthday passed much the same way, with dust in his hair and dirt under his nails, though he could now cast the unlocking and locking charms that let him escape his cupboard and sneak food in the middle of the night. 

He wished for one gift, for his soulmate to find him and take him away. He hoped and waited. 

And waited.

And waited.

Then it was the summer he was to turn eleven, and things changed once more.

Chapter Text

When Harry got the letter addressed to his cupboard, the very first thing he did was scurry right over and tuck it under the thin mattress of his cot to read later. He could feel the tingle of magic on the envelope and didn’t want Petunia to even see it in case she tried to take it away from him. His snake companion—whom he had begun to call Apep after the name of a snake he’d read about in a library book about Egyptian gods—had told him about Hogwarts in better detail than it had been able to tell him about his soulmate. 

He had been looking forward to turning eleven more than he’d anticipated any birthday before, and Hogwarts was the reason why. His soulmate was a great and powerful wizard, after all, so the first step to finding him would be going to the wizarding world. 

It wasn’t until later that night that Harry had the time to open his letter and read through it. He did so by the faint lumos floating above his bed as he nibbled on the midnight dinner he’d stolen from the kitchen. It was mostly the vegetables that Dudley would never eat—some carrots and celery and little red tomatoes—plus a little fruit and a piece of the ham from that night’s dinner. 

Harry knew that Aunt Petunia knew he was stealing food somehow, but since she locked up his cupboard every night and it was locked when she came down every morning, she could never prove it was him. 

Smiling, Harry read and reread the letter over and over. He read it aloud to Apep, hissing out the wonderful and unfamiliar words like cauldron and transfiguration and the titles of all the books. 

“You will need more than that to become great, my chosen,” Apep hissed softly. Its magic was comforting to Harry and he stroked the smooth scales with a knuckle before munching on another piece of carrot. “We shall go and purchase many books for your education. These filthy muggles have left you too ignorant for too long.”

“I’m not that ignorant,” Harry retorted, “I know things. You’ve taught me lots of things.” 

“And yet there is still more to learn,” Apep twisted around, exposing its belly for a moment, “And yet I am not able to teach all I know, my soul.” It was frustrated again, Harry knew. He understood that frustration. They’d pushed against the limits of what Apep could and couldn’t tell him over the years, but whatever magic held its words back was more powerful than Apep and definitely more complicated than Harry could untangle.

“Will you teach me how to get to Diagon alley?” Harry asked, “Do you know the way?” 

Apep coiled in and out of the skull until it came to a stop, head just poking out from the left eye hole. “I do. I can. I shall. We will go and begin this journey. At the end of it, we shall stand together, you and I, my chosen and my soul. It will be done this way.” 

Harry smiled and lifted his arm to kiss the top of Apep’s head. He then carefully folded up his letter and finished his dinner. 

Hogwarts. Hogwarts. 

It was only two months away.

Harry stepped into the Leaky Cauldron with his heart beating wildly in his chest. It had taken a while to get there from the Dursleys' house on Privet drive, so there was a crowd of people inside for lunch. He noticed immediately their strange attire—robes, Apep had told him—and knew he was in the right place. 

He walked up to the barman and waved a little to get the man’s attention. Once he had it, he said, “Hullo, I’m trying to get into Diagon Alley?” 

The man gave him a grin. “Why o’ course there, lad. New Hogwarts student, are you?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said. 

“Muggleborn, too, by the looks of it. Say, are your parents coming through with you?” The man looked past Harry but saw no obvious accompanying adults. 

“No, sir,” Harry said. “They’re dead.”

It was a fact, so Harry said it like one. He used to be a lot sadder about it, especially when he was little and alone, but he had Apep now and, eventually, his soulmate. He’d make a new family with them. He didn’t have to pretend that someday his parents would magically appear and take him away from the Dursleys when he knew for a fact that his soulmate would. 

Still, the barman blinked at him in surprise at the comment and his mouth dropped open a little bit. Then he seemed to get a much better look at Harry and his eyes went huge as he croaked out, “I’ll be damned! You’re Harry Potter.”

Harry frowned. “What?” he asked, “How do you know that?”

“You’ve got the scar and everything,” the man whispered; he seemed so shocked that Harry looked worriedly around. A few other people were looking now, as it was the middle of the day and very busy. He felt Apep twisting on his arm and he absently rubbed it soothingly. 

Suddenly the barman came around and up to Harry, holding out his hand, “Mr. Potter, it’s an honor to meet you. My name’s Tom.”

Harry looked warily at his hand, but he still needed the man to help him get to Diagon Alley, at least that’s what Apep had said, so he shook it. “It’s nice to meet you, too,” he said, “Can you help me get into Diagon Alley now?”

“Of course, of course,” Tom said. He ushered Harry towards a back exit. He followed, noticing a few other people getting up and trailing after them. One was an older woman who caught up with them before they made it out to the alley out back.

“Harry Potter? Is that really you?” she asked in a trembling voice.

“Uh, yes? That’s my name,” Harry answered her with a glance at Tom. But the man didn’t tell the woman to leave, and he hadn’t opened the door to Diagon yet so he was stuck there as she came forward with her hand outstretched. She was quite old-looking, reminding Harry a little bit of Ms. Figg down the street. “Who are you?”

“Oh, he wants to know my name,” the woman whispered to herself. She reached forward like she was going to touch his hair or his forehead. Harry ducked back a few steps, and yet she followed. “I’m Ariel Weatherby. You saved us all, Mr. Potter. You wonderful boy.”

“Uh, you’re welcome,” Harry told her and looked again at Tom in panic. “How do we get to the Alley?”

“It’s just like this,” Tom said, still sounding awed. He took his eyes off of Harry just long enough to tap a sequence of bricks with his wand. Harry could only spare it a glance because Mrs. Weatherby was trying to touch his hair again. 

As soon as the bricks unfolded to show Diagon Alley beyond, Harry ducked away from the woman and darted through. He was fast on his feet, faster than any of the other kids at his primary school, so he was gone too quickly for them to catch him, especially an old woman like her. He raced along the street, ducking around shoppers and glancing at buildings. There was one in particular that he had to go to first, according to Apep.

And soon he was there at the steps of the looming building made of white columns and manned by strange creatures that Harry had learned about: Goblins. 

“Be cautious with the goblins,” Apep reminded him as he slowed down and walked as calmly as he could up the steps, “And be respectful as well. Those that do not fear a wizard’s might are either ignorant or confident, and goblins are the latter. Mind yourself, my chosen, and you will do well.” 

Harry hissed a soft affirmation to Apep and then, smoothing his hand over his hair in at least a little bit of an attempt to tame it, he walked into the grand building.

Harry had never been inside a bank before, but he’d seen bits of what they looked like from movies like Merry Poppins on the telly, and he had to say that a magical bank was even grander than he’d ever seen anything before. The floors were polished so brightly he could see blurred reflections of people walking around. The walls and ceiling were carved stone with what looked like gold and silver poured into the carvings to make them gleam. The tellers were behind large, dark wood desks with metal bars to separate them from each other and keep the goblins on one side and the humans on the other. 

Not knowing where exactly to go first, Harry found a short line and got in it to wait. When he finally reached the front of the line, a goblin wearing a fine navy suit and with narrowed eyes stared down at him. “State your name and business?”

“My name is Harry Potter, sir, and I’m here to get the money set aside for me for my Hogwarts supplies,” Harry said. Apep had told him that orphans at Hogwarts got a small fund to purchase supplies with. He hoped he wasn’t too early to get them—he’d only managed to get a letter back to Hogwarts saying he would attend the day before.

The goblin grunted and held out his hand. “Your vault key, Mr. Potter.”

“I don’t have one, sir,” Harry said. “Was I supposed to get one with my letter?”

“Haven’t got your vault key, hm?” The goblin ignored his second question entirely, “Then we’ll have to do proof of inheritance.” With that, the goblin turned and shouted something in another language. Harry wondered what that was and if he could learn to speak it. After all, he knew how to speak to snakes; surely, learning how to speak to goblins was possible. 

Another goblin arrived, grimacing at the sight of Harry. Harry tried to smile pleasantly, but it was difficult. He tried not to take it too personally, though. Apep had told him goblins were quite grumpy. “I am Griphook. Come with me, Mr. Potter.”

Harry nodded and followed the goblin down the line of teller desks and to a door near the back. He looked around curiously as they walked through a hallway that looked like it led to other offices, some of them with nameplates at goblin height and some at average human height. Eventually, they came to an office, and Griphook ushered him inside to sit at the desk. 

Griphook went around to the other side and sat down. He produced a creamy piece of parchment with a flourish and set it on the desktop. Next to it he set a very sharp-looking knife. “Three drops of blood on the center there, Mr. Potter, and we’ll see if you are who you claim to be.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said. He took up the knife and felt a thrum of magic pulsing through it. It brought a tang of copper to the back of his mouth. As he considered his fingertips for a second, he asked, “Is this a kind of blood magic, Mr. Griphook?”

Griphook gave him a sort of nasty-looking smile. “Yes, little wizard, it is a kind of blood magic. Are you afraid to use blood in spellcrafting, Mr. Potter?”

“No, not really,” Harry said as he pressed the sharp blade against the heel of his hand. He made a fist, flexing it slightly so that three fat beads of blood welled up and then dripped onto the parchment. Apep had told him to be careful with his blood when using it in magic so he checked the blade and only set it down when he knew it was clean. 

As his blood soaked into the parchment and began to make it shine, Harry licked up the blood on his cut and then pressed his other palm against it, keeping pressure so it would stop bleeding. He watched, fascinated, as the parchment glowed brighter, and then dark letters appeared on it, scrawling across the surface like someone invisible was writing there. 

Griphook snatched up the page as soon as it finished glowing. He read over it and then gave a little snort. “It seems you speak the truth, Mr. Potter. Congratulations, you are the sole inheritor of the Ancestral Potter vault, the Potter trust vault, and the Evans security deposit box. If you do not have a key to any of these vaults or boxes, one can be provided for you at a small fee.”

“That would be great, thanks,” Harry said with a bit of a smile. He felt Apep twisting on his arm and turned it so he could better hear the soft whisper of its voice. 

“Go look into the vaults, my dearest, for there will be great treasures within an Ancestral vault, even beyond a wealth of gold or silver.” 

“Can I go look at the vaults and see the security box, Mr. Griphook?” Harry asked. Griphook was giving him an even more narrow look, but Harry had good practice at pretending not to react when Apep spoke, so he just continued to smile at the goblin and wait.

“You may indeed, Mr. Potter,” Griphook said. “Wait here one moment, and I will procure the two keys and the Evans box.” He got up from his seat and walked out of the room, leaving Harry alone.

Once alone, Harry ran a soothing hand down over Apep and said, “This is going well, I think. Except for that bit at the pub, of course. Do you have any idea why that happened?” 

“My chosen is well beloved by others. Your great potential shines brightly and others will come to bask in that light. Of course, one that is bonded to mine own soul would be so admired,” Apep replied. It sounded pleased and Harry rolled his eyes a little at the useless answer. So Apep either didn’t know or couldn’t answer and defaulted to praise instead. Harry stroked the snake through his sleeve and smiled to himself. Apep was so kind to him. 

Griphook eventually returned and with him were two boxes, one smaller and square, the other larger and rectangular. He set them both down on the desk and tapped the smaller of the two, “This one carries the two vault keys. Your vault cannot be accessed without a goblin escort. You may withdraw funds directly from the vault during business hours. Cheques and treasury pouches may be purchased at the tellers above for a small fee.” 

He then tapped the larger box, which had a small silver key sticking out of it, “This is the Evans security box. The rental space for it has expired so you must take all of the belongings from inside at this time or they will be repurposed into the bank’s internal wealth. You may also purchase this security slot once more, it is three galleons per year with a deposit of up to ten years available. This particular box has been indebted for two years, and six galleons have been taken from your other accounts in order to retrieve it in its entirety at this time.”

Harry blinked a few times and nodded. “Uh. Okay. I’ll take the box with me, I think. And what is a treasury pouch?” 

In a bored voice Griphook explained, “A treasury pouch is a pouch with a set amount of galleons accessible to it from the main vault. They may be purchased with amounts of a minimum of twenty-five and a maximum of one thousand. A ten percent fee is attached with the purchase of each treasury pouch. Once the pouch is emptied of its limit, it can only be refilled at the bank for a five percent fee of the total galleon amount of the pouch.”

Harry nodded. This was going a little over his head, but he thought he could manage it. Having his own vaults and money was already dizzying, but in a wonderful sort of way. If he had enough money, could he possibly find a room in a hotel or something to stay at? Maybe he didn’t even have to go back to the Dursleys this summer—or any summer—ever again?

“An Ancestral name must come with Ancestral properties,” Apep hissed softly, drawing Harry’s attention. He listened but didn’t look at his arm. “The home of your wizarding ancestors will be a finer place than any muggle dwelling. You must ask after them, my soul.”

With a hopeful throb in his chest, Harry asked curiously, “Um, are there any properties attached to the Potter vaults?” 

Griphook’s suspicion was a sharp look at his lap where he kept his hands. His hearing must have been better than others and Harry hoped Apep would be more careful. Still, he answered, “There are three such properties.”

“Um, can I get the papers for them to look at?” Harry asked. His heart was beating very fast in his chest now. If he had a house he could move into on his own that would be wonderful. Sure, getting there might be difficult, and getting groceries would be troublesome too, but still. With Apep to guide him, Harry was sure he’d be all right.

“If you insist, Mr. Potter,” Griphook said. He didn’t have to leave to get the papers, though, and instead opened a drawer in the desk, rummaged around, and then deposited three bundles.

Pointing to them one at a time, he explained, “This is the deed for the cottage in Godric’s Hollow. The last inspection declared the house uninhabitable. This is the deed for the two-story home on Willow Avenue in Cokeworth; the last inspection declared the house habitable and suitable for rent. This file also contains the filed contract with the muggle banking institution that rents this property on behalf of Lily Potter née Evans. Upon the last inspection, the payments are up to date, and the contract is in effect until the end of the year. 

"And this is for the Potter manor in the Wiltshire hills near Amesbury. The last inspection for the manor declares it shut up and in magical stasis, waiting for the return of the magical heir of the Potter line.” Griphook paused and then gave Harry a look that suggested he would be an idiot if he didn’t know this and added, “That would be you, Mr. Potter.”

Three homes. Harry had three homes to choose from. Well, he really only had one that sounded like he could go to since the first was unlivable and the other had some other family in it, but still. 

There was a manor in Wiltshire! He’d learned about Stonehenge in classes at school and how it was in Salisbury Plain in Wiltshire. He’d always thought it would be an interesting place to go and Apep had told him great magic could be done at a place like that. To think that he had a home so close by! 

Harry picked up the packet of paper with the Wiltshire manor information and flipped through it excitedly. There was a moving picture of the manor, showing a stately building made of wood and grey stone with clouds moving in the background. There was the information for its location, which consisted of a very thorough description of the land it was on. And there was a single golden key with the head of a lion on the handle. He ran his fingers delicately over the metal and then looked up with a grin. “Thank you for this information, Mr. Griphook. Can I take these papers with me?”

“These are your copies, Mr. Potter,” Griphook gave him an odd look, like he was trying to puzzle Harry out and hadn’t come to an answer yet. “Would you still like to go down to the Vaults?”

Harry considered that and then thought of all the other shopping he had to do. Plus he still had to figure out how to get to Wiltshire. There was no way on Earth that he was ever going to go back to the Dursleys again. Not even if that meant he had to clean an entire manor on his own and live by himself— Besides, he’d only be by himself until his soulmate came and found him. 

Or he found his soulmate.

Harry looked at the picture of the manor again. He imagined living there with his soulmate and all the kids they would have. They would have to adopt, of course, but a place that big could have so many kids in it. It would be amazing. 

“Not today, I think,” Harry said, “Do I need to make an appointment if I want to come down and spend some time in them? I’d like to see what they have and make sure I have enough time to see it all.”

“That would be preferred,” Griphook said, “If you do not know now when you’d like to make that appointment, you can owl the bank at any time to arrange a meeting. I suggest you make the appointment for the morning, Mr. Potter, as the Ancestral vault is of considerable size.” 

“Thank you,” Harry said again, grateful beyond belief, “In that case I think I’ll get some cheques and one of those treasury pouches. Should I do that here or at the teller? And also, is there some way to um, magically protect the pouch? So only I can use it? And the cheques?” Harry, having pinched more than a few dollars out of Petunia’s purse over the last two years, knew the value of keeping thieves out of his own wallet.

“I can order those items for you here and you will be able to pick them up on your way out of the bank,” Griphook gave him a grin that looked pleased. His eyes glinted as he said, “And yes there is, Mr. Potter. What amount would you like your galleon max be?”

“Um, could I do five hundred? I’m sorry, I’m rather new to all this magical coin so I don’t know what a good average would be. I do have enough for five hundred in my vaults, right? Is there some sort of statement that says how much I have?”

“You certainly do,” Griphook said. “And there certainly is. Here.” He handed another sheet over to Harry, and Harry eyed the rest of the stack that sat at Griphook’s elbow.

“What else have you got there?” Harry asked, “Are those other things related to my vaults?”

Griphook’s smile grew, like Harry had asked the right question, “They certainly are, Mr. Potter. This is some information on the tomes, artifacts, and other miscellaneous valuables within the Potter vaults.”

“Well, can I have them? Or copies, at least? Am I allowed to take them out of the bank?”

Griphook slid the rest of the stack over. Harry started piling everything together and was a little surprised to see how thick the bundle was. He was going to have a lot of reading to do later! And he hadn’t even gone to the bookstore yet! The pages, along with the security box, were quite a lot to carry already. “Is there some sort of um, binder or maybe a briefcase I could put all this paper in?” Harry asked, “If there’s a fee to it, I’ll pay. Especially if I can magically lock it so no one else can steal it or open it but me.”

“You are a careful little wizard, aren’t you, Mr. Potter?” Griphook said as he opened yet another drawer. He pulled out a slim briefcase and handed it over. “The fee will be taken from your family trust vault. To activate the protections on this case, you must offer it several drops of blood here on the lock.” He pointed to a silver lock that had the shape of a closed rose on it. 

Harry picked at the scab that had formed on his hand and squeezed out some more blood. The rose bloomed once his blood touched it and he was able to open the briefcase and put everything in. It was deeper and bigger on the inside than the outside so he even got the security box put away. He closed it and locked it with a satisfying little snap.

“You’ve been most helpful, Mr. Griphook, I certainly hope that I can continue to do business with you again in the future,” Harry said, emulating the kind of thing he’d heard businessmen say on the telly before. He held out his uninjured hand to the goblin, who looked at it for a long moment before taking it and shaking it once. 

“I do think we can arrange that in the future, Mr. Potter.” He let go of Harry’s hand and then said slowly, almost cautiously, “You have been a most curious little wizard. Not at all what was expected, I think. I believe I will be looking forward to how you make your mark on the world.”

Harry grinned broadly. He was going to be great one day, he and his soulmate both. He felt Apep twisting with joy on his arm, and he knew that the snake was reacting to his happiness and how his magic thrummed with anticipation.

He thought of Apep’s words—together we will be unconquerable, unstoppable, unending—and he knew they were true.

He left the bank with his chin held high and his expectations even higher. He was on his first steps to becoming great and finding his soulmate. He just had to be patient. He could manage that.

Chapter Text

The very first place Harry went to was a trunk store. It took almost half an hour, even with the shop owner practically falling all over himself to give Harry the best service he could, but at the end of it Harry was the proud new owner of a beautiful mahogany wood trunk with a platinum ward lock on it. He’d spent a pretty penny on it—or rather a pretty galleon, but Harry wasn’t about to get his stuff nicked from potentially nosy or terrible housemates at Hogwarts. Even without Apep’s warning, Harry knew what kids were like. He’d spent years being tormented by Dudley and his gang and ignored by all the other children at school. He knew that something like that could happen at Hogwarts—even if he hoped otherwise. 

Not only was the trunk warded, but it could lighten and shrink and float behind him all on command. It was also many, many times bigger on the inside than the outside and Harry was ready to stuff it so full of books. 

However, on his search for the bookstore he came across a little custom robe shop that had a small, bright red door and a faceless mannequin standing in the window, waving at passersby. Above the door hung a sign in simple pale wood with black lettering declaring it Rowle’s Robes. Harry, curious about robes and wondering if he could find things to wear that were better than Dudley’s castoffs, ducked in through the door. 

The room inside was quiet, muffled by all the bolts of cloth that lined the walls. There were even more standing upright all throughout the room, creating a sort of maze that he had to walk through in order to find a desk or a worker. After a few steps in, and a twist around some beautiful blue fabric that felt softer than fur and yet looked like crushed velvet, he came upon an open space where a spindly man worked away on a mannequin made of what looked like marble. 

He didn’t even look up as he greeted Harry with a somewhat muffled, “Hello there, be right with you in a moment.”

“Okay,” Harry said and turned to admire some pretty green cloth near where he stood. It looked about the same color as Apep’s scales. He was tempted to pull back his sleeve and peel up the bandage to compare.

Only a minute or two passed and then the man said, “All right, what can I do for you young man? Here for a pick-up? An appointment?”

Harry turned back around and the man’s genial smile dropped into an open mouth and the pins that were hovering over his shoulder hit the floor with a clatter. Harry blinked in surprise. “Uh. Are you okay, sir?”

“Why you’re—” the man’s throat bobbed. “Can’t be any mistaking it, not with those eyes or that hair or— Dear Merlin.” 

Harry frowned. This again? First the people at the pub and then the trunk seller and now this man too? How many people knew what he looked like and why? 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about sir. I was hoping to get some robes? I need some for school, you see, and probably others to wear outside of school since I haven’t, um, got much else to wear.”  He held up his arms to show off the grey shirt he wore. He had a short-sleeved one on top of a long-sleeved one since that hid Apep better and also because he was often cold, even in the summer. “See what I mean?”

The man’s shocked face turned to one of horror. He even put his hand over his mouth. “What in Merlin’s name are you wearing?” 

Harry felt his face flame up. He swallowed back his embarrassment and pressed his hand over where Apep coiled and uncoiled in anxiety. He was destined to be great, just like his soulmate. He wasn’t going to squirm over every awful thing. “My cousin’s hand-me-downs, sir. Can you help me get robes?”

“You’ll need a whole wardrobe,” the man murmured, his silvery blue eyes turned calculating as they looked harry up and down. He had wispy white-gold hair, like it had once been blonde but got whiter and whiter with age. Despite that, Harry couldn’t really tell how old he was as he had very few lines on his narrow face and stood straight, even if he was as thin as Aunt Petunia. “Shoes, stockings, underthings, the works. Dear Merlin, wherever did you get those things? From a muggle?”

“Well, yes,” Harry said matter-of-factly. “My cousin’s a muggle.”

“And you were raised with him? With muggles?” 

A little impatient now, Harry huffed, “Yes. I was. Now, can you help me or not? I need to get robes and I have a lot of shopping still left to do.” He sounded like Petunia and he hated it, but really, could people stop gawking over him? There wasn’t any good reason for it, after all. 

The man took a deep breath and then let it out. He ran his hand down his face, over his mouth and then to the back of his neck. He then shook his head a little and said to himself, “Why not, why not? Might do me some good to design for the Boy-Who-Lived.” Then he nodded and said louder, “Come closer, young man, up here on this pedestal and I’ll get your measurements. My name is Oswyn Rowle, Mr. Potter, and I’ll be…quite pleased to help you today.” He drew his wand and waved it a bit. The mannequin that he’d been working with stepped down and twirled away to a different part of the shop.

Harry nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Rowle.” He tapped his trunk to let it settle on the floor and then walked over and stepped up. He waited until Rowle had gathered up his pins and drew out a magical tape measurer before he asked, “What do you mean about ‘the Boy-Who-Lived’, sir?”

Rowle fumbled the tape measurer and it clattered to the floor. He stared at Harry, who stared back. 

“You do not know?” Rowle practically squeaked. “You—Were you raised by muggles entirely? How could you not— You don’t know?” 

Harry frowned. He wasn’t sure he should mention Apep, so he just nodded. “Yes, I was raised by my aunt and uncle in the muggle world. What don’t I know?”

“Oh dear lad,” Rowle looked like he needed to sit down. He waved his wand and mumbled something and suddenly there was a stool right beside him. He sat down on it and rubbed his forehead. “How did you get here if you didn’t know?”

Harry stiffened. He resisted the urge to tuck his arms behind his back. He’d learned his lesson from the Dursleys well: the best way to hide something was to not ever draw attention to it, even by accident. So even though he wanted to tuck Apep out of sight, he didn’t move. 

“I got a letter saying I had been accepted into Hogwarts,” he said, “And to come to Diagon Alley to shop. So I came and I went to the bank to get some money and then I got my trunk. I was going to go get books first but everyone else is in robes and I thought I’d like to wear some too.”

Rowle watched him with those wide eyes of his. “And you’ve done this alone? No—Your muggle guardians let you go?”

“Of course they did,” Harry lied, “They don’t know much about magical things and know I can take care of myself.”

Rowle gave him a strange smile and laughed, a little bitterly, “You certainly can do that, young man.”

“Anyway, you didn’t answer my question,” Harry pressed, “What is this Boy-Who-Lived thing you mentioned? Is that—That’s not me, is it?”

Rowle rubbed his forehead and then said, “How about I explain while I work? Might as well get you your measurements, lad, and fitted like a proper wizard.” There was something…sad in his eyes as he looked at Harry’s clothes. “It isn’t right for a magical child to be raised by muggles. They need magic to grow and develop properly." He clicked his tongue as he shook his head. "We’ll get you looking like a proper wizard before you leave here today.”

“Thank you,” Harry said, pleased not just about the clothes but the promise of an explanation. Rowle pushed himself back to his feet and then got to measuring.

While he did, he told Harry the most interesting yet awful story he had ever heard.

He told Harry the truth about how his parents died.

"Really?" Harry asked, his mouth hanging open in surprise, "They were murdered?" 

Rowle looked at him with one arched eyebrow, pinching cloth in one hand and holding a pin in the other, "Yes, lad, that's the truth. Why? What did your aunt tell you?"

"That they were no-good drunks that died in a car crash," Harry parroted. After Apep started talking to him, he'd believed that story less, but he'd still grown up thinking that they died in a crash. Not that they were murdered. And by a powerful Dark Lord as well! 

"A car crash? Now, what in Merlin's name is a car?" Rowle asked. "Some sort of muggle contraption?"

"I supposed you could say so. A car is a type of automobile that people-muggles, I guess-use to drive around and get places. Haven't wizards got something like that?"

"Oh, there's the Knight bus," Rowle said, "But that's a new-fangled bit of machinery. I haven't seen an automobile since I was just a young man, I can't imagine they're very safe to be in."

Harry sort of agreed, since he'd seen a few car wrecks while growing up, but hadn't been one in himself. He'd always known cars were dangerous, though, that was why Aunt Petunia didn't like it when Dudley played in the street. (Though she never seemed to bother Harry when he did.) "Why did the Dark Lord come after my parents, Mr. Rowle?" 

Rowle sighed and worked his way along one cuff, brows furrowed together as he tried to explain what people thought had happened, considering anyone who had actually been there that night was either dead or an infant at the time.

It was after his measurements were taken and Rowle had Harry sitting in the back of the shop. There was even more cloth back here, as well as a long workbench and racks and racks of robes and folded clothes. Rowle had closed up the store after getting Harry’s measurements, telling him that he’d rather focus on this than have to deal with anyone else coming in and Harry appreciated that. 

He held a cup of permanently warm tea in his hands. Rowle had told him that the porcelain was charmed to keep the tea at an ideal temperature. Rowle was at his workbench, his short, dark wand working fluidly through the air over the new clothes he made Harry. 

“Everything is custom, here at Rowle’s Robes,” Rowle had told him with a smile, “It costs a bit more, but it’s one-of-a-kind and well-enchanted material. I work for the best with the best and I always have.” 

Harry didn’t care about the cost. He had plenty of money and plenty of cheques and plenty of time. What he cared about more was what Rowle was telling him about the last fifteen years of wizarding history. 

Apep could only tell him so much, after all. He couldn’t talk to Harry about the details of what was going on as he had no way of learning about them. And anything it had learned from its connection to Harry’s soulmate was from years and years ago. 

“...Which led to the sorry state of ritual education in Hogwarts as it is these days,” Rowle said as he flicked his wand and some dark blue cloth came whipping around the corner and rolled up at the edge of his table. He glanced over a shoulder at Harry and said, “You’ll hear plenty about how rituals are only for dark means, lad, but you should know the truth. Many a babe’s life has hinged on their mother performing a ritual to help them be born well or to survive a childhood illness.

“Why, some say your own mother performed a ritual to keep the Dark Lord at bay when the time came. None will admit that, of course, because to repel the killing curse requires a very powerful sacrifice indeed, but most of the time the sacrifice is something minor, like magic that has been collected into a particular crystal, or a plait of hair, or a little bit of blood.”

Harry nodded along, sipping his tea. It was a little bland and there was no cream, but he thought it was the best tea he’d ever had. It was magic tea in a magic cup! “I’ve read that rituals are conducted on stones like Stonehenge. If Hogwarts used to teach ritual magic, does that mean that there are ritual stones there?”

Rowle gave a little chuckle, “Oh yes, lad, yes indeed, but such things are far from safe for a little first year to visit alone. It once was that the seventh years would lead the younger ones out to conduct rites during the year, along with their Heads of House, but such things are prohibited now. The stones are all in a forbidden place that no student is allowed to enter. You’ll surely hear the Headmaster declare it off-limits at the welcoming feast. But it wasn’t always that way.”

“How long ago did it change?” Harry asked. He swung his legs a little bit. Even though the chair he sat on wasn’t very big, it was certainly tall enough that he couldn’t reach the floor when he sat in it. 

“Some sixty years ago the push began in earnest and after the first wizarding war properly ended, the pushback became stronger. Many wixen blamed Grindelwald’s fascination with such magics as the cause for his ambition and bloodthirst.” Rowle sent the blue cloth away and summoned some gold that shimmered metallic. Harry wondered if that was going to be a whole robe and he hoped not. He thought that would be far too eye-catching. “Of course, there are those who know better.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked. He sipped more of his tea. Talking with Rowle felt a little like talking to Apep on his clearer days. He could just ask question after question and get more and more information. He was glad Rowle didn’t seem to mind the questions at all because he had an awful lot of them. 

“Why, it is not the rituals that cause such interest, lad, but the interest that brings one to such rituals. You see, they said much the same about the Dark Lord, when they weren’t so afraid to speak of him, of course. They said that it was dark rituals that drove him to bring the wizarding world to war for a second time. They said those rituals drove him mad for power and corrupted him, but those who knew him, lad, those who knew him, they knew otherwise.”

Rowle was quiet for a while, sending away the gold and sending some blue robes into a tall box at the end of the workbench. Harry saw bits of gold on the blue and wondered what the finished piece looked like. All he knew for sure was that he was going to have all the clothes that he needed—at least that Rowle thought he needed. 

Harry reached over to the tiny table next to where he sat where a tray of biscuits lay. He picked one up and nibbled at it. It was past lunch now, but he didn’t usually eat much during the day so he wasn’t very bothered. 

He felt Apep twist on his arm and patted him soothingly. He had been quiet since they were in the shop, which Harry thought was for the best. He’d hissed once or twice in the trunk shop making the shopkeeper there twitch and look around wildly. Harry suspected that perhaps his relatives hadn’t heard Apep speak because he was magical and that other wizards and magical folk like goblins could hear him if it was quiet. 

After a while, Harry set down his teacup and said, “Did the Dark Lord go to Hogwarts?” 

Rowle’s hands paused for a second before he went back to his work and gave a nod. “That is what everyone believes. No one is quite sure of his origins, however, so one cannot be sure. Of course, those who believe he went to Hogwarts believe he was a Slytherin.”

“One of the four houses,” Harry said. Apep had told him about those. He had said Slytherin was the best house, of course, and Harry wasn’t really surprised. Other snakes were Apep’s third favorite thing, the first being Harry and the second being Harry’s soulmate, and by extension, itself. “My parents went to Hogwarts, you said? Which house were they in?” 

“Oh they were the most Gryffindor of Gryffindors,” Rowle said with a dry chuckle, “Your mother was well known for her quick charms work and quickfire temper. Your father had just as volatile a temper, however, and was wicked with his transfigurations. They were brilliant, the two of them, but were young. Foolish. It was the young ones who were pulled into the war.”

“Did you know them, Mr. Rowle?”

“Me? Oh, no lad. I had…a cousin who knew them, though. Dueled your father, once or twice. Dueled your mother, but only the once. He lost to her, quite badly. She was a…very skilled witch.”

Harry reached for his teacup and frowned at it. He tried to imagine his parents and what they must have looked like. He knew Petunia pretty well so he thought his mother was probably like her a little bit. Maybe she had the same blue eyes and pointy nose? He didn’t think he got his dark hair from her, so maybe his dad had the same kind of hair?

Rowle turned around, wand in hand. He tapped the box at the end of his workbench and it floated over towards Harry before shrinking down and then settling on top of his mahogany box. “We’ve got you all set there, Mr. Potter. Robes for school, robes for casual wear, and two dress robes just in case. Then there are the underclothes, including socks and a pair of gloves for winter. Of course, there’s a general outdoor cloak with special warming and water-repelling charms, a winter cloak with robust heating charms, a hat and a scarf that’ll take on your house colors once you’re sorted. I recommend going three doors down to Tatum’s Tattings for boots your size. You won’t need top grade until you’ve finished growing so some second-hand dragonhide will be suitable, as well as a belt and a wand guard.

“Those kinds of things aren’t on your school list, I’m sure, but they’re essentials for the modern wizard,” Rowle gave a little laugh and then turned to gesture to a Harry-sized wooden mannequin standing beside the bench. It wore a pair of charcoal grey trousers, a green button-down shirt with short sleeves, and an open robe of a softer stone grey. “Now I won’t have you leaving my shop in that muggle get up so if you wouldn’t mind putting this on, lad, you can pay once you’re dressed.”

Harry set down his cup and got to his feet. He went over to the mannequin, admiring the rich green of the shirt. He’d never worn anything so colorful in his life. “It looks amazing, Mr. Rowle. Thank you so much.” He turned and beamed at the man. 

Rowle gave him an odd little smile that just made something sad gleam in his eyes. “It’s the least I can do, Mr. Potter. It isn’t right that you were raised outside of the world you…saved. Magical children belong in the magical world and these clothes will make sure you fit in as you should.”

Harry ran his fingers gingerly down the robe. He’d never worn anything so nice in his life. He was glad he was never going back to the Dursleys so they wouldn’t be able to take these things from him. “Where would you like me to change?”

Rowle guided him to a small curtained cubicle and left him there to dress. Harry shed Dudley’s old things quickly. He was so excited to put on his new clothes! He didn’t even mind that the socks went up to his knees like old-timey ones on the Telly or that the slacks felt a little strange, so silken smooth against his legs. He loved the green shirt and loved the robe even more. 

Harry put his oversized trainers back on his feet with a grimace, promising himself he’d go buy better boots (that were made out of dragonhide! Magical dragonhide boots!) and that this was the last time he’d ever wear Dudley’s old shoes. 

The only thing he hesitated over was the bandage on his arm. Like every morning in his cupboard he covered it up with the big square bandage that Petunia would buy for him. He had to always keep Apep hidden at the Dursleys because little boys didn’t have tattoos, but maybe in the magical world, it wasn’t so strange. Surely everyone had soulmate marks! 

Peeling the old bandage off, Harry folded it up and tucked it into the pants pocket of his discarded muggle clothes. Then he gathered them up in a bundle and left the changing cubicle. 

He went back to the front of the shop, his trunk following behind him with the wardrobe box on top. Rowle was at his counter, writing something in a thick book with a long, feathery quill. Rowle put the quill into a nearby inkpot and looked up as Harry came to a stop in front of his counter. “Well, Mr. Potter, I must say you look quite like the wizard you are, now.”

Harry grinned at him. He gingerly put his old clothes on the countertop and said, “I didn’t see a trashcan in the back, Mr. Rowle, but I would like to throw these things away, please. I don’t need them anymore.”

“Consider them vanished, lad,” Rowle said as he drew out his short wand and flicked it with a quick incantation. Just like that, Dudley’s old clothes were gone.

“Magic is wonderful,” Harry whispered in awe. He reached into that blank spot and felt nothing. The clothes were really gone! 

Rowle gave him another one of those not-quite-happy smiles and nodded. “It certainly is. Now, shall we settle up your tab? I’m happy to work with you on the price, Mr. Potter. I’m sure you have plenty of shopping you still need to do and a limited budget to work with.”

“Not really,” Harry denied as he bent down to his trunk. He moved the wardrobe box off the top and opened the deep trunk. He took his briefcase out and from inside of that,  he withdrew a brand new cheque that Griphook had gotten him. He put all of it back into the trunk, including the wardrobe box which fit just fine and then put the cheque on the desk. 

“I mean, I do have some shopping to do still,” He corrected with a smile and said, “But Mr. Griphook down at the bank told me I have lots of money and I figure having proper wizard clothes is worth the expense. I read that looking powerful is as important as being powerful and I think that these clothes will help with that.”

Rowle gave a little chuckle. “Well, I cannot argue with that as my work has been worn by many a powerful wixen in the past. I once had more than this small shop you see here, lad, but those days are long past now.”

“I’m sorry for that,” Harry said honestly. “How much would you like for everything today?”

The man thought it over for a moment and then answered, “Two hundred and fifty galleons should cover it all, Mr. Potter.”

“All right,” Harry said. It sounded like a lot, to be sure, but all the clothes were his and they were fancy and nice and he’d never have to share them. That was worth all the galleons he had with him right now. “I’ve never written a cheque before, can you show me how?” 

Rowle did, showing him how to hold the quill as well, and Harry dutifully scrawled out the whole cheque on his own. He even put the quill back in the inkpot, grinning at the fact that he hadn’t left more than one little blotch of ink on the paper. He pushed it forward with his left hand and grinned at Rowle. “There!”

But instead of getting an answering smile from the old man, Rowle stared at Harry with his face so pale that the tiny age spots Harry hadn’t even seen before stuck out on his face like drops of ink. 

The man’s hand shook as he reached forward and touched Harry’s left wrist, “What?” He breathed out the words softly. “What is this?”

Harry looked and saw the silken robe sleeves had pulled up on his forearm, exposing the bottom part of Apep’s green body and a little bit of the skull he was attached to. Harry quickly pulled his sleeve back down, and said, “Um. My soulmate mark? That’s— Wizards have those, right? That’s normal, right?”

Rowle ran his tongue over his lips. His eyes were wide in a way that was starting to scare Harry. “Mr. Potter,” his voice was still very soft, “May I see your mark?”

Harry hesitated. “Why?”

“It…looks like a mark I have seen before, elsewhere. I thought perhaps…But no, I understand if you do not wish to share it. Soulmate marks are very sacred.” Rowle drew his hands back to himself, but there was something in his gaze that made Harry worry his bottom lip with his teeth.

Apep had always warned Harry to be careful, but if Rowle had seen his mark before… What if Rowle could tell him who his soulmate was? He peered up at the man, holding tightly to his sleeve as he asked, “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

“I promise,” Rowle said. 

Harry pulled back his sleeve. It was the first time since Apep came to life that he showed his mark off at all, though he looked at it himself every night.

Rowle sucked in a breath so quickly Harry thought it must have hurt. His face went even whiter and he stared at the mark. His throat worked like he was swallowing, and then he said, “That is…that is a full mark,” he whispered, “And it’s… I can’t believe it…”

Apep twisted around a little, sliding further out of the skull’s open jaw, and Rowle swore under his breath. Harry pulled his arm back, covering it back up with his sleeve. “Have you seen this mark before?”

“I—” Rowle blinked a few times, “No. No. Mr. Potter no, I was mistaken. But, forgive me, I’m so shocked because— Well, children’s marks do not develop this early. Oh no. No. If I had known I would have provided you soulmate mark covers as well as all the rest, no. You see—You see, children’s marks do not take shape until they’re older, much older. Sixteen at the earliest, though often closer to nineteen or twenty— To have your mark so early… There is no question that your soulmate is—is the one and only one for you.”

Harry ran his hand up under his sleeve, feeling the cool texture of Apep’s scales. He felt a twist of something hot and slick in his belly, like a mixture of nausea and wonder. All he ever wanted was to be normal while growing up, but Apep said he was going to be great, and that his soulmate was also powerful and great. They were destined, fated. 

“I’ve had mine since I was eight,” he said quietly, “Do other people’s marks move? Mine moves a lot.”

“They can,” Rowle said, “It’s possible… Eight you say? That early?”

Harry nodded. 

Rowle got a little color back in his face. He ran his hand down it and then heaved out a great big sigh. “Well, I.. That’s... Lad, you are full of surprises, aren’t you?” He gave a weak laugh, “Here, I will get you a couple of covers. They’re charmed especially to not be taken off except anyone but yourself and these ones will have a gentle notice-me-not charm to try and keep people’s attention off of them. You’ll need that, Mr. Potter, because it will be unusual for your arm to be covered.”

Harry nodded, “How much will that be?”

“No, no, these will be free, young man. You’ll take them and you’ll promise me to keep your mark covered. Children can be— They can be cruel to those who are unusual and this mark makes you quite unusual. More than you already are.” And with that, Rowle vanished into the back room, leaving Harry there at the counter with a little frown.

“You have no need to be average, my chosen,” Apep’s voice was soft and insistent, “You are one-half of greatness. You are the soul’s mate to the Great Lord. You will be unstoppable, my soul. Power is what you need, not normalcy.” 

“I know, I know,” Harry murmured to the snake. He knew he couldn’t be normal, but sometimes he thought about it still. What he really wanted was something else entirely.

Rowle came back with the armbands and helped him put one on before giving Harry two more. He tucked them into his trunk and finally said his goodbyes. 

With his trunk bobbing along behind himself, directions to Tatum’s Tattings in his head and his brand new robes swirling around behind him, Harry headed off to continue his school shopping.

Oswyn Rowle had been unfortunate enough to see many terrible things in his life. He had also been fortunate enough to enjoy the Dark Lord’s favor, though in the last years of his reign, that favor had gone hand in hand with watching terrible things happen. He had been lucky to be spared the worst of the Dark Lord’s wrath and often was either alone with the man when he was called in or in the presence of the most trusted of the Dark Lord. 

For Oswyn Rowle had told Harry Potter the truth: he had plied his trade with the best materials for the best people, and before that fateful night in 1981, the Dark Lord was one of those individuals. 

Despite it being barely four in the afternoon, Oswyn fully closed down the shop. He locked the door and shuttered his windows for the day once the Potter boy had skipped merrily out of his shop. He cast the stasis charms and stabilization charms that would keep the bolts of cloth from toppling accidentally and he locked up the cash drawer and his ledger. 

Then he went into the back of the shop and up the winding stairs to the small studio apartment that he called his own. His family branch had fallen into ruin at the end of the war, though the main line of Rowles still struggled along in this new society. Oswyn had been close enough to the Dark Lord to bear the taint of his influence after his death, but he’d never been marked and so he had never been outright jailed.

No, he had just suffered a loss in business with his clients arrested, killed, or simply abandoning him when it was no longer fashionable to wear a Rowles Robe. Those who were loyal to him still never asked for his once extravagant and signature looks. His life had become smaller and smaller until all of it was contained within these four walls and behind his red door.

That same red door that Harry Potter walked right through just that morning.

That same boy had once again changed everything in Oswyns life. Once he had somehow survived the Dark Lord’s attack and changed the world then. Now he had arrived in tattered muggle clothes and such obvious ignorance of his own history that all Oswyn thought he knew about the Boy-Who-Lived turned out to be an obvious lie. 

And then on the boy’s arm— And then that mark on the boy’s left arm. 

The fully developed soulmate mark—

The snake and skull of the Dark Mark—

Oswyn sat in his little kitchen and poured himself a glass of whiskey. 

Harry Potter, soulmates to the Dark Lord Voldemort. 

Harry Potter, with a vibrant, living soulmate mark binding him to the Dark Lord Voldemort.

It could only mean one thing.

Lord Voldemort still lived.

Chapter Text

The lady at the boot store talked a mile a minute as she measured Harry’s foot and then went to go find him a couple of pairs of decent boots to try on. He thought that since travel was pretty closely related to boots, he could ask her about the different ways wizards travelled around the world. 

“Why, there’s apparation, portkeys, brooms, and winged horses, of course, those last ones are notoriously difficult to keep. You hear about how fragile a horse is, well imagine one of those with great big wings on! Ha!” she tossed her head back with a laugh, her brown braided hair falling over her shoulder. “And then ‘round these parts, there’s also the Knight Bus. Bit of a bouncy ride in some of the more muggle parts of the country, of course, always having to stop and go and jerk around to avoid muggle buildings and cars and whatnot. 

“The bus is a much smoother ride out in the country,” Ms. Tatum said, “Especially if you get on the express bus in those wee hours of the morning. I had to take a trip on down to the coast one year,—” and she went on to explain her trip as she set out three pairs of boots for Harry to try, one set in dark green, one set in dark brown and one set in black. 

Harry bought all three pairs. 

He got a bunch more socks, a pair of belts, and a tie clip since Ms. Tatum said he’d be wearing a tie at Hogwarts and Harry had always thought they looked a bit fancy. The clip was a little gold skull with ruby eyes because it reminded him a bit of Apep’s skull and he liked the shiny red eyes. 

Ms. Tatum had complimented his sense of style, threw in a boot polishing kit as a freebie, and helped him get into his dark green boots before sending him on his way. Harry ended up keeping his trainers, though. They were still good enough to wear and he might grow into them one day. He thought it was good to keep extra shoes, as long as they were nice.

The next stop was the bookshop, only on his way Harry passed by a shop boasting the newest brooms and Harry knew he had to make a detour there. 

A plan for how he was going to get to the manor was forming in his mind and a broom was essential to his plan.

Knowing nothing about brooms, however, meant Harry spent several minutes reading about each one on display. He’d heard plenty about making an Informed Shopping decision, something Aunt Petunia was pretty adamant about. He thought it was a pretty good idea, even if she was a terrible source, so he read the displays and the little manuals that were below the brooms describing all their statistics. 

As he was reading about the third broom, a Stormcloud that came in an interesting shade of grey and boasted the least likelihood of unseating a rider even in the worst of weather, an employee came over to talk to him. 

“Good afternoon! How can I help you today?” The young man gave him a broad grin and wore a nametag on his apron that said his name was Bryant.

“I’d like to get a broom,” Harry said. He opened his mouth to continue but Bryant cut him off with a little laugh. 

“Oh, I’m sure you would. Are you taking a look around while you’re parents are shopping elsewhere?” He looked past Harry towards the windows, like he might see some adults coming in to find him.

“I’m not really looking,” Harry said, “I’m definitely going to buy a broom. I want one that can travel well. I don’t really care about speed or anything, just reliability.” 

Bryant grinned at him. “Sure, kid, but you know brooms can be kind of expensive. You’re going to have to save up a lot of pocket money to get one like this storm chaser. That’s a new model and it’s one hundred and one galleons.”

Harry knew that already, the price was on the broom. It was a good amount cheaper than the new Nimbus or the Firebolt, both of which were touted to be the quintessential Quidditch players broom, whatever that was. Harry nodded and then reached up to pluck one of the Stormclouds from the supply shelf. He rather liked the grey color of them. 

“Woah kid, hold on there,” Bryant stepped forward. He took the broom from Harry’s hands and put it back up. “If you take it down and damage it you’re going to have to pay for it.”

“I’m not going to damage it,” Harry told him irritably, “I want to buy it. I have the money for it, so why not let me?”

“How old are you, nine? Ten?” Bryant shook his head, “You’re a bit young to be buying a broom all on your own like that.”

“I’m eleven,” Harry said.

“Uh huh,” Bryant clearly didn’t believe him. “Look, kid, you can look around until your parents get here, but you shouldn’t touch anything.”

“Well then we’ll be waiting for quite a long time because my parents are dead,” Harry told him.

Bryant’s mouth dropped open for a moment. Then it snapped shut. Then he turned an odd red color and said, “That’s not a funny joke, kid.”

Harry gave an irritated hiss and tossed his head back with a jerk. He knew the motion made his bangs fall back for a moment and exposed his forehead with the jagged scar on it. Rowle had told him that his scar didn’t come from a car crash like his aunt had always told him, but from the Dark Lord cursing him as a baby. “It isn’t a joke,” Harry said seriously, “They are dead and they won’t be coming here and I want to buy this broom, please.” It took everything in him not to hiss that last word out but he knew the man wouldn’t understand it if he did.

Bryant’s red face went pale and he gaped at Harry for a whole new reason now. “You’re—You’re Harry Potter.”

Harry nodded sharply. “Yes, so you can see that I would appreciate it if you helped me buy this broom.”

“Why didn’t you just say so!” Bryant exclaimed. He snatched down the broom. “Is this your first broom, sir? Have you got a cleaning kit? Are you practicing for quidditch at Hogwarts this year?”

“It is and no I haven’t and yes but I don’t know if I’ll play,” Harry said, lying only a little on the end. He still didn’t know what quidditch was, but if it got him the broom then he’d pretend to know. He followed Bryant as he hurried over to the desk, picking up some little kit that reminded Harry of the boot-shining kit he had. 

“I’m sure you’ll be incredible,” Bryant gushed, “I’ll be rooting for you for sure!”

“Thanks,” Harry said. “Is paying by cheque okay?”

It was and Harry was grateful. He wanted to keep the treasury bag full for as long as he could. He ended up having to shake Bryant’s hand and sign the man’s own personal broom that he had there for some reason before he could go, but that was fine. 

Harry felt a little bit bad trading on his newfound fame to get the broom he wanted, but since he’d actually paid for it, he thought it wasn’t that bad. 

With the broom in his trunk and the last of his idea coming together, Harry finally wound his way down the streets looking for the bookshop that Apep had told him about. 

When he had walked all up and down Diagon Alley at least once and still hadn’t seen the shop, Harry ducked into a little alcove that was part large window and set his trunk down. He sat down on it and pressed his hand against his mark on his arm. He took deep breaths to settle himself down; his anxiety at not finding the shop was making his heart jump around in his chest. 

He didn’t think anyone was close enough to hear, but he still kept his voice down as he hissed to Apep. “I can’t find Agareth’s Accumulated Accounts anywhere, Apep. Are you sure it’s still around? Can you tell me more about what it looked like or where it was?”

There was a tingling sensation on his arm and then Apep’s reply came, only slightly muffled by the cloth covering it. “Agareth’s has been around since long before we were. My chosen has done well to search the Alley, but there is another one to check still. Diagon runs up and down and only turns when it gets knocked about. Keep a wary eye, my beloved, my soul, and do not venture too deep. Agareth’s will be there.” 

Another riddle. Well, at least a little bit of one. Harry had noticed an entrance to another street on his pass over Diagon—it had been pretty close to where Rowle’s Robes was—but he hadn’t thought to search there for Agareth’s. 

Harry hopped up to his feet and tapped his trunk to start floating again. As he stepped out from the windowed alcove, the door next to him opened and a family of three stepped out, two parents and their young son. He thought that they looked very posh, he thought, with gleaming silver-white hair and immaculate robes. The boy was probably his age and he was practically glowing. 

“Hawthorn has so many magical properties, Mother,” the boy said as he flicked a dark wand in his hand, “I’m so excited to read about it in the library at home.”

They turned and walked past Harry, a little family unit that didn’t even notice him as the woman said something to her son and the father looked on with a proud glint in his eye. Harry had seen that in Vernon’s face towards Dudley a time or two so he knew what that looked like.

Harry watched with envy curdling his belly. He wanted that. He desperately wanted that. But with his parents dead, he knew he’d never get to be that little boy, doted on and adored. And if he couldn’t have that…

One day, Harry promised himself as he watched them walk away, one day I’ll be like that man and woman and I’ll have a son that I’ll bring to Diagon Alley and we’ll have a library he can read from and my soulmate and I will be so proud of him. I’ll never have parents but one day I’ll be one and then I’ll have my family.

Harry thought that was a good goal to have, a worthy goal, right up there with finding his soulmate and becoming a great wizard. Though, he was probably going to need a wand if he wanted to be great. Where was he supposed to… 

“Oh,” Harry said with a little laugh as he finally noticed the name of the shop he was sheltering in front of. Ollivander’s Wands. Right. 

He’d get to his bookstore, but first, the wand shop.

Holly and phoenix feather.

A brother to the wand that had killed his parents and given him his scar. 

Harry kept running his fingers over the smoothly polished wood, wondering about that connection. He had mixed feelings about the Dark Lord. He had sounded terrible and powerful and awe-inspiring when Rowle spoke about him, but it was a kind of terrible like Ollivander meant: like he made people terrified by how powerful he was, how commanding he was, not that he was necessarily terrible.

Though Harry thought he was probably both things, considering he’d gone around killing and torturing people. Harry was glad that he was gone, but not exactly glad it was because of him (or his mother). Rowle had told him that the Dark Lord still had followers out and about. Harry thought it wasn’t entirely unlikely that someone was going to come after him because of what he (and his mother) did. 

The worst thing Harry could think of was dying before he met his soulmate. Apep made them sound much older, so Harry was sure they must have been waiting for a long time. Even if wizards lived for a long time, Harry didn’t want to waste even one year that he could have been with them!

Shaking his head, Harry went back down Diagon Alley, to the entrance of that other street Apep told him about. The moment he stepped over, he felt the atmosphere shift. There was something heavier here, something that made him taste blood in the back of his mouth. He sneezed, once, and then the smell calmed down a bit. 

Wishing he could ask Apep but already noticing people staring at him, Harry kept his eyes peeled as he searched for Agareth’s.

To his great relief, he found the shop right next to another one called Borgin and Burke’s, an artifact and curio shop, it seemed, though Harry didn’t go in to check. He was too busy going into Agareth’s a smile budding on his lips as he took in the stacks upon stacks of shelves.

Someone sat behind the counter. They had long, steel grey hair and very dark eyes, and they watched Harry the moment he stepped in. He couldn’t quite tell if they were a woman or a man, but he didn’t think that mattered if one other thing was true. Harry cleared his throat and repeated what Apep had told him was a polite way to meet a vampire. It was lucky Apep knew how from whenever his soulmate must have done so. “Well met, dark one. I bring dusk with me.”

The individual moved, then, just a shift of the body like they were taking a breath they hadn’t bothered with before. A slow smile broke across their face, showing the barest of fangs behind parted lips. “Well met, child of blood. The darkness sees you well.”

Harry relaxed a little bit as he stepped in further. “A friend of mine told me of this place. He said it was the only place to find books that were worthwhile and that your recommendations never led him astray.”

Agareth, for that was exactly who it was at the counter, Harry was sure, inclined their head slightly and said, “Sheparding has never been one of my tasks, but I will lead a thirsty man to a well of truth and see how much he dares drink. Tell me, blood child, does this friend of yours still breathe?”

Harry resisted the urge to touch Apep and nodded. “He does.”

“A lucky traveller indeed,” Agareth shifted, turning, and gesturing to the shelves with a sweep of one grand hand. “Look your fill, blood child, and ask your questions. I can sense a great thirst in you as well and will gladly lead you to truth.”

Feeling more confident now, Harry ignored the shelves and walked right up to the counter. “I need to know a great many things and I would appreciate your guidance. May I tell you what I seek so you can direct me?”

Agareth inclined their head and settled back on their heels. “Speak. I listen.”

Licking his lips, Harry spoke. He had spent a lot of time wondering what kind of books he wanted to get and had decided that at Agareth’s he would ask for all the ones that could lead him to his goals first and then, just in case he had them, books that were on his Hogwarts list. 

Agareth did not blink as Harry spoke. They only breathed right before they spoke. They did not move except to nod exactly twice. When Harry finished his list, Agareth tilted their head to the side and said, “Some of these can be purchased with gold. Some of these must be purchased with blood. That is the way of Agareth’s.”

Harry nodded, “That’s what my friend told me. He also said you would not tell people I was here, which would be great, really.”

Agareth smiled. Their slim fangs pressed against their lip. “How can I speak the name I do not hear, child? I shall take payment first and then the tomes are yours.”

Harry shook his wrist a little and pulled up his sleeve. He offered up his right arm, palm up. Agareth cupped his hand with one cold hand of their own and bent down over his arm. They breathed deeply, first, their touch dry and cold and strange, and then Harry gave an involuntary hiss of pain as fang sank into his wrist. Agareth’s moth latched onto the skin nearby and he sucked. 

Gripping the counter with his other hand, Harry breathed through the strange sensation. He could feel his blood leaving his body, but besides the initial bite he felt no actual pain. Harry counted the seconds as they passed. 

Just as he was about to worry that Agareth might take too much, they stopped, fangs sliding out. A cool tongue brushed over his wrist and then the vampire straightened up. They had more color to their cheeks now, and looked far more lively. When they smiled, it was a lovely, easy thing where before it had been stiff and strange. 

“Here, child of blood,” Agareth said, reaching below the counter and placing a tin upon it. “For the wound.” They handed over a square of cloth that had a strange herbal scent to it. Harry took it and pressed it to his sluggishly bleeding wrist. 

“Thank you,” Harry said. 

“I shall acquire the books, wait here, and do not move.”

Harry agreed and held very still as Agareth moved quickly around the shop. In a matter of moments, there were three stacks of books on the countertop and Agareth stood behind it once more. They placed a hand upon the smallest stack, their skin a slightly pinker hue now. “These are for your school studies.” They touched the center stack of books, “These are those you asked for.” They touched the third stack, “These are the ones you need.

“The gold required is eighty-five galleons. And a favor.”

Harry was pulling out his cheques and stopped, “A favor? What favor?”

Agareth inclined their head deeply. “When your friend returns from his travels, remind him that Agareth remembers him.”

“I can do that,” Harry said. He wrote the cheque and gave it to Agareth. Then he studiously put all his books into his trunk and snapped it shut. “Thank you for your assistance,” he said genuinely, “I won’t forget you either.”

Agareth smiled. “Nor I you, child of blood. Travel safely before these bright mornings.”

Harry bid Agareth goodbye and then left the shop. He had one more stop and then it was time to go.

Ice cream had been the one treat Harry never dared to sneak at the Dursleys. Petunia was the only one who was allowed to serve it and he knew she would blame him if any of it ever went missing whether or not he had something to do with it. So for all his years Harry only got to watch as Dudley had bowls and scoops and sundaes while he got nothing.

Harry entered Fortescue’s with the same feeling of wonder in his chest he’d felt when he’d cast his first lumos. It was so bright and so chilly inside as if the door were holding off the summer heat by magic. For all Harry knew, that was even true!

There were over a dozen flavors, each more strange and delicious sounding than the last, but Harry knew exactly where he wanted to start.

Chocolate. 

At last. Finally. Harry was going to have chocolate ice cream. 

This was one of the best days of his life.

Chapter Text

It was evening when Harry was finally finished with all of his shopping.

Harry knew enough about buses to know that he needed to find a bus stop, but when he’d asked Ms. Tatum about where one would be, she had said anywhere would do as long as he had his wand. So he wandered about Diagon Alley until he found a spot without too many people and then he stuck out his wand as Ms. Tatum had instructed. Within seconds a huge purple bus appeared down the street and drove up to stop in front of him. The doors opened and a cheerful man stuck his head out. 

“Hello there, one for the Knight Bus?” 

“Yes, sir,” Harry said as he lowered his wand. He pulled out his galleon wallet and stepped forward, “How much for a trip to Wiltshire, sir?”

The man’s brows rose up to his hairline. “Wiltshire, eh, young man? Quite a trip that is. Take most of the night to get there, it will. Just you traveling, then?”

“That’s right,” Harry said. “If it takes a while, can I get dinner service?”

“Why, sure thing,” the man said, “By the by, I’m Stan, and driving this big rig is Ernie. Two galleons for Wiltshire with dinner and a bed, young man.”

Harry dug out the two coins and handed them over to Stan, getting a punched ticket in return. He stepped up into the bus, looking around curiously at the seating while Stan said, “Any luggage, sir?”

“No,” Harry said, “I’ve got it all in my pockets.” He patted one robe side and then said, “May I take a seat on the second level then? I like the view.”

“Righto,” Stan said, “Head right on back and up the stairway. The first stop is the water closet, the second is the second floor, the third is the top. You pick a bed by turning down the covers.” He waited long enough for Harry to thank him and move past before checking for any more travelers. A couple was getting on after Harry so he helped them with their luggage while Harry headed to the stairs in the back. 

He made his way up to the second floor just as the bus lurched into movement and Harry had to grab a bed frame to keep from toppling over. He clung to it for a while, rocking with the bus to gain his footing and then making his way toward the front again. There were a few beds taken, one with the curtains drawn and another with an older woman sitting and reading a book. 

Harry took the blue and white bed at the front of the bus, turned down the covers, and climbed on it. He figured that he’d be there long enough to take his boots off, so he carefully untied them and slid them off, tucking them under the bed so they hopefully wouldn’t get lost. 

The bed was much softer than his one back at the Dursleys and had two enormous pillows that he stacked up behind himself at the headboard. He pulled out one of the books that had fit neatly into an expanded pocket of his robe and thumbed it open. He thought he might as well start right at the beginning of all his reading with Hogwarts: An Historie. He’d never held a book so old as this one: the cover was a heavy embossed leather and the pages inside were surprisingly thick pieces of parchment. 

The book itself was marvelous, looking like someone had hand-scribed it over a century ago at least. Harry settled back and began to read, curious about the history of the castle he was going to be calling home come September. 

Harry was pulled out of his book by a bell’s chime and a voice saying, “Dinner’s up, Mr. Potter!” 

He took a moment to find his bookmark and laid it gently in between the pages. He’d just started the chapter about the special rooms the Founders had made and definitely wanted to get back to that after dinner. 

Looking up, he smiled a little at Stan, who put his tray down on a table that hadn’t been there before. “Shepherd's pie, pickled vegetables, with carrot-orange juice for dinner. We’ve got treacle tart for dessert.” He gestured to the covered dishes as he spoke. “How have you been finding the ride so far, sir?”

“It’s the most interesting bus ride I’ve been on yet,” Harry said honestly. The only other bus he’d ridden was a muggle one much earlier that morning as he made his way to the Leaky Cauldron. “The bed is quite comfortable.”

“Why thank you very much, sir! We’re pleased to hear that ‘round here,” Stan beamed at him. “Just let me know if there’s anything else you’re needing, sir.”

“Actually,” Harry asked as he scooted closer to the edge of the bed so he could grab the tray. “How much longer until we reach my destination?”

“You’re headed for Wiltshire if I recall correctly, and I always do,” Stan said. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully and took a glance out the window at the scenery whipping past them. Harry had looked a little bit before, but it was dizzying at best. Though, he assumed that if Stan saw that kind of thing all the time he must be able to understand what he was looking at. “Any particular part of Wiltshire?”

Figuring that Stan already knew who he was, Harry said, “Well, I’m trying to get back home to the Potter Manor there, sir. I’m not exactly sure what part of Wiltshire it’s in, other than it’s not extremely far from Stonehenge.” 

Stan was already nodding, “Sounds like you need to head to Amesbury first, then. Unfortunately, we only pick up at residences when summoned and we drop off at public locations. There’s a wizarding side of Amesbury we’ll leave you off in, though it’ll be quite early in the morning by then.”

He was already pulling out his watch as he spoke, so Harry didn’t ask the exact time. It was a golden pocket watch, attached with a chain to Stan’s vest, and he clicked it open with ease. “It’s a little before nine, now. We’ll make it all the way down there by five in the morning.”

Harry frowned a little. That seemed like such a long time, but why? “I didn’t know Amesbury was so far away,” he said instead.

Stan gave him a wry chuckle and shook his head. He slid his pocket watch away and said, “The Knight Bus has a few regulars we have to go collect in the dead of night, Mr. Potter, and a few other scheduling things we’ve got to do as usual. Unfortunately, the bus isn’t always the most direct route, since there’s only two of us out there right now, but we’re doing our best.”

Harry sheepishly smiled. “Of course, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. I’m just impatient to get home.”

“Well, why wouldn’t you be?” Stan grinned. “We’ll get you there as soon as we can, Mr. Potter. Just a few more hours. Enjoy your dinner and again, if you need anything just holler!”

“I’ll let you know,” Harry said. He waved goodbye as the man bustled away to do his job. Harry picked up the tray and put it across his lap as he sat on the bed. 

Dinner in bed. He never would have thought it possible just a few years ago, but here he was. Sitting on the nicest bed he ever did see, eating the best dinner he ever did have, surrounded by magic, and on the way home! 

Harry absently brushed his hand over Apep, who was still hidden away. He had always wished that his soulmate would find him and take him out of his cupboard, but Harry thought he liked this almost as much as he did that. After all, it proved that he could take care of himself. He could save himself.

And that meant that he could save his soulmate if they needed him, which they must, or else they certainly would have found each other by now. After all, Apep spoke to him, so why wouldn’t his own mark speak to his soulmate?

Harry couldn’t wait to see what his mark looked like, couldn’t wait to meet his soulmate, couldn’t wait to finally be with them. 

Sighing happily, Harry enjoyed the fantasy of his new family life at the Potter Manor with his soulmate and their matching marks and all eight of their children. No twelve. 

No. 

Sixteen. 

That seemed like a good number. The manor was so huge and wizards lived so long— why not have so many kids? Surely there were other orphans like him that needed somewhere to be! And if there wasn’t a wizard orphanage—of course, there wasn’t or else he most likely would have been sent there, not the Dursleys, then where did all those orphans go?

Harry could take them in. 

Harry would take them in. 

And his soulmate, who had to be much like him, would want to do just the same.

Harry was sure of it. 

Amesbury was a quiet place.

Harry got off the bus without much fanfare, waving goodbye to a sleepy Stan who was, as he’d told Harry, finally headed off the clock.

Harry pulled his cloak tightly around himself, shivering a little in the early morning light. It was the middle of summer, but still very chilly under the blue-gray sky. 

He walked along without any real direction, at first, but then saw a lit-up store at the corner and a swinging welcome sign overhead that said Megara’s Meaderie and Eaterie. He quickened his pace until he could peer in the windows and see what sort of shop it was. With a gasp, Harry’s curious glance turned into a full-on stare as he saw all sorts of delicious baked goods on display. There were biscuits and rolls, croissants and macaroons, miniature pies, and braided wreaths— Every bit of it was marvelous looking and Harry wanted to try it all

Pushing open the door, Harry basked in the warmth and the heavenly smell. A bell chimed to announce his presence and for the first time, he noticed there were other people there. A few tables lined the wall of the shop, turning it from bakery to cafe, and some people were eating breakfasts of pastry and coffee. 

There was a shout of, “Be right with you!” and Harry just nodded to himself, meandering down the counter to stare at all the delicious, delicious food. His stomach wasn’t even particularly empty, since he’d had such a big dinner, but boy oh boy. He wanted to try it all.

Crouching down to take a closer look at some of the sweets baked there, Harry whispered to Apep, “I hope this place isn’t that far from the Manor, I’d love to come here a lot.” 

He felt Apep twist with pleasure at the words. Apep couldn’t eat, but it could feel Harry’s joy and was always happy when he had more to eat. “We will come here often, my beloved, we will sample all manner of delicious treats.”

“Hello?” called a voice. Harry quickly stood up.

“Hello,” he said with a smile. “I’d like to buy some breakfast, please.’

The person behind the counter was almost as short as he was, he realized, as they nearly stood at equal height on either side of the counter. They wore a green and white checkered kerchief to keep their hair back, but a few auburn locks curled out from underneath. They grinned at him with bright blue eyes and said, “Ah, at last, another short fellow like me. All right then, bucko, what’s caught your fancy?”

Harry laughed a little, “Uh, everything?” He looked around again and said, “Maybe I could get something for breakfast and then something to take with me for later? I’m traveling home, you see.”

“If that’s the case, I’ve got some stuffed croissants that make an excellent breakfast and we have these over here,” they walked a few steps and pointed to one of the intricately braided loops of bread, “This is a coffee cake here, sweet bread filled with jam and cream.”

“You probably know best,” Harry said, “So I’ll take one of both of those to go.” 

“Sure thing,” they said, “You want a drink to go with that? Coffee? Tea?” 

“Um, coffee,” Harry said. He’d slept okay on the bed, but he wasn’t sure how much farther he had to go and didn’t want to fall asleep on the broom. “With lots of cream and sugar, please. Oh, and um, you’re local here, right?’

“Me? Local?” the shop worker asked with a laugh. “Not exactly, but close to it now. I’ve been here for a while, why?” They drew their wand and with a flick of their wrist, Harry heard something in the back room start to move around. 

“I’m looking for some directions to Potter Manor?” Harry asked, “At least, the initial direction to it.”

“Potter Manor?” they repeated, “As in, the Potter family manor?”

Harry nodded enthusiastically, “Yes, that’s it. Do you know which way it is?”

“I’m sorry to say I don’t,” they said with a shake of their head, “I’m not that much of a local I suppose. I didn’t even know that the place was nearby! You’d think we’d get a lot more traffic from journalists or something if that was the case!”

“Well, they haven’t because the Potter Manor has been shut up since the sixties,” a new, older voice chimed in. Harry looked over his shoulder at a stately witch who sat at one of the little tables. She was dressed in deep purple robes with white embroidered flowers on her open collar and had a folded newspaper under one elbow and a coffee cup in hand. Once she saw she had their attention, she said, “Fleamont Potter and his wife never stayed there much and once they passed, their son closed up the manor for good and moved out to, well, Godric’s Hollow, though we certainly didn’t know that at the time. He just up and vanished.”

“Thought he ran to live in that muggleborn girl’s town,” volunteered a man at another table, older and stroking a thin, grey beard. He wore dark blue robes with swirls of green that shimmered when he moved his arm. “Not that I’ve anything against that, but you know how it is in those muggle-heavy centers. There’s no magic about. How can you have any child born magical in a place like that?”

“I knew about Godric’s Hollow already,” Harry said, “But I haven’t been to the Manor yet and I’m trying to go.” He took a few steps closer to the two sitting down to ask them, “Do either of you know which direction it is?” 

“There isn’t much point in going there,” the woman said, “The wards are locked down tight. The strength of the stasis should last at least another ten years or so, until Harry Potter comes of age. If he doesn’t come round to refurbish them, they’ll start to deteriorate and only then will people be able to go in.”

The man peered at Harry as the woman spoke, his dark eyes narrowing as he took in his features. “But you’re not asking as a tourist, are you, boy? Much too young to be a journalist either… Why, you must be…” His voice trailed off as his eyes fixed themselves on Harry’s forehead.

Suddenly, all the little sounds in the cafes seemed to stop—at least all those that weren’t the distant noise in the back room or the shop owner packaging his goods up. All the customers turned to stare at him, all at once aware of who he was.

“You’re him,” the man declared in a whisper.

The woman’s eyes went wide. “Harry Potter? Here?” 

The sentiment echoed across the room. For one frozen moment, Harry had no idea what to do or say. He was certain he was about to get swarmed by them the way he almost did in the Leaky Cauldron.

Then he felt Apep twist on his arm and the softest hissing voice, “Confidence, my beloved. You need not fear, for I am with you.”

So Harry lifted his chin and said, “Yes, that’s right. I am Harry Potter and I’d like directions to my home if you please. I’ve been away from it for far too long and I’m ready to come back.”

There was a clatter behind him that made him jump a little at the sudden noise. He turned to look at the shop owner, who was giving a wide, toothy smile first to him and then to the others. “I’m sure one of them can help you, Mr. Potter. As for this whole lot here, it’s going to be ten sickles. I’ve bundled it up for travel, though you’ll want to wait a bit to eat the croissant. I always make them a bit too hot this early in the morning.”

Harry dug out his coin purse and handed over the money in exchange for the goods. “Thank you,” he said, “I didn’t get your name?”

“Around here, people call me Megara,” they said, eyes crinkling slightly with their grin. “You be a good customer and come back, all right? And keep in mind we do custom orders and the occasional catering if you need it. House elves are fine and all, but a wixen’s magic tastes a little different.”

“I will definitely be coming back,” Harry said, “This is the best bakery I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Megara laughed and thanked him. 

When Harry turned around again, the woman and the man from before were in a staring contest that neither seemed willing to give up. He walked up to them and cleared his throat. “About those directions,” he said, “Which way is it to the manor?”

“Mr. Potter,” the man said immediately, “Why don’t I just apparate you there? It’ll be quick enough for you and then you can head right in—”

“Oh ignore him,” the woman said with a haughty sniff, “He’s just always been eager to get inside, which I’m sure he’ll have a chance to do now that you’re back in town to stay.  You… You are here to stay, yes?”

“I’d like to,” Harry said, “I’ve never been to a place like this before and I rather like it so far.”

The woman gave a decisive nod. She rose from her seat to offer Harry a little curtsey, much to his embarrassment, and then held out her hand. “I am Imogen McClare. My family has been in the area for generations now. We remember when the Potters were in power here back before they were the Potters.” There was a bright gleam in her brown eyes and a tight smile on her lips. 

Harry took her hand and shook it. She gave him a funny look for it, but Harry was not in the habit of kissing the hands of strangers, even if it was the more proper thing to do. He’d rather just treat everyone the same, really. “Well, you know my name already, but I’m Harry Potter. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“The Potter manor is northwest of here by seven kilometers,” Mrs. McClare said, “I assume you would be flying there, Mr. Potter, as traveling by foot is unseemly for a wizard except in the direst of circumstances.”

“I am,” he said.

“Then there won’t be any way to miss it. The grounds might have overgrown, but the manor still stands atop a hill. It’s an impressive building, less ostentatious than some, but it’s been around before even the Malfoys, from before the Potters were Potters. You’ll know when you’ve reached it.”

Harry nodded. “I have seen pictures of it,” he said, “Thank you for the directions, Mrs. McClare, I appreciate it.”

He turned to go, only to be stopped by the man, who quickly rose to greet him. “Mr. Potter, if I may introduce myself before you go—”

Harry nodded to him and accepted the hand that was thrust in his direction. 

“Gregory Hatsfield,” he said, “Not as long in the ground as the McClares, unfortunately, but just as loyal to the Potters. It’ll be good to have the family back in power around here. We’ve been too long without you.”

Harry frowned a little, wondering what that meant, but too excited to get home to the manor to ask about it now. Besides, he’d ask Apep first, anyway. “Thank you, Mr. Hatsfield. It’s a pleasure to meet you as well. Goodbye to you both.”

They said goodbye and Harry, double checking he had everything he had ordered, headed back outside. 

He was almost home.

Harry ended up having to hurry through his breakfast pastry so he could use his broom with at least one hand. It took a few tries to get it to lift up, with Apep’s instruction being like a riddle about will and wild, but once the broom was up, Harry climbed on and rose into the sky. The first twenty feet were perilous, making his stomach sink down to his toes, but once he was above the buildings around him, the wonder of the view and the feeling of wind around him washed all of that trepidation away.

Harry rose higher and higher until the town below looked like little miniatures and the people were just specks. It was cold up here, but he held onto his coffee cup with one hand and slowly sipped at it, keeping warm on both the temperature and the sweet sugary flavor. He didn’t rush himself, even though he was quite excited to finish the final leg of his journey.

Pointing himself in the right direction, Harry took off. The Stormchaser was a steady broom, not wavering at all in the winds that started to pull at his robes and hair. Harry became more and more confident as he flew, sometimes dipping or weaving around, enjoying the experience. 

From his high vantage point, it wasn’t long until Harry saw the hill that Mrs. McClare told him about. It was covered with lush green grass and sparse trees, but right at the top of the hill was the small copy of the building he had seen a picture of at the bank. 

Potter Manor.

As he got closer, he noticed that the building didn’t have the typical rectangular shape that one would expect from such an old manor. In fact, it had a distinctly triangular shape, the pale stone standing out against the greenery below and the dark rooftop above. Each of the three corners had a slightly taller section, much like a tower. He was able to make out the shape of balconies on them and wondered if perhaps he should land there and go down from the top.

Curious about the shape of the manor, Harry did a little loop in the air far above. In addition to the odd shape, there was an interior courtyard that would have been a circle if not for the fact that it was bisected by a straight line from one point down to one of the sides. Harry flew to one side, trying to peer into the courtyard, but the image became fuzzy and hard to focus on the more he tried.

Giving up on that, Harry began his descent, a smile pulling on his lips. The sun had pulled fully above the horizon, casting a bright light upon the pale stone and making the few bare windows glint. As Harry neared the ground, he felt a strange pressure sweep over him. He tightened his grip on his broom with both hands, clinging to it as it wavered in the air for the first time since he got on that morning.

“Powerful wards,” Apep hissed from his arm, “But they have accepted you as their own, my beloved. We must be close to our home.” 

“We are,” Harry hissed back. His broom settled down as soon as the pressure on him vanished. A minute or two later, he landed on the grass just inside the gate. 

Looking up at the manor from the ground, Harry couldn’t stop the prickle of tears in his eyes or the lump in his throat.

This was his home. His family home. This was where he should have been raised. This was where he would live with his soulmate. This was where they would raise their own family!

Harry wiped at his eyes and sniffled, pushing away the almost overwhelming emotions. He had too much to do today before he could let himself sit and have a good cry!

Putting his broom against his shoulder, Harry walked up the overgrown stone pathway from the gate to the front door, grinning all the while.

Chapter Text

Harry made his way slowly up the path to the large double doors. The manor loomed above him. The sight of him filled him with a mixture of emotions that all bubbled in his belly and under his skin. He was excited but a little scared. He’d never done anything like this before in his life. He was farther from the Dursleys than he had ever been and was all by himself out here.

What if there was someone living here that shouldn’t be and that no one else knew about? What if there were magical monsters that were in the woods? What if the key he had didn’t work?

Once on the stone step in front of the doors, Harry put down his broom and pulled out his shrunken trunk. He enlarged it with a tap of his hand and a push of magic through his fingers and then dug around inside for the key to the manor. 

Pulling it out, he admired the lion's head on the front of the key. Turning it over, he noticed for the first time that there was a symbol on the back of a triangle with a circle inside and a line down the center.

It looked an awful lot like the shape of the manor from the sky; that was too strange for it to be a simple coincidence. 

“Apep?” Harry asked, “Would there be a reason why the Potter Manor and the key have the same shape?” 

“Let me see,” Apep hissed. Harry rolled up his sleeve, tugged down the cover, and then showed the back of the coin to the snake. 

“The manor has the same layout,” Harry said, “The triangle with the line and circle, except the circle looked like a courtyard from above.” 

“That symbol is familiar,” Apep murmured. It twisted around, contorting itself into a similar shape, “I have felt it, seen it, held it before. It is known, but is it understood? This is the symbol of the Potters, or does it go deeper?” 

Harry frowned a little. Another riddle. Just wonderful. He pocketed the cover for his mark instead of putting it back on and then turned his attention to the door. If he was here all alone, he wasn’t going to bother covering his mark up. He wanted to be himself for once in his life, and if he couldn’t be himself while at home, where else could he be?

The lock was in the center of the two doors and took the shape of an eagle made out of gold. Either way, Harry carefully stuck his hand inside and slid the lock into the chest of the bird. It slid home with an audible click, and then, to his shock, the talons of the eagle twisted and gripped his wrist. They dug in, drawing blood and making him hiss with pain.

“Blood wards,” hissed Apep as a wave of magic washed over them. It was similar to the one he felt in the air, though stronger and bringing him the taste of iron in his mouth. The talons absorbed the blood he spilled and another shudder of magic ran over Harry’s body. 

The talons released Harry’s arm with a quick flash of heat, and he pulled his arm back, hissing in pain. The lock shifted again, wings spreading wide and revealing a second pair of legs and lashing tail from beneath the talons and feathered body. Harry was distracted from his arm as the griffin-shaped lock melted back into the dark wood of the door, revealing an intricate golden image in the shape of a much larger griffin clutching the bisected triangle in one clawed foreleg. 

There was a blinding flash of light, leaving Harry blinking away spots and rubbing his eyes, and then he heard the groan of old, worn hinges swinging open.

Dropping his hands, Harry stared in awe as the large front doors opened wide, revealing a stone floor and pale wooden walls of an entryway beyond. Harry absentmindedly stooped to pick up his broom and grab the handle of his trunk, and brought them both inside. 

Dust stirred on the ground as he walked in, wisping away from him as his robes made eddies in the air. He sneezed once, twice, and then again, the sound echoing throughout the large hall. From the light pouring in through the open doors, Harry could see paintings framed with dark wood, a vaulted ceiling that brought in more light from a golden window above the door, and a large staircase that curved up along the side of the room rising upward to a second story that overlooked the room with a balcony. 

“Woah,” Harry breathed out in a whisper. This was his home? He turned slowly to admire the room, noticing there were three exits other than the stairs up: two archways, and one set of doors. “This is huge.”

He took a few steps and sneezed from more dust. With a little laugh, he looked around and said, “And it’s going to take forever to clean.”

“Anything can be done with magic, my chosen,” Apep insisted, “There will be creatures to assist in such work, my beloved. You need not task yourself with the chores of the home as you were once forced to by such filthy muggles.” 

Harry hummed in acknowledgment and then headed up the stairs. The first thing to do was to determine which room was his and clean that. He’d have to figure out if there was still plumbing and water and all that because what he wanted most of all was to take a long shower and then put on fresh clothing. Aunt Petunia was extra stingy with the water in the summertime and Harry hadn’t been able to use a shower for almost a week now.

The second story was a little less grand than the front hall, he noticed. The ceilings weren’t massive and nothing made his jaw drop in sheer amazement. There was a rug that desperately needed vacuuming and spiderwebs all over the place, but no ornamental gold candle holders on the walls or ornate paintings like he’d seen before. 

There were a lot of windows, he noticed, and many of them opened up to the inside courtyard, where he could see plants had seriously overgrown. There was ivy so thick on the walls it had started to grow over some windows! 

Harry opened door after door as he wandered along the hallway. Any that seemed locked at first quickly unlocked or became unstuck when he tried the handle firmly. There were sitting rooms and studies and what looked like a small library and a room with, for some reason, a fireplace on each wall. There were small bedrooms and large ones and at least one dusty nursery and an attached toy room. Then he came to the end of the hall and found that the wall was different here, the wooden panels giving away to stone.

He opened the slightly more ornate door to the tower part and stepped in. The moment his foot touched the stone floor, the glass and brass wall sconces burst into life, glowing a deep amber color. There were no windows in the tower, he noticed, only a staircase that circled up from the bottom to the top and a series of alcoves all along the way. 

“Which way, Apep?” Harry asked as he peered upwards and then down. “Up, down, or should we stay on this level?” 

“This place is steeped with deep magics, my beloved,” Apep’s hiss was soft, reverent in a way that Harry wasn’t sure he’d ever heard before. “The home of your blood welcomes us, my soul, and one must follow down to the heart of it in order to awaken it. Such is the way of such places. They live, though they do not breathe. They feel, even if they do not think.” 

Harry shivered at the words. He decided to put his broom into his trunk and shrink it down so he could put it back in his pocket. Then he brushed his fingers along Apep’s scales and headed downwards.  Griphook had mentioned the house was waiting for the heir, right? It was in stasis. The people in the town had mentioned the same, now that Harry was thinking about it. 

And if he was understanding Apep correctly, Harry needed to find the heart of the building, the center of it, in order to awaken its magic.

Closing his eyes, Harry put one hand on the stone wall beside him. He inhaled and exhaled deeply, following the rhythmic breathing that Apep had taught him years ago in order to better tune into his magical core. He found his own center first, quickly identifying the pulse of his own magic’s ‘heart’, and then he found the second flicker of magical energy that he carried with him at all times—Apep’s ‘heart’. 

Slowly, Harry pushed his awareness outwards, focusing on the feeling of the stone under his fingertips. It was cold at first, but then he felt a growing warmth, not dissimilar from that heat that had sparked him at the door when the lock let him go.

In fact, those same points that had burned before grew warm again now and Harry found them throbbing in time to the beat of his magical heart. As he concentrated, he began to feel something through the stone, a similar, soft beating that wasn’t quite audible but wasn’t quite tactile. 

Keeping his eyes closed, Harry slid his hand along the wall. He found the railing—made of some material he couldn’t place right away but didn’t feel cool like stone or hard like metal or warm like wood—and followed it down. He had to open his eyes a little so he didn’t fall down the steps, but he kept his gaze down and unfocused, doing his best to keep his senses tuned to the magic of the manor.

Down, down, down he walked, the path lit by warm yellow light and yet the air growing colder and colder. At last, he reached the bottom. Harry wondered if they were below ground; it was cold enough to be true. The stone of the walls was more roughly cut, and he could see marks had been carved into it.

“Runes,” Apep explained, twisting, almost writhing on Harry’s arm. The feeling of Apep’s magic was stronger here than ever before—Harry could almost taste it the way he sometimes could taste other strong magics. There was something cloying about it that reminded Harry of thick, cool molasses. 

“What kind of runes?” Harry asked him, lifting his arm and letting Apep see more clearly. He knew Apep had some awareness of what he saw or felt through his eyes and hands, but the image was often muddied and left it only with impressions. “Are they dangerous?” 

“Oh yes,” Apep hissed softly, “The most dangerous sort of runes, my soul. These are the runes that keep one’s blood hostage, that bind one to another and anchor the magic outside instead of within. These are runes of great magic, my chosen, and great power. Tread lightly, dearest one, lest you not be able to leave at all.” 

At the end of the hallway of rough stone and carved runes, there was a stone door. It bore that symbol on it, the bisected triangle and circle. Beneath that symbol was a flat square carved into the stone and upon that was a faded mark of rust-red in the shape of a handprint.

There was an iron tang heavy in the back of Harry’s mouth. “Blood magic,” he murmured. He hesitated there, feeling the press of heavy magic and expectation all around him. Was he supposed to cut his hand first, or would the door split his skin on its own? 

Harry didn’t have a knife with him, but he had his magic and he had his will. According to Apep, that was all one needed in order to cast spells.

So Harry took off his outer robe to keep the sleeves from rolling down and in his way. He shook out his hands, trying to work off the tension, the nerves, the fear that was starting to crawl up his spine. He refused to even think about what he was doing beyond how to do it. Apep would have told him to turn around and leave if he was in real danger. Apep wouldn’t let him risk his life which meant that this could only be as dangerous as the front door. 

He’d feel pain and he would bleed, but what was that in the face of great magic? Harry had felt pain his whole life. He had bled over scraped knees, split lips, and cut fingers and survived. He could endure this, too.

Channeling his magic into his left hand, he imagined his fingernails to be as sharp as knives, as sharp as claws, and pushed that image forward with all his will. When he felt the tingle of magic wash over his hand in a familiar way, he used his newly sharpened fingernails to cut open the skin of his right palm, from fingertip to heel. 

Blood dripping down to his wrist, Harry quickly stepped forward and placed his bloody palm on the sunken square. The symbol etched in stone began to glow and he felt something tug onto his magical core, sinking into it with talons and claws and fangs, drawing deeply like it was dying of thirst and he was its only source of nutrients.

Pain shot up Harry’s arm, burning like fire through his veins. It scorched his blood up to his shoulder and then down into his chest and up into his mind. His vision blurred. Something hot began to pour down his face. All he could smell was blood, and he could taste rising bile. The burning scorched its way down his body, filling his belly with molten lead that brought him to his knees. Yet his hand stayed in place, stuck as if glued by his blood, and his arm protested at the pull.

There was someone screaming and at first, Harry thought it was Apep. Then he suddenly ran out of all his breath and realized it was him. He was the one screaming. Or he had been when he could fill his lungs, but now his muscles spasmed, and he couldn’t. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t stand. He couldn’t do anything but feel heat and fire and burning and-

Cold. Such blinding cold, numbing and burning in its own way.

Harry’s left arm was ice. He blindly gripped his right wrist with his left hand and hung on. He didn’t try to pull away, he didn’t try to fight it: he couldn’t. He could only burn and freeze and wheeze for air.

Apep was hissing something, but Harry could not hear it over the sound of his blood rushing in his ears. 

All at once, the door released Harry’s bloody palm. His arms dropped as he slumped over, mindlessly curling up into a ball on the stone floor, weeping into his arms. He pressed Apep to his cheek as he often had when in the darkness of his cupboard, seeking comfort from his soulmate mark. 

“Sleep, my dearest one, my powerful soulmate,” Apep’s hissing voice blended into the pulse of his heart, his racing blood, the fading agony, “Sleep. Rest. You have done so well. My beloved. My chosen. All will be well. All will be well. I shall make it so.” 

Exhausted, Harry obeyed, and he drifted into unconsciousness. 

Harry woke up cocooned in warmth.

There was a downy pillow under his cheek and blankets tucked up to his chin. He opened an eye sleepily, peering out from behind the thick comforter over him but didn’t immediately recognize where he lay. This certainly wasn’t his cot at the Dursleys; it was far too comfortable and smelled too nice.

Slowly, Harry turned from his side onto his back and then, struggling against the heavy blankets, pushed himself into a seated position. He sat there for a while, blinking at the room he found himself in.

It was beautiful, full of all shades of blues from deep ocean dark blue bed covers to soft sky blue curtains. There were bits of green and gold, too, like on the wall where the pattern of the wallpaper was of a forest with large pine trees and shafts of golden light pouring through the branches. There were fresh flowers in a few places, arranged bundles of white and yellow, pink and orange and red in crystal clear vases. One was beside the bed, the other on a vanity by a window and the third on a desk in the corner of the room. The wood was all dark in color, with gold accents that glinted in the sunlight coming in. 

Harry’s body felt sluggish, slow, heavy inside and out, but despite that he managed to pull himself to the edge of the bed. He reached for his glasses and put them on. It made things clearer and only reminded him that he probably needed to find some magical glasses that would help him see better than these muggle ones.

Just as he was about to push his feet over the edge and onto the floor, there was a popping sound and a squeak. Harry looked up in shock at the sight of a short, skinny creature with big eyes and ears wearing what looked like a long sleeveless blue dress with a belt across the middle.

“Master is be staying in bed, yes!” the creature exclaimed, tugging on one ear as it looked pleadingly at him, “Master is being weak and recovering, yes!” 

Apep stirred on his arm, hissing a soft explanation, “This is a house elf, my chosen. A creature that is bound to the home, to a wizard’s bloodline through magic that allows them to perform great works.” 

Harry leaned back a little, noticing the elf relaxed when it didn’t look like he was about to get out of bed again. “Hullo,” he said and then blinked in surprise at how rough his voice sounded. “Who are you?”

“I is being Opal, Master, Head Elf of the manor, yes!” The little elf bobbed in greeting, “I is being woken up by Master’s magic waking up the manor, yes, and brought Master here to rest, yes.”

“Oh, thank you, Opal,” Harry said. “Um.” He wasn’t sure what to do next. He knew that a lot had to be done to fix up the house, but the thought of it was quite daunting. “Do you need help with the house, Opal? I know it’s a lot…”

Opal’s huge eyes got even wider. “Oh no, no. I is being quite able to take care of the manor, yes! It will take time but I is having help, Master, yes.” She waved her hand and two more little elves appeared, one was a few inches taller than her and wore a similar outfit but with a thicker belt and a dark brown tunic that only went down to his knees. The other was smaller than them both and wore a pink dress with a carefully embroidered flower at one shoulder. 

“Is being Beryl and Coral,” Opal told him, bobbing her head a few times, “Is the three of us being awake now to take care of the manor, yes!”

Harry waved at the two new elves, “Hullo,” he said to them. 

Beryl bowed deeply and Coral did the same after a squeak. When she straightened, Coral said, “Master is being hungry? Thirsty? Master is feeling better? Master needs potions again?”

“I am a little thirsty and hungry,” Harry admitted, “And my throat still hurts.” He looked over his hands quickly, noticing that the right one was bandaged tightly and there was no trace of blood. For the first time, he noticed strange dots on his right arm. They were spaced oddly about an inch or two above his wrist and shimmered in the light. He rubbed them idly as he said, “I don’t think I need any potions, though. I’m not hurt anywhere else.”

All three elves nodded and Coral popped away again. Beryl cleared his throat, sounding a little deeper than the other two, and said, “Master is being in bed until he is well again. Master spent a lot of magic bonding with the manor and must recover in safety.”

“Okay,” Harry agreed, “But can I have some books to read while I’m here? I’ll get pretty bored otherwise.”

“Yes, Master,” Beryl said. He waved his hand and a stack of six books appeared on the bedside table. “Master need only say our names to summon us. We are here to keep the manor and the Master well.”

“Thank you,” Harry said with a smile. “I appreciate it.”

Beryl blinked a few times and then stood a little taller. There was a proud gleam in his eyes as he nodded and then vanished away. 

“Master is being properly abed now, yes?” Opal waved her hands and Harry felt a tingle of magic as he was gently slid back across the sheets and to the head of the bed. He giggled at the tickling sensation as the blankets tucked around him and a pillow fluffed itself before settling behind his back. “Master is being in recovery, yes!” 

“Thank you,” Harry said with a genuine smile at the elf. He’d never had anyone take care of him while he was sick in bed before, though he’d seen Aunt Petunia do it for Dudley a dozen times at least. True, he’d never really been sick the way that Dudley had before, but still. It was a nice new experience and he quite liked it. “You’re very kind, Opal. All three of you are.”

Opal’s eyes took in a distinctly teary sheen to them and she bobbed her head a few times before excusing herself with a squeak and a pop of magic. Harry sighed as he leaned back against his fluffy pillow. 

He had to scoot to get to the books, and he had just pulled off the top one to thumb through when a tray appeared on the bed beside him. It was laden with a generous bowl of soup, a big glass of milk, a cup of fragrant tea and there was soft cheese, bread, and fruit to the side. Harry ignored the book in favor of the food, finding himself suddenly ravenous. 

He drank the tea first, adding generous amounts of honey to it, and then worked his way through half the glass of milk, half the soup, all the cheese and fruit, and most of the bread. By the time he was done, he was exhausted and stuffed to the gills. 

Harry carefully pushed the tray to one side, mumbling, “I’m done, Coral, thank you,” before he turned to snuggle into his big pillow, his glasses sliding off his face so easily he barely remembered doing it. The bed was so big that he could easily have slept on a different part away from the tray, but it vanished after a minute and left Harry plenty of room to sprawl if he wanted to.

Curling up around the pillow and with Apep close to his cheek, Harry murmured, “This is a wonderful place, Apep. I can’t wait to bring my soulmate here. He’ll love it too, won’t he?” 

“There can be no doubt that such a magnificent manor will impress one as superior as he,” Apep hissed back, “There are a great many treasures within these walls, my chosen, none more important than that which lays in this very bed.” 

Harry smiled happily. “I love you too, Apep. I can’t wait until we’re together properly.” 

“Soon, beloved, soon, my soul. Just a little longer now.” 

Harry fell asleep to Apep’s whispering words, soothed by the promises he spoke.

Chapter Text

It took several days before Harry was able to walk farther out of bed than to the bathroom and back. 

He ate plenty and slept for hours upon hours. When he wasn’t sleeping, he paged through the books beside his bed or listened to Apep tell him stories of his soulmate’s travels and the wonderful magics he had seen. 

Eventually, Harry was able to stand for more than a few minutes, his limbs no longer trembling with effort and exhaustion not pulling at his very bones. He went first to the bathroom to bathe.

He’d seen the giant tub there day after day. It was like it taunted him, sitting in a block of beautiful grey marble, polished and smooth and tempting. He’d never had a proper bath before, had never had anything more than the cold spray of a shower or hose, and he was very excited to enjoy his bath.

He probably overfilled the tub since the water sloshed with every movement and spilled out onto the floor. It was hard to care, though, since the warm water eased away the aches that his limbs had gathered over the last few days of resting in bed.

The soaps available were clean and fresh, reminding him of herb gardens and the late spring flowers that drew in the most bees. He soaked his hair, scrubbed his scalp, and cleaned between his toes and behind his ears. 

Harry floated in the water until his skin started to wrinkle, then he finally pulled himself out, feeling cleaner than he ever had in his whole life. Apep twisted in delight on his arm, radiating a sort of joy that he only did when Harry managed to do something they had been working towards for a while. Usually, it was casting a spell that made him twist like this, but Harry knew it was because he was so happy that Apep was acting like this. 

“Isn’t this place wonderful?” Harry asked Apep as he pulled down a huge fluffy towel from a hook on the wall. He dried his hair and his skin, cuddling his face into the warm towel and sighing happily.

“The most wonderful, my chosen,” Apep hissed back, “Of course, it is only what you deserve as mine own. These things are finely crafted indeed. Can you not feel the magic woven into their very natures?” 

Harry couldn’t, but if Apep said he could then he knew he should at least try to. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, relaxing his senses the way he had when feeling out the direction he should take in the house before. However, instead of the barest thread of presence in the stone around him, Harry felt the walls, the ceiling, the stones beneath his feet, the very towel in his hands, begin to shine with the aura of magic. 

He blinked in surprise, letting go of that awareness. “What was that?” He whispered. The house hadn’t felt like that before!

Quickly, he finished toweling off and then went back into the bedroom. Opal had told him that his clothing had been unpacked, so he dug through the dresser and then the closet until he found everything he wanted to wear: underwear, socks and boots, a thicker shirt, and silken slacks. He found his wand in its holster and tucked it onto his wrist. 

There was a full-length mirror by the door, and he looked himself over, frowning a little bit at how his glasses sat a little crookedly on his nose. He tried to fix them, but there wasn’t much he could do without tape or wire. But then again, he did have magic…

“Apep, what is the spell to fix something?” Harry asked as he took his glasses off. He held his wand in one hand, his glasses in the other.

“Reparo,” Apep hissed. “That is the general repairing spell, my beloved. One might specify what they wish to repair, however, if it is part of a larger whole or one element is broken, but another is not.” 

Harry nodded. He turned his glasses over in his hand and then pressed his wand point to the broken earpiece. He gathered his magic like he would for any other spell and imagined the glasses to be fixed, to be whole again. With his intent in hand with his magic, Harry pushed it through his hand and into his wand and hissed, “Reparo.” 

The bent frame of his glasses twisted in his grip and then made a clicking sound as they realigned to their proper place. Harry grinned as he noticed the nosepiece was fixed as well! He picked off the tape, placed the glasses on his face, and then grinned at his reflection.

“Well, don’t you look sharp, young man!” There came a woman’s voice from the mirror, and Harry blinked in surprise. 

“Excuse me?”

“Though you really ought to see if there’s something that can be done for your hair!” the mirror continued, “You might be a Potter, but that’s not an excuse! Didn’t Fleamont put out that Sleekezy just for this sort of thing?”

“Fleamont?” Harry asked, “Who’s that?”

“Charming fellow,” the mirror mused, “Though he always wore too much teal. It made him look sallow, poor dear, but it was his favorite shade, so he made due.”

“Apep, who is Fleamont? And what’s Sleekezy?”  Harry asked as he headed for the door. He needed to find the kitchen or a dining room, whichever one the elves wanted to serve him in, because he was quite hungry. He’d gotten used to eating more over the last few days and had started to adjust his schedule, so he actually wanted breakfast at a reasonable time.

“Fleamont. Fleamont,” Apep repeated the name, “Familiar to me, though not important. A name of a name. A first name and a second. Who is Fleamont? Why, a potion brewer of no small talent, but not one interested in my own interests, not willing to join, but happy enough to brew for coin. One half in and one half out, Fleamont Potter was never without except for one thing. One wants what they cannot easily have, but even that he gained in the end.”

“That is your most obtuse riddle yet,” Harry told it as he stepped into the hallway. He glanced down to give Apep a firm glare, but the snake had tucked its head into the skull, hiding away from Harry’s displeasure. “But if Fleamont’s last name was Potter, then he must be a relative of mine. It sounds like he wasn’t one of the Great Lord’s but his own man. A potion brewer? Is that like a job title? You know, teacher, bus driver, shop owner, potion brewer?” 

But before Apep could answer, another unfamiliar voice spoke up. “Sweet Merlin,” a man said, “Are you speaking to that snake?” 

Harry stumbled to a stop and looked around. He couldn’t see anyone around, not even one of the elves, and besides, that didn’t sound like an elf anyway. “Uh, hello? Who’s there?” 

“Look yonder, young one,” the voice called again and Harry swung around to face the other wall. “Up, boy, up! There you are. Good morning to you!”

Harry gaped at the portrait of a man in fine, dark blue robes who stood by a painted picture of a bookshelf with a plush chair in the background. There was an orange cat in the picture, and it lay sprawled on the chair cushion, glancing up at the noise with one amber-colored eye.

The man had a proud nose and sharp chin. Baby curls of his dark hair framed his face while the rest of it was bound into a braid tied off with a silver ribbon. His brown eyes were large and full of curiosity as he leaned forward, peering down at Harry. 

“Um, good morning,” Harry said back. The portrait could talk? The talking mirror made sense, of course, mirrors could talk! He’d heard about that at school in stories and overhearing the other children talking about movies. But paintings?

Quietly, he hissed to Apep, “Are paintings supposed to talk?” 

Apep hissed a breathy little laugh at him. “A shadow of life, an echo, a memory. The paint carries the imprint of the soul. It is not like I, not a sliver, torn and true, not one part of a whole, not able to bring back full life. The paint holds memory. The frame carries the magic. That which is dead, once painted, acts alive but does not breathe ever again.” 

“Blimey, boy,” the man in the painting turned white as he stared down, “Is that your Soul’s mark speaking to you?” 

Harry ran a soothing hand down the back of Apep’s scales. He didn’t have to be afraid of a painting. If it was dangerous, Apep would have said so. But it sounded like to him that paintings were just memories of old people, like recordings that you could interact with. It was a wonderful idea, he thought. He wondered if there existed a portrait of his parents. 

“And what if it is?” Harry asked, “Is there something wrong with that?”

“Wrong is not the word I would use; no, unnatural, perhaps, or inconceivable. Unlikely? Nay, not strong enough a word. Disturbing. Fascinating. Queer and curious? Most certainly these things.” The man tapped one finger against his chin, “Do you understand the snake tongue, young man?”

Harry would have said no, but he had spoken to a snake before—just one, just once—and so he hesitated and that was apparently enough for the man to exclaim in surprise and delight. 

“A-ha! So you do! Very curious indeed! And truly you are Potter by blood and Peverell by nature, if one is to understand the depth of your inheritance, so the snake tongue must have come in from one line or the other—from a Gaunt, most certainly. Tell me, whose blood was it, your mother’s or father’s?” The man asked, speaking quickly as he did so. He came closer to the frame, as if he would step right through and over to Harry if he were capable. 

“I wouldn’t know, sir,” Harry said, distracted by the way Apep contorted on his arm. He tried to rub a soothing hand across him, but it didn’t help. “I never met my parents, but my surname is Potter, like my father’s.”

“Then through the maternal line came the snake tongue. Fortuitous indeed! The Gaunts, well-established though they may have once been, have certainly fallen and left their gifts by the wayside. Tell me, dear boy, are you their last?”

“No, no!” Apep suddenly cried out. Harry winced and stared down in surprise to see that Apep had practically enveloped the skull with its whole body. Its fangs glinted in the sunlight coming in through the windows as it bared them in panic? Fury? Harry wasn’t sure what was wrong with it. “The Gaunt name belongs to another, another, the Great Lord with his silvered tongue and freedom from fear! Cursed portrait! Speak no more! Dearest one, beloved soulmate, do not listen to these words. You are no more Gaunt than I am Potter, shared in soul, but not in blood! The Gaunts sully themselves no more to lay with their own kin!” 

Harry swallowed thickly. He wasn’t sure what had Apep so upset, but he did his best to keep soothing him anyway. He hissed soft words to him, stroking his scales and agreeing to whatever he said. There was an ache in his arm and in his forehead as if the scar on his head and his soul mark throbbed in mutual agony. 

By the time Apep calmed down, Harry was feeling shaky from exhaustion and hunger. He slumped against the wall and let out a deep sigh. 

“Such things are the reason why the mark should not to develop so soon,” the man in the portrait mused. He had sat down in the meantime and his orange cat lay upon his lap. He stroked behind its ears, watching Harry with a slight downturn of his lips. “Children are not meant to carry the burden of their soulmate’s needs. Tell me, strange child, why this is so? Why are you here? Where do you hail from? Who bears your mark? When-”

“Enough,” Harry interrupted him with a sharp gesture of his hand. “Stop with the questions! You keep asking me these things but not telling me anything about you! Who are you? How did you get here? Why should I answer anything you say, huh?”

A stormy expression crossed the man’s face. “You are but a child.  You should listen to your betters and answer me first. Did your parents teach you no manners?”

Harry pushed himself up off the wall and stuck out his chin. “No, they didn’t,” He glared at the portrait, “Because they’re dead. A Dark Lord came and killed them and when he tried to kill me his spell backfired and killed him instead. So I grew up in a horrible place with terrible muggles, and they made sure to only teach me things that mattered to them, like how to weed the yard and cook their food and do their laundry and try to scrub Apep off my arm!” He shouted now, left arm held up to show off Apep. The snake writhed across his skin, hissing warnings and insults and threats at the portrait that only Harry could understand. 

“If you want me to respect you, then you’ll have to earn that from me,” Harry declared, “I am the soulmate of the Great Lord, and I will be just as impressive as he is. You can help me or not, but don’t you dare work against me or I don’t care why you’re on these walls or in my home; I’ll find a way to trap you away in a little dark room until you learn better!” 

The hallway echoed with his voice. Harry’s chest heaved with heavy breaths, glaring hard enough at the portrait that he thought he might be able to set it on fire if he really wanted to.

“Well,” the man said after a long silent minute, “You may call me Ralston Potter. I was once Lord of this manor, as you now have become, but the manor fell out of favor over the years, and I was left here alone for a long time before stasis was finally set upon the stone. If you want to know how to be Lord of the manor and wear the Lord’s ring proudly, we will need to be on speaking terms. 

“However,” Ralston stood, lifting the cat from his lap and setting it back in the chair. He smoothed his hands over his robe and said cooly, “It seems as though perhaps we should take a moment to gather ourselves and continue our conversation later. You’ll find me in the Master Study when you’re prepared to listen and learn, Young Lord. I shall leave you to your business.”

Harry clenched his fists at his sides, but he didn’t shout after the man as he walked out of the frame and disappeared. 

Shaking a little, Harry leaned back against the wall and let out a deep sigh. That had exhausted him. He wasn’t sure he could take another step!

“Sweet soul of mine,” Apep crooned ever so gently. Its magic was a pulse of warmth along Harry’s arm, “So courageous, so strong. The muggles tried to break you and failed. This portrait tries to control you and fails. Your will is stronger than all those around you. Never shall you bend a knee to those unworthy nor bow to any that do not earn your regard, my chosen.” 

“Thank you, Apep,” Harry whispered back. He kissed the top of Apep’s head and sighed, pressing his mark against his cheek. He stood that way for a while, eyes closed, basking in Apep’s hissed praise and the comfort of its magic.

After a while, he lowered his arm and cleared his throat. “Coral?”

The young elf popped into existence before him. “Master? How may I bes of service?”

“Can you show me where the kitchen is?” he asked, “I’d like to eat my meals there, if that’s okay.”

Coral squeaked and nodded her head several times, “Yes. It is being okay if that is being what Master wishes! Follow this way!” 

She turned and Harry followed, absentmindedly stroking Apep’s scales as he walked. 

“And he yelled at me! Can you believe that? Said he was the soulmate of a Great Lord, and he’d lock me away into some dark closet if I didn’t behave!” 

“And what did you say before he lost his temper, Ralston?”

“Well, if you’re just going to take that tone with me, I don’t know why I should tell you. You wouldn’t understand anyway!”

“So you didn’t bombard the boy with invasive questions and demand his respect without giving any in turn?”

“....If you already knew, then why did you bother asking?”

“Sometimes, Ral, I really wonder if you ever learn.”

The kitchen to the manor was much, much larger than the one back at the Dursleys. When Harry stepped inside, he could easily imagine how Petunia would have loved it, with the beautiful stone countertops and carved wood counters, and colorful mosaic backsplash. 

The first thing Harry thought of when he saw it was how much work it would be to clean. 

Opal was fussing with something over by one counter, floating what looked like shaped bread dough into loaf pans for baking. She gestured with her long fingered hands, using magic in a similar way to Harry from before he had a wand. Somehow, seeing her use magic so easily calmed Harry down and he found himself happily taking a seat at a little table off to the side that Coral directed him to. 

Cleaning a kitchen this size must be so much easier to do with magic. Harry made a note in his mind to learn that kind of magic, if he could. 

By now the elves were more than aware of the portion sizes Harry could handle, and so when his food appeared, it was in a series of many smaller dishes that made it easy for him to eat everything and not feel bad about wasting food. There were cuts of fruit and a few chunks of sausage, there was soft bread and warm, whipped honey. There was cream and sugar for his tea and a glass of orange juice to go with it. 

Harry ate until he was pleasantly full and then watched in delight as the empty dishes were whisked away. Coral set about doing the washing as Opal popped away for a bit. When he was bored of watching, he hopped down from his seat and said, “Coral? Could I get a proper tour of the house?I don’t mind exploring, but I think there are probably important rooms I don’t know about that I should.”

Coral squeaked, jumping a little to turn to face him, “Yes, Master, there is being many rooms to see! I is getting Beryl to take you, he is being oldest and remembering past Masters words best!”

And before Harry could say another word, she vanished. Harry shrugged and hopped down from his chair, brushing crumbs from his shirt. Beryl appeared after a few seconds, and Harry only didn’t startle because he was expecting him.

Bowing low, Beryl said, “Master is following Beryl. I is showing Master the important places of the manor.”

“Thank you,” Harry said appreciatively. He followed as Beryl led the way out of the kitchen. 

In the hallway, Harry asked, “Is it normal for people in the portraits to talk and move around?”

Beryl nodded, ears flopping up and down as he did so. “Yes, sir. There is being several portraits in the manor with the memories of past Manor Lords and Ladies in them. Many is being asleep all of the time, but some is talking and walking about.” He pointed to one portrait as they passed, which showed a woman in a fine dress perched in a window on plush pillows, sleepily turning the pages of a book in her lap. “This is one, and there are many others. This is Lady Charlotte Greengrass, wife of Alexander Potter,” Beryl continued on with a minor history lesson as they walked, informing Harry about past Lords of the manor.

Along the way, he paused to explain various rooms they came across. Some were self-explanatory, like the enormous library that took up the entire second floor of one wing of the house. Then there were all the bedrooms Harry had seen and workrooms. 

One such room was a bit of a cluttered mess; there were tables with various containers made out of wood or glass and a thick layer of dust on most surfaces. Most of the tables were made of stone with circular portions cut into them, but it wasn’t until Harry saw a dented cauldron on the floor that he understood what room this must be. 

Of course, by then, Beryl had cleaned up enough dust for them to step inside, and he explained, “This is a potion lab, Master. It is being in a state of disrepair, but it shall be cleaned along with everything else. This is being one of three potion labs in the Manor. What makes this one special is that it is connected to the courtyard and is for brewing with plants while other brewing is done in other labs.”

“Can we go outside?” Harry asked. Beryl nodded and led the way. 

He had to unlock the door, grease the hinges and work it open since there was a decent amount of overgrowth on the other side, but eventually, Beryl got the door opened, and Harry was able to go outside. 

He was immediately grateful he hadn’t bothered with a robe because it was quite warm, almost humid outside. There were things growing all over the place, making it look more like a jungle than a garden. Harry quite liked it. 

“I’ve never seen some of these plants before,” he said as he peered at some beautiful blue-green flowers. They were bell-shaped and when the wind blew past them, they tinkled like they were actually made out of metal. “These are amazing!”

“This is being part of the potion garden, Master,” Beryl said as he tidied up the pathway so they could walk through more easily, “We is being careful in cleaning it up. We do not know what has grown here in the time the Manor has slept, and some things could bite.”

“Biting plants?” Harry asked, “Wicked!” 

Beryl gave him a worried look like Harry was about to go crashing through the underbrush after such a pronouncement. So Harry grinned and explained, “I used to do the gardening back with my relatives, and while it wasn’t great most of the time, I really do like plants and being outside. I’ll have Apep show me what’s safe and what isn’t first, though. And probably find some books to read about all these plants!” 

Apep murmured some praise at his proactive research, and Harry absentmindedly pet his scales. Beryl didn’t even so much as blink at their exchange, but then Harry hadn’t bothered to hide Apep from any of the elves at all. 

“That is being the safest option, Master,” Beryl said, “We is being able to help you with the garden, too. I is particularly good at plans, Master.” Beryl puffed up his chest a little. 

“Great!” Harry exclaimed, “I’m glad to hear that. I want the garden to be full of flowers when we’re done. You can see this area from a lot of the rooms and I want them to be pretty to look at.” 

As he said that, he gestured at the building around them. It was as Beryl was nodding in agreement that a flutter of motion caught Harry’s eye and he looked up. His glasses gave him a fuzzy outline, but he still thought he saw the silhouette of a bird on the side of the manor, near one of the windows on the second floor. “Beryl? What’s that bird doing? Is it stuck?”

Beryl turned to look where he was pointing and made a noise of surprise. “The Manor wards is directing post owls to Master’s Study already! I is letting in the owl for delivery, Master!” And he vanished with a pop. 

Harry had to squint, but he managed to see the window open, and the bird swoop inside. The window stayed open even after Beryl returned. 

“Master is wanting to see more rooms now?” Beryl asked.

“I’d like to see the Master Study,” Harry said. He knew Ralston was probably inside, considering he had mentioned he’d talk to Harry there, but Harry was curious enough about the owl and what it had delivered that he’d risk running into the nosy portrait. “Will you show me the way?”

“Beryl is doing that!” Beryl nodded and then he led Harry away, through the garden opposite the way they came and into a different door than the one they’d gone through already. 

They had to go up a set of stairs and double back to the right part of the hallway, but Harry didn’t mind. He thought that having such a big home might get tedious eventually, but he planned to fill it full of people so the space would eventually be very necessary. 

“Are we in the same hallway as my room?” Harry asked, recognizing some of the decor and the panels on the walls.

“We is indeed,” Beryl said. “This is the Lord’s Hall. Master Study and Master Suite are all part of this hall. This hall is also the fastest way to the north tower and to the front door, Master. Here, we are above the heart of the manor.”

“Cool,” Harry said. They reached the door and Harry wasn’t at all surprised to see it was a tall, dark wood door with that familiar bisected triangle and circle on it. The image was harder to see, since it looked like it had been burnt into the wood, but it seemed to jump out at Harry. Once he saw it, he couldn’t un-see it. 

As he reached for the door, he felt a tingling of magic brush up against his fingertips.

“Beware,” Apep hissed abruptly, “Strong magic guards this room. A ward of blood and intent protects this place, but do not fear, my beloved. The ward seeks one who is worthy, and who are you if not the most worthy of all? Go slow, my chosen, and let the magic learn of your power and heart.” 

Harry took a deep breath and let it out slowly, forcing himself to relax, opening himself up to the magic around him. That pulse of energy that filled the stones was much stronger in front of the door. As he looked over the door, he could feel something shift its attention toward him. It felt a little like the locked front door but mostly like the stone hallway in the basement. 

Harry shivered, remembering that cold place. He lifted his right hand slowly, fingers trembling in memory of the pain he’d felt before when he’d touched something like this. There was a moment of resistance, like something invisible and strange held him back. Then his hand moved through that thicker air and settled on the door handle. 

He glanced at Beryl, who watched him with wide, wondering eyes. Harry took another deep breath and let it out again before turning the handle. There was resistance at first, like many of the other locked doors of the manor, but then a soft click sounded, and the handle turned the rest of the way.

Harry pushed open the door, a bit surprised to hear it move on silent hinges when so many others had squeaked and complained. He stood in the doorway for a moment, heart beating hard in his chest, and then he gathered his courage and stepped inside.

Chapter Text

Right away, Harry noticed something heavy about the room.

Maybe it was because he was still sensitive to magic, his skin tingling from the wards on the door, but there was a pressure in the air that made his legs tremble with the effort of holding him up. 

He remembered Apep’s words, though, that he would not bend his knee or bow to anything unworthy and he kept standing. He didn’t know what was pressing down on him and until he did there wasn’t any way he’d give up and surrender to it. 

Other than the magical pressure, the room looked like any other study he might have seen. There was a large fireplace along one interior wall, with a metal grate in front and mantle made of a dark red wood. There were large windows along the far wall that overlooked the courtyard; one of which had a small portion opened at the top so that owls could enter. There was a large table made of a similar dark wood as the mantle that had a tall backed chair behind it and a bird stand to one side. An owl perched on the stand, gold eyes gleaming as it watched Harry, and dark feathers fluffed slightly. 

There were bookshelves along the last two walls as well as a pair of chairs by a chess table and a large ornate rug comprised primarily of red, gold, and silver thread. The only other decor in the whole room was two portrait frames. One was above the fireplace and contained only the image of a stool attached to a flat table of some kind. Harry didn’t recognize what it was and thought it look odd, the furniture so low to the ground it looked like it would be uncomfortable for an adult. 

The other portrait was on the opposite wall over the chess table and held a familiar man in it. Ralston Potter wore the same outfit Harry had seen him in before. In his portrait was a chess table as well, with pieces set out in an unfinished game. He was holding one of the white pieces in his fingers, turning it over and over as he looked at Harry. 

“Well, you came here sooner than I thought you would, Young Lord,” Ralston said with an unpleasant smile.

The longer Harry stood in the room, the easier it was to breathe, to move. It felt as if the magic were making a space for him, or perhaps he was absorbing it into his skin. Either way, he found it more comfortable to walk across the room to the owl. “There was a delivery I needed to check,” he said. 

Ralston made a dismissive gesture, “There are elves for that sort of thing, you know.”

“Well, maybe I’m not the kind of Lord who would just like others to do things for them,” Harry snapped back. He stopped near the bird stand and looked at the owl. The owl looked at him, sizing him up for a moment before it extended one leg and hooted. 

Harry carefully reached forward and untied the scroll from the owl’s leg. And there really was no other word for it than scroll, since it felt like a thick parchment that had been tied with a braided silver and gold ribbon. “Thank you,” he said seriously to the bird. He heard Ralston scoff behind him and ignored that. 

Turning to Beryl, who lingered just inside the doorway, Harry said, “Is there anything else that I’m supposed to do with owls after I get the letter, Beryl?”

Beryl wrung his hands together in front of him, “Owls be waiting for missive back, Master, if they be staying longer. Can be giving them treats and water, if Master wishes.”

“I do,” Harry said as he walked over to the desk, “I don’t know how long it took to get here or how long it’ll take back so I would like any owl that comes here to be able to rest as long as it needs with food and water.”

Beryl practically jumped to obey him while Harry sat down at the desk. He heard Ralston mutter something but tuned it out in favor of Apep’s hissing praise. 

“So kind, my chosen, so considerate. Even to those lesser, those unfortunate, the heart of my beloved is too soft.” 

Harry ran his thumb over Apep’s head gently and murmured back, “I hated it when my relatives pushed me to work harder than I should, so I will not make others do the same, whether or not they are human or elf or owl.” 

Apep coiled and uncoiled in delight, hissing more praise as Harry turned his attention to the letter.

He had to break a wax seal to open it and then smoothed it back with one hand so it lay flat on the desk. There was a tingle of magic over his fingers, and the parchment stayed flat when he pulled his hand back. Whether it was an enchantment on the paper or the desk, he wasn’t sure, but he appreciated it nonetheless. 

The letter itself was rather sparsely written, though the handwriting was so fancy it took Harry a while to understand what was being said. He poured over the words, mouthing them out to himself as he did so.

When he finished, he sat back and blinked a little in surprise. “Huh.”

“What is it, little Lord?” Ralston apparently couldn’t contain his curiosity. Harry looked up to see he was still in his portrait, peering at Harry as well as he could from afar. 

“It’s a letter from Mrs. McClare,” Harry said, deciding he could be a little nice to the painting. He might actually need Ralston’s help, after all, and he would feel bad if he ended up having to shut him away. “She was a lady that I met at the bakery in Amesbury. She’s inviting me to a brunch with her and some of the other families in the area as a-” he glanced at the letter to quote exactly, “means of introducing oneself to the local gentry so that we might form a mutually beneficial partnership.” 

“Oh, the McClares are still about?” Ralston said, “That’s quite fortunate. They’re upright folk, though a little stuffy and hard to please. They’ll hold a grudge like no-one’s business, though.” 

Harry tapped his fingers thoughtfully on the desk. Should he go to the brunch? McClare made it sound like a lot of people would be there specifically to meet with him. Rowle had said that he was quite famous as Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, but he couldn’t help but remember the words in the bakery. Something about the Potters before they were Potters and having the family back in power again. 

Then came the greater concern of how he would get to her home for the brunch. He didn’t know where it was so he couldn’t fly there, and he didn’t know how to use the other modes of transport. 

“Beryl?” Harry called. The elf appeared beside his desk after a moment, holding a bag of owl treats, it seemed, as he immediately put them in a dish attached to the bird stand. 

“Yes, Master?”

“We have all these fireplaces here,” Harry asked, “Do any of them have a floo access? That’s what it’s called, right?”

“Yes, sir, it is,” Beryl said, “We is being disconnected from the network when the manor is being put in stasis, but is able to open the connection up again. It is being simple, just is paperwork from the Ministry and a fireplace chosen with a name.”

“Can you get me that paperwork or do I have to, I don’t know, mail in for it or something?”

“Master is having to write to the Ministry, sir, and is having to show documents for the network and the fireplace.”

“So I’ll need some method of doing that,” Harry mumbled to himself. “This is going to take a lot of work…”

“There should be an owlery attached to the eastern tower,” Ralston offered, “Depending on the type of stasis left on the manor, one or two might remain.”

“Right,” Harry nodded. To Beryl, he said, “Would you please check the owlery? If there isn’t one there I’ll go to Diagon and get one later, I suppose. I forgot about another appointment I wanted to make and I need to go down to Gringotts anyway. Oh!” He sat up suddenly and remembered, “My briefcase! With all the papers and things in it! Beryl? Where did that get put?”

“Master’s things were all put away properly, sir,” Beryl said, “Master’s papers are in the safe in the Study. I bes checking the owls now, sir.” He popped away before Harry could say another word.

Harry looked around the Study. Where would the safe be?

His eyes locked on the still-empty portrait above the mantle and he hopped down from the chair. Of course, it would be there, it would have to be! 

He reached up to touch the portrait frame but the second before his fingers made contact a spike of pain lanced down his left arm and Apep hissed in warning. Harry jerked his hand back and clutched it to his mark. Apep was pulled back as high as he could go, almost up to the elbow, and had his mouth open, fangs bared. 

“Apep?” 

“Beloved, beware the gilded frame. Deadly frost clings to it. Death molded that metal! Do not touch it. Beware!” 

Harry leaned back from the frame, peering at it. He frowned a little, since there didn’t seem to be anything odd about the frame. It was a little unusual looking, like someone had taken great care in carving it out of some thin material. 

To his confusion, however, the longer he looked at it, the less golden it looked. It was as if the paint on the frame had started to pale before his very eyes and show the material beneath.

“Young Lord?” 

Harry cocked his head to the side. The frame looked less gold and more… like ivory now. Was the paint peeling away or just…fading? Perhaps it was magic that made it look gold, not paint?

He slowly reached up towards it again. He felt as if he could brush away the gold and see what was beneath if he just tried. 

Apep gave him another jolt of pain, sharper than before and echoing in his forehead. Harry hissed and jerked backward, hand going up to press against his scar as he stared down at Apep.

Apep who had bitten him. Somehow.

The snake’s fangs came up red as he lifted his mouth and the wound it had left didn’t bleed and didn’t look…real, somehow. It hurt all the same, though, and Harry felt his scar split open on his brow, causing blood to drip down his face. 

“Apep!” he hissed, aghast, “What are you doing?” 

“You were going to touch the death-cursed frame, beloved! I will not let Death take you! You are mine and mine alone, and I shall see to your immortal breath!” Apep writhed on his arm, flashing bloodied fangs at him. 

“I wasn’t going to die from touching a portrait frame,” Harry groused. He lifted his hand and scowled at the blood on his fingers, “Ugh, this is a lot of blood.” He called for an elf, hoping that they had bandages somewhere in the Manor.

Opal was the elf who snapped into being next to him. She held a bundle of items in her hands, a potion, bandages, and a wet cloth. Harry let her fuss over his scar, cleaning and bandaging it up, and then drank the headache-reducing potion when she foisted it onto him. 

While she was there, he asked her about the safe in the Study. 

“It is being hidden, yes,” Opal said fretfully, “It is being where the Master alone can touch, yes? It is being very protected, yes.”

“If only the Master can touch it,” Harry said, “Then how did my briefcase get put inside?”

Opal brightened up, “Oh! Is a simple answer, yes. Opal is of Master’s magic, bound to the Manor, yes? Bound to the blood of Master’s family, yes? Beryl is not being bound the same, and Coral is not being bound the same. Opal is Master’s Head Elf, yes. Opal is Master’s extra hands, yes.”

Harry nodded slowly, deciphering Opal’s excited chattering into sense. “So, you’re bound to me differently than Beryl or Coral and that makes your magic like mine?”

Opal agreed profusely at this.

“Then you can open the safe and get my briefcase out?” Harry asked, “And show me where the safe is and how to use it?”

“I be doing this, yes!”

“Excellent,” Harry said, “Then please do so.” 

Harry wasn’t at all surprised to see the not-quite-golden portrait frame that he’d been reaching for swing open under Opal’s direction. He glared at Apep, who hissed wordlessly at him, hiding as much of its body inside the skull as it could. Harry sighed and then listened attentively as Opal told him how to unlock the safe.

“It is being simple, Master,” Opal said, “There is being many protections on it to keep out everyone but Master and then there is being a lock to open with blood and magic, yes. Master is pressing his finger to the lock and opening it that way, yes.” She pointed out what looked like a little handle with a claw curling at the top edge. The ends of the claw glinted in the light and Harry cautiously reached up to touch it. 

He gripped the handle, feeling a tingle in his hand much like when he gripped a locked door of the manor, and pressed his thumb into the sharp edge. There was a flare of heat, and he heard Apep hiss angrily. Then he was able to turn the handle and pull it open. 

Inside of the safe was his briefcase as well as another smaller box and a stack of parchments that looked so old he could touch them, and they would crumble. He took out all three things and then noticed a very slim, dark book at the bottom. He took that out too.

Carrying it all over to the desk, he let Opal close the safe behind him. Then he climbed onto the high-backed chair and set everything out in a row. 

The black book was surprisingly heavy and held another lock on it. He smoothed his hand over the cover, marveling at the gold lettering that was embossed on the front. There were four words written, one on top with three written beneath.  

“Apep, I can’t read this,” he said, “Can you read it for me?” Harry shifted so Apep would be able to see.

“I do not like it. I do not wish to touch it. Do not make it so, beloved, please,” Apep had turned itself into a knot of scales. 

“You don’t have to touch it,” Harry told him, “But will you read the cover for me? I want to know what it says.” 

Apep uncoiled enough for its head to appear, and it twisted around, peering down at the book. Apep shuddered from nose to tail and tucked its head back into its coils. “It is Latin, my chosen, my soul, it is the language of mortal spells and naught else. It is the language of the dead and unchanging.” 

“Yes, but what does it say? What does it mean?” Harry asked.

Apep hissed, fangs flickering out for a moment in displeasure. “But once will I speak the words. It is not an invitation I extend.” It coiled and uncoiled and then said, “Mors, porta nos domum: Death, carry us home. Ah, my beloved, my soul, beware. Death clings to this tome.” 

“Mors, porta nos domum,” Harry repeated quietly to himself. He ran his fingers over the gold lettering again. The leather felt warm, as if it had been near a fire or in someone’s hands just moments before. 

“Be careful with that grimoire, Young Lord,” Ralston’s voice was somber, and Harry glanced up to see the man looked grave indeed. “Powerful and dangerous magic resides within that binding. You are yet untrained in magic and quite young to come into your Lordship. It would be best to put aside such knowledge for now.” He hesitated and then added, “I would advise it, for your safety and longevity, Young Lord.” 

With a serious nod in return, Harry slowly, begrudgingly, pushed the grimoire to the side. It called to him like the painting had, almost as strong as the stone door before, and he wanted to open it, he did. But there was a part of him that could accept he had to wait. For one thing, Apep was too fearful to help him, so if he did stumble across something dangerous, Apep might not be able to help him.

For another, he wanted to see what else was in the safe.

The faded parchment papers turned out to look a lot like the Gringotts paperwork he’d gathered earlier in the week, but much, much older. The dates on the papers were from all the way back in the early 1950s and were statements on accounts or transactions done. He set the papers aside to look at later, just in case they were important for something. 

The wooden box was also inscribed with the Latin phrase Mors, porta nos domum, though all in one line across the center. The lock on the front was another claw-like on the safe door so Harry didn’t need to ask at all how to open it. He bloodied his finger on the claw and flipped open the lock with ease. The box clicked and Harry easily lifted the lid to the box.

Lined in velvet, the interior of the box held several pieces of gold jewelry. Harry’s jaw dropped at the sight of them since he’d never seen anything so nice in all his life. Not even Aunt Petunia’s pearls looked as nice as these pieces!

There was a thick banded gold ring with a feathered texture and two clawed hands holding a blood-red stone. Harry admired the way light glinted off the stone, amazed by the spots of reflected red light. Beside that ring was a locket on a tightly braided golden necklace. The locket was the shape of a talon clutched tightly around a similarly blood-red gemstone—perhaps a garnet or even a ruby, Harry didn’t know enough about gems to tell the difference. There were also smaller silver-black stones, which he thought might be pearls or something equally shimmery. 

Below the thick banded ring was a thinner one with a smaller red gemstone and what had to be more black pearls. This ring had the shape of an eagle’s head and the red stone was the tongue, and the black stones were its eyes. Next to that one was a smaller necklace of black pearls with a golden feather at the center. 

“Beautiful,” Harry whispered. He gingerly reached in and ran his fingers over the jewelry. It was no wonder why it was locked away—he could only imagine how much these were worth!

“They’re more than that,” Ralston said, breaking into Harry’s admiring thoughts. 

“What do you mean?”

“These are more than simple family jewels. These are magical relics of our lineage,” Ralston said, “That is the Lord’s ring. The Consort’s locket. The Heir’s ring. The Heir’s Consort’s pearls. Each item carries significance not only in what station they represent but in magic. They have various enchantments placed on them and carry with them permissions within the Manor that cannot be given any other way.”

Harry’s hand hesitated over the thick ring. It called to him, the way other things tinged with the Manor’s magic had. “This one— I need to wear this one, don’t I?”

“Indeed,” Ralston said, “If you accept your position as Lord Potter, last of the Peverells born of Ignotus, then you should take hold of that ring and place it upon your left middle finger. If the magic accepts you as its bearer and the Manor accepts you as its lord, it will resize and remain in place there until you will it off.”

Harry didn’t hesitate—couldn’t hesitate—as he picked up the ring and immediately slid it onto his finger. He felt a rush of burning heat, of fire in the blood like from the door but much quicker, much sharper, and only up to his forearm. 

Apep hissed and bared his fangs. Where his body lay on Harry’s arm he felt a dancing of sparks, like the two magics met but did not meld and didn’t entirely get along. There wasn’t any pain, just a bizarre tingling sensation like his nerves were going haywire.

And then, with a flare of red light, the golden Lordship ring resized down to his finger, adjusting to be more proportional to his small hands. Harry took in a startled breath, tasting ash and blood in the back of his mouth and feeling a shiver of power wash over his skin. 

Ralston’s clapping brought Harry back from that tingling that had overwhelmed his mind briefly. “Congratulations, Young Lord, though I had no doubt you would be accepted.”

“Thank you,” Harry said. He lifted his hand up and admired the ring. It was certainly very beautiful. “What kind of stone is this?” he asked Ralston. 

 “Ah, you know, I never quite asked while I was alive,” Ralston admitted after a moment. He put up his hands in an appeasing gesture, “Now you might question why, that’s fair, but at the time, I was quite preoccupied with other things. My inheritance didn’t go quite as… smoothly as yours has, Young Lord. And then later, the thought did not cross my mind.”

Harry gave Ralston a suspicious look but shook his head instead of peppering him with questions. Turning his attention back to the jewelry, he ran his fingers along the chain of the Consort locket and sighed a little. “I hope my soulmate won’t be bothered by wearing a necklace,” he said to Apep, “Do you think he’ll mind?” 

“It is not the locket that bothers, but the magic it calls,” Apep hissed back quietly, “There was once another chain and gilded locket in my possession. Precious. Treasured. Only made more so in my hands. Protected, now, safeguarded. As I protect and safeguard you, my soul. My most precious one of all.” 

Harry worriedly stroked the back of Apep’s head with his finger. The snake seemed a little lethargic now, like it needed to rest, which Harry couldn’t recall happening before. Maybe it had expended magic when it had bitten him? Apep certainly hadn’t done that before.

“You should know that your Lordship ring offers you more than protections from certain charmed effects, Young Lord,” Ralston said, “It also operates as a portkey back to the manor, to this room specifically, with the use of a password phrase.” 

“What is the password?” Harry asked. 

Ralston smiled and gestured downwards to the grimoire, “The words you have spoken already, of course. Mors, porta nos domum.” He spoke the words with a reverent intonation, and a gleaming light entered his brown eyes, making them shine as if they glowed from within. “These are the words of those who carry the Peverell magic and Potter blood. We have always been a curious folk, we Potters who walk with death.”

Harry shivered. He closed the jewelry box and set it aside. “Is there anything else I need to know about my ring?”

“It pronounces your status to other Lords and Heirs,” Ralston explained, putting his hands behind himself as he leaned forward in his portrait, “It places you upon the chessboard that is the political world of Wizarding Britain and beyond, if your reach extends beyond these shores. In my day, the families within the land around a Lord’s home would rely upon the Lord for representation within the Wizengamot and in return, would offer various forms of fealty, depending on their family craft. Why, I once had a summer home, a pleasant little thing, that a family warded for me at reduced cost in exchange for my support in some squib-related law.” He flicked his hand dismissively, “I had no personal inclination either way, but they were quite adamant and needed my support for the bill even to be addressed before the Wizengamot.”

Harry tuned out Ralston’s meandering explanation as he pulled out the box and papers he’d gotten from Griphook at the bank. He certainly felt like a Capital “L” Lord when he had to go through all this paperwork! The very thought of what was in those pages upon pages of account information made his eyes hurt in an anticipatory headache. 

And that ache only reminded him that he really needed to get his eyesight taken care of. 

Blowing out an annoyed breath, Harry made a decision. “Beryl? Is there paper and a pen here I can use?”

In seconds the supplies he asked for appeared. The parchment was incredibly thick and yellowed with age, but there wasn’t anything Harry could do about that. He frowned a little and scrawled out a response letter to Mrs. McClare—he’d be happy to attend a brunch in the coming days, though he had yet to connect his floo to the network properly and had other affairs to attend to before he was available—he did his best to sound suitably adult and serious, thinking she would probably appreciate that rather than be reminded she was talking to a kid. 

Even though Harry was a child, he didn’t really think of himself as one, not after all the horrible things the Dursleys put him through. Now that he had a Lordship ring, he definitely wasn’t just a child anymore. 

Harry set the letter aside to dry and spent a few minutes flipping through the account information. None of the artifacts really jumped out at him, though. There was a surprising amount of furniture and books and, for some reason, sealed clay jars—at least fifty of those!—but nothing exciting like a flaming sword or unhatched dragon egg or living and talking wardrobe. Not that he knew if wizards had that sort of thing, but still!

When the letter was finally dry, he rolled it up, tied it off with a ribbon that Beryl provided him, and then, with some instruction, melted some red wax and pressed his Lordship ring into it, leaving an impression of part of a claw and the red stone. There was a shimmer of magic that washed over the letter, and Harry held it up proudly, “Perfect.”

He let Beryl tie it to the owl, since he had more interesting things to deal with: his mother’s security box.

He had almost completely forgotten about the box in all the excitement but was eager now to see what his mother had left for him. 

Sliding the box to the center of the desk, he used the little key that came with it to unlock it and then, after taking a deep breath, flipped it open. 

The box was no deeper inside than it appeared, much to his disappointment. There was a stack of envelopes beside two small wooden boxes. Harry took out the letters first, his breath catching as he read the words written across the top: To My Son, Harry. The second envelope had a similar message in a different handwriting: For Harry, My Son. 

The third envelope was a little thicker than the other two and larger. All that was written on this was 1977-1980. Harry’s hands shook as he opened this envelope and tilted it upside down. A handful of glossy squares slid out and into his waiting hand, and suddenly, for the first time in his life, Harry was shown pictures of his parents. 

Tears filled his eyes as he went through the pictures slowly. They looked so young, wearing black robes with school badges on their chests: the red and gold must be for Gryffindors, just like Rowle had told him. His mother had auburn hair and green eyes like him. With his father, he shared their curly dark hair and tanned skin and glasses. There were a few pictures of them together in school, including graduation photos with a few others Harry didn’t recognize at all, but most of the pictures were from later.

There were pictures of his parents half asleep on each other on a couch, of them in a kitchen laughing about something, of them on their wedding day: his mother in ivory and gold robes, his father in red and black. There were pictures of them with their friends, names listed on the back along with brief descriptions in different handwriting: Lily and James on their first date! Lily, James, and Remus arguing about Runes (again) (Remy’s right, of course); Lily and Peter and that Arithmancy problem he likes more than Sirius! (not true!); Lily and James after a raid 1979; The Big Day! Lily Marries into the family officially! (Sirius, you’re not really James’s brother, remember?); Six months along! 1980; Lily, James, and Harry (18 hrs of labor just for this little sausage of a kid, can you believe it?) 

Harry was crying by the time he got to the last few pictures, the ones that contained him. His squished baby face and curly hair, his baby-blue eyes, his tiny fingers and toes, his parents loving smiles, the adoring gazes of who he took to be uncles of some kind: Remus, Peter, and Sirius. The last picture in the pile was of him in front of a cake with one single candle on it, his eyes green, wearing a red and gold shirt, and grinning up at the camera. This, like many of the photos, moved, repeating the few seconds of when baby-Harry turned and looked up, and his mother stepped briefly into view to bend down and kiss his forehead.

Clutching the pictures to his chest, Harry cried helplessly. He curled up in the too-big chair, still sitting behind the too-big desk, the heavy ring on one hand, Apep hissing restless platitudes at him, and his heart heavy in his chest. He sobbed into his hands, heart aching for his parents in a way it hadn’t for years and years. 

They had never been really real, his parents. He hadn’t known what they looked like. He hadn’t known what they smiled like, how their eyes crinkled when they smiled. Oh, how he wanted to hear their voices. How he wanted to hold them in his arms. How he desperately wanted them to tell him they were proud of him, that they were happy for him, that they loved him. 

“Master is being comforted, yes?” Opal’s worried voice made its way through Harry’s tears. He found himself swamped by a heavy, warm blanket that smelled faintly like lavender. It startled him enough to make him stop crying and look up only to see all three of his house elves fretting beside the desk, the two in the back pulling their ears while Opal wrung her hands. “Master is needing tea? Chocolates? A calming drought, yes?”

Harry scrubbed at his face with one hand. He sniffled noisily and mumbled, “Hot chocolate, please?”

“At once, Master,” Opal vanished away. 

Coral edged closer, “Is Master being upset with us? Can we’s be helping Master somehow?”

Harry shook his head. “No, I’m not upset with any of you. I just- I n-never- I never saw my parents before today, you know?” He reached a tentative hand out to one of the pictures and traced his finger along the edge of his mother’s face and father’s shoulder from where she rested against him. They looked sleepily at the camera, his father rolling his eyes and making a shooing gesture at the camera while his mother snuggled closer to his father. They looked so soft, so real, so happy. “I don’t remember them at all, but my mum, she…she put this here for me. Pictures of them together and I think—I think letters from them too.”

Opal reappeared with the hot chocolate. Harry sniffled some more and then took the mug in hand. He sipped it slowly, breathing deeply, recovering from his tears. When it was empty, he put it aside on the desk.

Feeling more in control of himself, Harry reached back into the deposit box to pull out one of the strange wooden boxes left there. It felt warm in his hand, tingling under strong magical spells. He flipped the little hinge that kept it shut and then opened the box. 

A pair of lilies unfolded, standing up and spinning around like a music box as a voice began to sing a song that tugged at Harry’s heart and memories—ones so deep it felt like it was part of his bones somehow. He knew that he’d heard this song somewhere before but couldn’t place it.

The tears that had dried up began to fall again as he listened to the song play. His breath caught in his throat, and he knew that this was his mother’s voice. Somehow, he just knew. 

This was his mother singing to him. 

Harry clutched the box to his chest, crying all over again as the woman’s voice sang, “and I wish you all the love in the word, but most of all, I wish it from myself. And the songbirds keep singing, like they know the score, and I love you, I love you, I love you, like never before.” 

Clinging to the box, Harry slid out of the chair and onto the floor. He brought the blanket with him, curling up under the desk and into the safety and security of that enclosed, darkened space. He held the box close, listening to it over and over and over and over.

Tears on his lashes and his mother’s voice in his ears, Harry cried himself into an exhausted, fitful doze. 

“...he’s just a child…” 

“We all were, once.”

“He can’t be more than nine or ten just based on his size!”

“He’s old enough.”

“He is just a child, Ignatia.” 

“We were all children once. We do not all remain children.”

“I won’t just- I can’t just- He’s a child. Perhaps you don’t understand what that means—”

“He isn’t just a Potter. He’s a Peverell now. And he’s the Lord. What’s done is done.”

“I won’t stand idly by and let him waste away the last of his childhood to a Lordship that will consume him!”

“No one is asking you to be idle, only sensible. You cannot control him nor compel him. He must be guided, cultivated. Do so.”

“.......I’m making it known, now, that I am not pleased by this turn of events.”

“Make no mistake, Ralston, I also do not compel him, nor does the magic because he can and will resist it as he likes. He has already done so, though with some minor outside influence. We can only guide him to a brighter future for the family.”

“Fine then, but keep in mind that I will be taking his desires into account. By the Flame, Ignatia, he’d never even seen images of his parents before today! Can you imagine?” 

“I don’t have to imagine, only remember.”

Harry woke up cramped and sweaty. His face felt dry, and scratchy from dried tears and, ugh, snot. He felt gross and grumpy. He shifted and felt something shift against his chest and immediately realized he wasn’t under the stairs in his cupboard but in Potter Manor.

“Apep?” Harry murmured to his companion. 

“I am here, my chosen,” Apep replied, “I am always here.”

Relieved, Harry briefly curled up tighter, pressing Apep to his cheek and basking in the comfort his magic gave.

“There were voices before,” Apep told him in a soft hiss, speaking almost directly into Harry’s ear from this position. “The portraits speaking to each other overhead. Speaking of you, my beloved. Be wary of them, for we do not know what they desire from you.” 

Harry nodded. He felt too tired to question it now, so he didn’t bother. Instead, he gathered his energy and then pushed his way out from beneath the desk. The little wooden box, closed now, tumbled down, and he snatched it before it hit the ground. 

For a long moment, he simply stared at the box in his hand, breathing harshly as all his emotions swam up to the surface again. Half of him wanted to just listen to it until he fell asleep again. Half of him didn’t want to open it again. 

“Master?”

Harry jumped and looked up at Opal, who looked nervously at him. “Oh, Opal. Um. What time is it?”

“It is being past lunch, Master, yes it is,” Opal said fretfully, “Master is wanting lunch now, yes?”

The mention of food seemed to be enough to remind Harry’s body of his hunger. For a moment, he had to push down the swell of emotion as he realized he could eat whenever he wanted. No one would keep food from him here. No one would keep food from him ever again! 

“Yeah,” Harry said thickly, “I have some more things to um, read and do here so, lunch in the study today? With tea, please. And I- what was that other thing you suggested before? A calming draught?”

“Yes. Is being helpful when upset,” Opal said, bobbing her head, “Is being a potion, Master.”

Harry took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to steady himself. “All right, maybe, um, like a little bit of that. A spoonful. Just a bit.” 

Opal bowed and vanished with a pop. Harry scrubbed at his face and then sighed. He took his time in climbing up to his feet, dragging the blanket up, and putting it on the chair. He put the precious box back in with the other one, hesitating a little as he touched the second box. Was it his father’s voice held in that one?

He assumed so.

Either way, he’d wait to listen to it. The last thing he needed was to break down again. 

“How fare thee, Little Lord?” Ralston asked. He was sitting in his portrait now, toying with the chess pieces beside him, but his brown eyes fixed on Harry.

“I’ll be okay,” Harry said quietly, “Sorry about… all of that.”

“You need not apologize for your grief,” Ralson said in a similar tone, “One should always be permitted to grieve in the presence of family, though I understand your reluctance to rely on others if I have assumed your situation correctly.”

Harry didn’t know what to say to that. At least, not until the question bubbled out of him unthinkingly, “Is that what we are? Family?”

Ralston’s hand stilled, and he brought it to rest in his lap. “Yes, Little Lord, it is what we are. We’re both Potters, are we not? Perhaps separated by a few hundred years and oil paint, but Potters nonetheless.”

Harry nodded. He ran his fingers idly over Apep’s body, drawing comfort from him. He kept his eyes down as he asked, “Then who were you talking to earlier? While I was…grieving?”

At Ralston’s silence, Harry looked up, frowning. Ralston’s look of surprise faded into a grimace. “You were aware enough to hear?”

Harry nodded. Ralston didn’t need to know it was Apep who heard. He had a feeling, based on Ralston’s reaction to Apep talking, that his being able to see and hear was unusual as well. 

I need to look up information on soulmate marks, Harry thought to himself while Ralston hesitated on answering his previous question. The library is so large here that there must be something. 

“Lord Potter,” a new voice caught his attention, coming from directly behind him. Harry jumped and turned around, looking up to see who it was, “The one that Ralston spoke to was I.”

In the once-empty portrait of the strange low table and stool sat a woman with dark brown hair threaded with steel grey at her temples. She had the same curl of her mouth, and dark skin that Harry had seen in his father’s pictures, and the sight made his heart clench tightly. Her eyes, however, were black as pitch, showing no true distinction between pupil and iris. She wore red robes over grey ones; the sleeves rolled back to show her forearms and the strange dark red lines that littered them. On her right hand, Harry saw that she wore the same Lordship ring that he now wore.

Her left hand rested on the surface of the table, next to a lump that hadn’t been there before that looked like unformed clay.

“Who are you?” Harry asked. She wasn’t pretty, he thought, at least, not like his mother was, but there was a presence to this woman that reminded him of the weight of magic that had been in the study when he first walked in.

“I am Lady Ignatia Potter,” she said, “Your great aunt many times removed, though not as far back as Lord Ralston, and your ancestor as both Lord of the Manor and of the Peverell magic that rests here.” 

She smiled at him, the pull of her lips revealing a scar that cut across them and made the right side of her top lip pull back, revealing her canine had been replaced by a golden tooth. “Welcome home at last, Little Lord Harry Potter, the final breath of magic to this once mighty line.”

Chapter Text

For years, the only one who had ever supported or cared about Harry was his soulmate’s mark on his arm: Apep.

Now, after the space of a week, Harry had two paintings, three elves and, if the paintings were telling him the truth; an entire magical manor. 

Harry looked from Ralston to Ignatia and back as he said, “You’re kidding me, the manor is alive?”

“Sentient is not exactly the same thing as alive.  You see, you have to consider the strength of the magic and clearly, you haven’t,” Ralston shook his head. He drew himself up, looking like he was about to go on one of his long-winded rambles, when Ignatia interrupted him by cutting right to the point.

“The manor is alive,” Ignatia said, “But it is alive the way a tree is alive, or a meadow. It does not think, like you or I, but it does feel. It shifts and changes; it grows and twists with the magic of the Lord who inhabits it.”

Harry turned back to Ignatia and frowned, “The manor was put in stasis for years, though. And it’s still alive after that?”

Ignatia’s gold tooth glinted in the light as she smiled at him, “The manor slept then, but it did not wither and die. The last two or three generations have been more Potter than Peverell, it seems. The manor can be unsettling to a Lord who does not carry enough of the Peverell magic.”

“You keep mentioning that name,” Harry said, “But I don’t know any Peverells or anything. Who are they?”

Ignatia ran her hand over the edge of the table before her. Her gaze shifted off of him and to something far away, though it was hard to tell with her strange eyes. “We Peverells are descendants of Ignotus, youngest brother of the three Peverells, the one who shadowed himself from Death’s gaze. We are those who see Death, who walk with Death, who speak with Death. What chills others, warms us. What causes others fear, brings us relief. But we are not bringers of death. In fact, we are often those who strive to keep others alive, because to resist Death is a particular magic of the Peverells. After all, we are the few who can best avoid it.”

Frowning, Harry asked, “If you can avoid death, then are you still alive now? Is this painting like a screen to your house or something?”

Ignatia chuckled and shook her head. “No, Lord, I do not live any longer. I have passed on many years ago and left no direct heirs, leaving the line to my brother and his children, of which you were born.”

Harry perked up at the sound of that. “So we are family, then? Which means you don’t need to call me Lord or something. I get Ralston doing it, since young lord is like a nickname or something, but you can just call me Harry.”

“Then I would be most pleased if you called me Ignatia,” she said with a smile.

Across the room, Ralston made a noise of complaint, “I met you first and you do not offer me this common courtesy, Young Lord? Am I not also your great-uncle? Your family?”

Harry turned around, thinking to himself that he might move their paintings onto the same wall if they wouldn’t mind it. His neck was going to hurt if he kept this up! “I thought you liked calling me Young Lord, since you’ve been doing it a lot. Do you want to call me Harry?”

Ralston stuck his nose up and declared, “I would like the pleasure of which to choose, Young Lord, if it pleases you, that is.”

Rolling his eyes, Harry said, “Sure, that’s fine.”

He absentmindedly brushed his fingers along Apep’s side. The snake was quiet, which was a little unusual, but Harry wasn’t worried since he occasionally heard a hissing chuckle come from him. 

“To get back on topic, then,” Ralson cleared his throat, “Yes, Ignatia is right, the manor lives much like a, well I rather like the analogy of a meadow so we shall continue that one, so the manor is a meadow. This means that it is composed of many things, like a meadow has grass and trees and bugs and animals and whatnot, the Manor is made of many things. The foundation, the deep room, the halls and walls, the magic woven into the wards and the various other things here—that is all true enough. However, a meadow is not a meadow without the sun above it to give it life. In the case of the Manor, the Lord is that sunlight, breathing life into the Manor. That Lord is now you, Harry.” Ralson said with a knowing smile towards him, as if Harry had possibly forgotten about becoming a Lord somehow.

“While you traveled through the Manor,” Ignatia cut in, “Did you not find locked doors that opened at your touch? Were you able to seek your way around without knowing where you were going?”

Harry nodded. “You mean those doors actually were locked?”

“Indeed,” Ignatia said, “But as the Lord of the Manor, no door remains locked to you if you desire to open it. It is your will that feeds the magic, Harry.”

Harry frowned and held up his right hand. He showed off the little scars that he’d gotten from the front door, “But I’ve been using blood to open and unlock things this whole time. The front door, the safe, things like that—they all require my blood.”

“Blood is just another conduit for magic,” Ralston said. “Like one might use a wand or stave or crystal to commune with their magic and direct it, so can blood be used. Of course, it’s rather dodgy, considering it’s blood, and if you lose too much you’ll be in a dire situation, but that leads to sourcing it from others more than from oneself.”

“Your magic was required to awaken the Manor,” Ignatia said, “But it is your will that will maintain it. If you desire an isolated life, the Manor will be formidable to others and make them feel unwelcome. If you wish to entertain and make your guests feel at home, the Manor will accommodate you as best as it can.”

Harry sat up straight at those words. Now that was interesting! 

“What if I want to have a big family?” Harry asked, “What will the Manor do then?”

Ignatia paused. She ran her thumb across her bottom lip, thinking about it for a moment before she said simply, “I am not sure. While family has always been important to keeping the magic alive, I suppose it matters what you consider to be big and what the Manor is capable of doing to facilitate that.”

“Well, first of all, I have to find my soulmate,” Harry said, “And then after we’re married, I want to have sixteen kids. Not all at once,” he said, somewhat abashed when Ignatia’s eyes widened at his words. “A few at a time, really. See, my soulmate is immortal, and he’s going to make sure that I am too, so we’ll have plenty of time to raise lots of kids together. And with a Manor this big, there is sure to be enough room for them and maybe even their kids if they want to stay nearby instead of moving out. 

“I’m not going to kick out any of my kids before they’re ready to go,” Harry declared, “As long as they’re willing and happy as part of the family, I’ll keep them here for as long as they like!”

There was a minute of silence, and then Ralston cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Young Lord, but you mentioned that your soulmate is immortal? How do you know this if you have not met them?”

Harry opened his mouth to answer and then stopped, slowly shutting it again. He looked down at Apep and ran a knuckle down the length of its scales. Apep uncoiled slightly, shifting to stick its head out of the eye socket of the skull. “Beloved?” 

“Should I tell the paintings about you?” Harry asked, “They’re part of the Manor, which is mine now, so I don’t think they can hurt me.”

“Hurt comes in less direct forms; rumors and whispers, the work of portraits to share information unbeknownst to others, these things one must be wary of,” Apep hissed back. “Find a way to halt the tongue, my chosen, and thus your secrets are secure.”

Harry frowned, puzzling over this new problem. “Is there some way to prevent portraits from telling my secrets to others?”

Ralston made an affronted noise, “You would accuse us of such crass betrayal, Young Lord?”

Harry stubbornly set his jaw. “Well, I’ve only just met you. I don’t know what you’re like or if you even can tell others! You must be able to move from picture frame to picture frame because I saw you in the hallway earlier, so what if you can go to someone else’s house and tell them what you see here!”

“To be so mistrusted-!” Ralston began, but Ignatia cut him off with a rough-sounding chuckle.

Harry turned to frown up at her. “What?” he demanded, “What’s so funny?”

“Forgive me, Harry,” Ignatia said with a shake of her head. She reached up to brush her dark hair back, as it had fallen over her shoulder with the movement, “But you are a delightful contradiction. You are so young and open, eager to believe us at first blush, but the truth of it is that you share your confidence with very few, is it not? You offer your kindness and honesty but withhold your respect and trust.”  

She sobered up quickly and offered him a sad smile, “I suspect I understand why this is so. You have not had many in your life that you could trust. I can only imagine what home you came from if you’re so eager to abandon it in favor of an empty manor.”

“It isn’t empty,” Harry immediately refuted. He sat up straight; hands clenched tightly in his lap as he glared at her. “There are the elves and all the people in the portraits! And I’ll have a whole family here as soon as I find my soulmate.” 

He felt Apep twisting in agitation on his skin, but the snake said nothing other than a low hiss of agreement. 

Ignatia’s dark eyes gleamed as she dropped her eyes to his arm. “Your mark is fairly developed for a boy your age. May I see it?”

Harry pressed his forearm to his chest, hiding Apep from view. "You won't tell anyone else about it? Mr. Rowle said soulmate marks are personal, that you're not supposed to share them."

"I swear to you on my Deathless Gift, Lord Potter, I will not reveal the truth of your soulmate mark," Ignatia intoned seriously. She pressed her fist over her chest, "So mote it be."

Harry heard Ralston echo the words and then, still not wholly trusting. He said, "Okay. I'll show you mine if you show me yours.” He ignored Ralston’s gasp and kept his gaze on Ignatia, who watched him with an amused but sharp smile. 

“All right,” she said, “If that is what you wish.”

Her sleeves were already pulled up past her wrist, so she didn’t have to roll them up much farther to reveal her mark. Turning her left arm out towards Harry, she revealed a shapeless, sapphire-blue cloud of color on her skin. It looked more like a bruise or strange birthmark than anything else. Harry frowned at the image. It reminded him more of how Apep used to look, when he was very little and was just a cloud of black and green. 

“What’s wrong with it?” he asked, “Why isn’t it a shape? Did the painter of your portrait not know what it looked like?”

“I painted this portrait,” Ignatia murmured. She shook out her sleeve, letting it settle back down her arm, “My mark simply never developed past this point. It can happen, though the explanations for why vary from what school of thought one believes in.”

“And what do you believe?” Harry asked.

Ignatia chuckled wryly. “My mark has no definition because there is not just one person suited for me. I find that suits me just fine as I always had a plethora of choices for lovers or partners and no desire to be bound to just one or the other. My path was always my own, and I was always too close to the thinner parts of the veil for others to be truly comfortable with. We Potters are unique in this way, Harry. We do not fear Death. We are not tormented by its inevitability.”

Harry chewed on his bottom lip as he thought about that. He had to agree with her words, not just because they sounded right, but because he thought they were. When he’d been very little, before Apep had formed and even sometimes afterward, Harry had lain in his cupboard and thought he would die there, and that would be all right. Dying hadn’t seemed very scary then. Even now he only didn’t want it to happen because he had so much to do, had a soulmate to find and kids to love and take care of eventually.

But if he died, he died. There was nothing much he could do about that.

“My beloved, my soul,” Apep’s voice was gentle and worried, “You will not perish. You will not pass on. I will not allow it. I will never let you go. I forbid Death from having you, do not worry.” 

Harry moved his arm back so he could pet along Apep’s scales. The snake peered up at him with its blood-red eyes, tongue flicking in and out quickly. “I’m not worried,” he told Apep, “I’m not afraid. It’s okay.”

“Harry,” Ignatia drew his attention back to her, “Your mark?” She gestured, turning her arm to indicate he should show off his mark.

Gulping, Harry did so, pulling up his sleeve to reveal Apep in its entirety. Only Rowle had ever seen it before and he had had a strong reaction. Ignatia moved closer, peering down at Apep with curiosity.

“I named it Apep,” Harry said, “Out of a book of Egyptian gods I read in the library. We can talk to each other in the snake tongue.” He gave Apep a little smile, rubbing his thumb down the edge of the skull. He’d always thought his mark was kind of badass looking, with the bare skull and the snake coiling in and out of it. 

“Parseltongue, yes,” Ignatia murmured. She ran her fingers over her chin thoughtfully, “And you communicate what, exactly? What does Apep say to you?”

“Well, most of the time Apep just tells me how great I am,” Harry said with a grin. “And it’ll give me instructions to places that it knows about, or I guess my soulmate knows about.” He paused and then asked, “Is it really unusual to talk to a soulmate mark?”

Ralston snorted and Harry glanced back at him, startling a little since he’d forgotten the portrait was there. “Is it unusual, he asks! Young Lord, I do not think anyone has ever been able to communicate directly with their mark before. One typically works through interpretation of color and shape to discern their soulmate and then, only during mutual recognition can one be assured that they have chosen correctly! Even then there are records of those whose marks match multiple times in their lives. The magic that connects soulmates is flexible and binds together those who are most compatible at that time. That is the reason why it takes so long for the image to form completely, if at all.”

“Oh,” Harry leaned back, feeling absurdly disappointed. Was there anything normal about him at all? 

He had a mark that formed too early, that could move and talk to him. He could talk to snakes without being related to the family that was known for that. He was a Lord of an old family line with magical jewelry and had a Manor that was sort of alive. And he was a celebrity for surviving an attack by an evil Dark Lord that had killed both of his parents. At this rate, he didn’t think he should be surprised about anything weird happening in his life since it was just a series of odd situations!

“Aspire not for normalcy nor adequacy,” Apep hissed at him, his body twisting so that he could peer at Harry from inside of an eye socket, “You were born to greatness, my beloved. As my equal, my mate, my eternal companion, you are my chosen, my soul. The Great Lord will walk at your side and you will match us in equal measure. You are greater. Superior. Above all others; matched only to I, the immortal and powerful one. You are mine, and I am yours, and together, we will be unconquerable, unstoppable, unending.” 

Harry took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Apep was right. He shouldn’t aspire for something that he couldn’t have. Even if he wasn’t the Boy-Who-Lived or Lord Potter, he was still bound to his soulmate, who himself was powerful and immortal and, well, probably a Gaunt, from how Apep had reacted before. Harry wondered if there was some way he could look up the Gaunt family, since that had to be a good starting point for where to look for his soulmate.

Shaking his head, Harry asked, “Well, there isn’t anything I can do to change my mark now and I don’t really want to. I like Apep and I like who my soulmate is, at least, from what I know about him. Maybe I’ll look more into why my mark is so different, but I have a lot of other important things to do.” He sat up straight again. “I have only a few weeks before I have to go to Hogwarts, you know, and then I’ll be busy with my classes and can’t do lordship stuff.” 

He reached out to the stack of papers on his desk and said, “I need to go to Gringotts and look at the vaults. I also want to go to Diagon alley and see if I can find an eye doctor to get me better glasses than these ones. And I have to get the floo access up, so I can travel without having to go into Amesbury and take the Knight bus.”

“If Amesbury still has a local post office, you should be able to use a public floo to get to Diagon,” Ralston said, “They had just established the office in my day, but it should still be there.”

“Can I send owls out from there, too?” Harry asked, remembering that Griphook said an appointment would be best instead of just visiting Gringotts.

“Certainly,” Ralston nodded, “And Opal should be capable of popping in to deliver the letters on your behalf. House elves are traditionally used for these sorts of errands, in fact.”

“Good,” Harry said with a decisive nod. “Then I have some letters to write.” He turned back to his desk full of paperwork—and a meal of tea and small sandwiches that he’d completely not noticed get deposited there—and sighed. Being a Lord was hard work! 

Shuffling the pictures back into the envelope—except for the one of his parents in their wedding robes, which he kept out and balanced against the quill stand—Harry told himself that he’d read the letters from his parents later, when he had time to get emotional about them, since he knew that he would. He cleared off everything from his parents and started preparing his various letters with Ralston helping him.

Chapter Text

Although she was unlikely to admit it to anyone but her closest friends, Minerva McGonagall had been looking forward to this day for quite some time now. 

She knew that when the letters went out that summer that one for Harry Potter would be among them. She had not seen the boy since that awful night almost ten years ago and though her daily life was a good distraction for her thoughts, she had often wondered about him. How had he grown up in that muggle home? How much had his aunt told him of his parents? How did he laugh? How did he play? Was he like his mother, studious and kind but fiery at heart? Or was he more like his father, sporty and enthusiastic and blindingly brave and loyal? 

As Deputy Headmistress, she received back all the letters which students and parents wrote in order to confirm their attendance for the year. With the evening delivery, she had received Harry’s letter—written on lined notebook paper like many muggleborns before him—and was delighted at this first window into his mind. 

Like many children, his handwriting was a little sloppy and slanted, but he’d had good spelling and grammar—not one mistake in either category. He had been overly formal in his address and signature, but that just brought a smile to her face as she imagined him attempting to come across as a serious adult in the letter. 

Minerva may have made a duplicate of the letter to show to Pomona and Aurora later, but that was neither here nor there. 

As it was, she had gathered together a list of names of children that she would have to visit—or delegate out to some of the more trustworthy, and pleasant, professors—and was headed down to the Great Hall for breakfast. There were a few, like her, that spent some time during the summer months at Hogwarts, most notably Aurora and Pomona as the former enjoyed the darkened skies of Hogwarts for her study and the latter needed to attend to the greenhouse even outside of the school year. 

Minerva herself had so much paperwork to attend to that she easily spent at least two days a week during the summer months at the castle to work on it all. Merlin knew that Albus tended to put things off that he found more than a little unnecessary to bother with. That those smaller things tended to be the nitty gritty that kept the castle up and running wasn’t all that surprising to her. Minerva had always known Albus to be one who considered the bigger picture than the smaller things, even if he did give particular care where it was necessary. 

His personal touch in delivering Harry Potter to his relatives himself was one example of that. Another would have been how he provided for Rubeus by allowing him to stay on the castle grounds all year round. 

Minerva gathered her robes around her as she took her seat at the small round table that served as the dining table during the summer months—and the winter holidays as necessary. She set her papers to one side and served herself tea, first, smiling a little in greeting at Aurora. “Good morning, my dear,” she said.

“Good evening, Minn” Aurora murmured back. There were dark smudges under her eyes from her midnight sky viewing but a pleasant smile on her face, “How are you doing today?”

“Quite well indeed,” Minerva said. “I received the second batch of returned letters just yesterday and I scheduled some visits with our newest students to help them procure their supplies over the next few days.”  She served herself breakfast as she spoke, spooning in a generous helping of oatmeal with fruit and cream. 

“How many will it be this year?” Aurora asked, “It’s been rather thin the last few, don’t you think?”

“We should have around fifty new students this year,” Minerva said, “Quite a few muggleborns too. These ones are the first of the children born at the end of the war, you know.”

Aurora, who had been lifting her teacup to her lips, stopped and then lowered it again. She blinked her large dark eyes at Minerva as her mouth dropped open into a surprised ‘o’. “It is? This year? Time has passed so quickly…. Does that mean…?”

Minerva nodded. She was about to continue when she caught sight of Albus approaching the table. She gave him a smile and greeting and waited for him to settle in his chair before turning back to Aurora. “That’s right, Harry Potter will be coming to Hogwarts at last.”

Aurora gave a delighted gasp and put her hand over her mouth. “Oh my word. I hadn’t thought it would happen so soon! Where has the time gone?”

“I often ask myself that very same thing,” Albus said with a smile as he stirred his tea. He directed his attention towards Minerva and asked, “Have we heard from young Mr. Potter about his attendance already?”

“Yes, we have,” Minerva said, “I received the letter just yesterday. He seems to be a very polite young man, though I do worry about his upbringing.”

“Come now,” Albus said, “What is there to worry about? His letter was received and returned appropriately, was it not?”

“That’s true,” Minerva said, “But I still worry.” Harry’s use of muggle paper had reminded her of the home he’d been taken to, the family that she had watched. Those muggles were the worst sort—they didn’t care for individuality and certainly didn’t appreciate magic. She didn’t think that ten years with Harry would have changed their mind. 

But, she had been wrong before so she could be wrong again. She wouldn’t know until she met the boy herself. 

Albus waved a dismissive hand. “You need not,” he said, “I’m sure young Mr. Potter has enjoyed his childhood with his family. However, I’m sure the boy is quite excited to attend Hogwarts. It will be good for him to walk the halls that his parents did before him.”

“I know,” Minerva said, “I suppose I am just anxious to meet him.”

“Starstruck by celebrity?” Aurora teased with a smile, “Or is it something else?”

“Something else,” Minerva said, though she didn’t explain. She couldn’t, really. She didn’t have the words. She had a lot of complicated feelings about Harry and his parents and how everything had ended, she didn’t want to disgorge it all here at the dining table. “In any case, I'll be planning to take him out to Diagon Alley myself. I’m sure he’ll be quite excited to get his school supplies!”

“There isn’t a wixen in England who isn’t excited to get their school supplies,” Aurora said, “But using them seems to be another matter entirely!”

They shared a laugh and spoke of other things for a while, mostly that which had to do with classes for the upcoming year and various duties. Aurora volunteered to take a few children that wouldn’t be able to go to Diagon Alley until later in the week and Minerva set aside a few others that she thought either Pomona or Charity might like to assist.

When she got up from the table to leave, Albus joined her in exiting the Great Hall. They fell into walking in step together naturally and Minerva wasn’t at all surprised to have Albus bring up Harry Potter. 

“Do you know which day you’ll be taking Mr. Potter to Diagon Alley?” Albus asked her with his hands tucked behind his back. 

“Yes,” Minerva said, “I sent a return letter back last night informing him that I will be available in a week's time to take him to do his shopping. I would go about it sooner but I have other plans with other students before then. Hopefully, he’ll be able to contain his excitement until then.” Minerva could still remember Lily’s outburst of delight when she’d finally arrived to take her to Diagon alley so many years ago. The girl’s accidental magic had made some flower buds bloom prematurely in her parent’s front garden when she’d caught sight of Minerva coming up the front walk. 

“One hopes,” Albus gave a little chuckle in agreement. “I shall provide his family’s vault key for you beforehand, then. His parents left it in my care after their passing and I have held onto it for Harry ever since then.”

Minerva nodded, feeling emotion rise up and threaten to choke her. She pushed it back down and cleared her throat. “Thank you, Albus. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I do have an appointment to get to this morning.”

“Of course, my dear Minerva,” Albus said, “Travel well.”

She bid her goodbye and headed back to her office in order to floo out. She had a busy schedule to keep and, hopefully, that would keep her mind off of young Harry for a few more days.

A week later found Minerva walking up the pathway to Number Four on Privet drive, her heart beating a little faster than normal as her boot heels clicked on the hard concrete ground. She noticed one or two neighbors give her an odd look, but stolidly ignored them as she walked up the steps and stood at the door. She knocked three times with a sharp rap of her knuckles and then listened. 

After a minute or so, the door opened and there stood Petunia Dursley, no longer the narrow faced, gangly teenager that Minerva remembered from her memories of visiting Lily in order to take her to Diagon. She was now a tall woman, grown into her features but pinched with a sour disgust that drew her mouth in tight, put her nose in the air and made her watery blue eyes glint as she narrowed them. 

“Good morning,” Minerva greeted politely, “I’m—”

“I know who you are,” Petunia interrupted her curtly. She half closed the door, eyes sharp as daggers, “And I’ll have no business with you. Go away.”

Affronted, Minerva lifted her chin, “Mrs. Dursley, I am here to take Harry to Diagon for his school supplies.”

Petunia scoffed. “Well, you’re out of luck then, because the boy is gone.”

“Excuse me?” 

“I said the boy is gone,” Petunia said, “He’s run off before he ever got your letter about your freak school. And good riddance to him anyway. He’s been nothing but a pain and a bother for his whole life!”

Minerva blinked a few times and then drew her wand, “I’m afraid I do not believe you and I will need to check your residence for the truth.” 

“You’re not stepping one foot inside my house!” Petunia spat at her. If she’d been a feline, Minerva knew her back would be up and ears back. “I’ve finally gotten rid of all traces of that freak boy and I won’t have you contaminating my home! The boy isn’t here and I won’t be taking him back even if you do find him!”

Minerva gave a surreptitious glance over her shoulder to check for anyone watching them. She didn’t see anyone and so she cast a quick qui tenent while ignoring Petunia’s horrified gasp. The charm scanned the building before her quickly and presented her with a list of names for the occupants: Vernon Dursley, Petunia Dursley, Dudley Dursley. 

Because Harry lived here, even if he wasn’t home, his name should appear. The shock that she felt at seeing his name missing rattled her right down to her bones. “But you said his letter arrived?” she asked distantly, staring at the hovering words until they faded. 

“You mean that envelope that filthy bird dropped on the table?” Petunia’s face screwed up in disgust, “I burnt that! It could have been carrying any sorts of diseases on it and I won’t have my baby boy get sick from your infested birds!”

Minerva shook her head. She knew Harry had gotten the Hogwarts-sent letter. He had responded to it. She knew that. Had he gotten the letter and then attempted to go to Diagon himself? There had been some years where pamphlets had been sent out to muggleborns to direct them, during a brief period where the board wasn’t happy with having to pay the teachers during summer hours to work, but that hadn’t happened this year!

“How long has Mr. Potter been gone?” Minerva asked sharply, using her best authoritative teacher voice.

Petunia sneered at her. “How should I know? I don’t keep track of the boy every day!”

“He is a child who was in your care,” Minerva said. There was a weight in her gut that got heavier and heavier the longer she stood here and argued with this petulant woman, “You are an adult and you are his aunt. You are responsible for his health and wellbeing. Where is he?”

“I don’t know. I don’t care. He’s been gone for who knows how long and I’m not going to go looking for him. If he ran away, he ran away. If someone took him, well that’s a problem for you people, not me.” Petunia shut the door a few more inches again, hissing with spite, “I never wanted that child in my home and now that he’s gone, I won’t be taking him back! You can tell that old Headmaster that I said, no, I’m so sorry, but it just isn’t possible.”

And with that, Petunia slammed the door shut in Minerva’s face. Minerva stood there for a moment, clutching her wand tightly and debating just bursting through and searching for Harry manually. Perhaps the charm had failed somehow? Perhaps it didn’t take because he didn’t feel accepted there?

Feeling sick to her stomach, Minerva turned on her heel and apparated with a crack back to the grounds of Hogwarts.

Albus had to be informed immediately. 

Albus removed his glasses and placed his hand over his eyes when Minerva finished explaining to him what had happened that morning on the doorstep of the Dursley residence. 

There was a long pause, though it was not silent since the portraits around them were murmuring to each other about the missing boy. 

“How long?” Albus asked without moving his hand.

“At least a week,” Minerva said, “He must have been there to receive his Hogwarts letter and stayed long enough to write a reply. Wherever he went, he must not have arrived until after I sent my letter out, or it would have been redirected to him wherever he is now and that woman insisted she received my owl and burnt the letter.”

Albus lowered his hand enough to peer up at her with his clear blue eyes, “And you are sure she is telling the truth?”

Now that she’d fully processed Petunia’s reaction to the news of her missing nephew, Minerva positively shook with fury. “Yes,” she hissed out, “Quite sure. She was disgusted by him, Albus. She did not care that he was missing. She wasn’t even sure how long it had been!” And then, quite without her wishing it to, the inevitable accusation burst out of her. “How could you? How could you leave him with those people! Muggles or not, they had no love for him, Albus! I told you that they were the bad sort! I knew there was something to be worried about!”

Albus sighed and slid his half-moon glasses back into place. “Now, Minerva, I’m sure he’ll turn up—”

“Turn up?” She demanded, “Turn up? He is an eleven year old child. Practically muggleborn, with those people being the ones who raised him! We have no idea where he could possibly be! He could have been kidnapped for all we know!”

“I’m sure he hasn’t been kidnapped—”

“How?” She took a step forward. “How do you know?”

“Minerva,” Albus spoke firmly, sitting up straighter. She read the warning in his tone but chose to ignore it. She couldn’t back down until she had some answers. “I did not want to bring this up, for the safety of the boy, but I have had someone nearby his home this entire time, keeping an eye on him. Had he been seen talking to any adult or leaving his home with someone, I would have been informed by it.”

Minerva took in a shaky breath. “Then where is he, Albus? Where has he gone?”

After a long moment, where Albus stared off at one of the many silver objects on a shelf on his wall, he finally stood and said, “I may not know now, but I can divine a way to find out. But first, I will go speak to his aunt. I will need some…assistance from her in order to locate Mr. Potter.”

Minerva opened her mouth to demand to come along but Albus shot her a stern look that shut her up. It was unusual for the genial old man to look so weathered and hardened. She swallowed back her insistence to accompany him and said instead, “If you need anything from me to find him…”

Albus softened slightly, smiling at her. “I believe I can handle the investigation on my own, my dear Minerva, but I do appreciate your offer. Please, continue to look after Hogwarts while I turn my attention to this matter, if you would?”

“Of course,” she said, as if she would do anything different. “Will you tell me when you’ve found him?”

Albus nodded. “At once.”

Ritual magic was the one field of study that Albus had always been wary of. 

On its surface, it was simple magic: take symbolically important items, imbue them with magic, and sacrifice them in various ways while channeling one’s will and intent into the magic to conduct the rite. That channeling could be performed through chanting, runic inscription or even silent meditation. 

Rituals could be performed with such a wide range of variables, at any time of day or night, at any time of year, with any amount of layers. So long as one was careful in their preparation, their sacrifices, their timing and their magical limits, theoretically any type of magic could be performed through a ritual.

The only true limit was what one was willing to sacrifice, as the demands of the spell were proportional to the sacrifices given.

Simple rituals with benign sacrifices, such as of plants or gathered inorganic materials were enough to bring self-confidence or enhance one’s memory temporarily. More complex rituals involving magically imbued crystals or personal and sentimental items could redirect one’s bad luck onto another, could siphon away curse effects or induce deep, healing comatose states.

Even more complicated rituals could promote fertility in the barren, could dismantle bloodline curses entirely or even allow one to briefly contact the dead. Such rituals demanded much more significant sacrifices, such as livestock, one’s own blood or, even more grisley, the remains of a close family member.

If there was no limit to what one was willing to sacrifice, there was no limit to what one was able to accomplish. 

It was this that made Albus leery of ritual magic being taught to the entire population. As much as he wanted to believe in the inherent goodness of all, he had lived far too long and seen far too much to be so naive anymore. There were plenty who would sacrifice anything for their personal avarice. There were many who did not care for others needs or wants, who saw those around them as backs to step on in order to reach their goals. Some for whom they could and would shed as much blood as necessary in order to fulfill their personal desires. 

And yet, there are some, those pure of heart and clear intent, who saw the power of ritual magic and considered it only for the benefit of others. 

Albus wholly approved of those who used ritual in order to bring health to their loved ones, so long as it was not at the expense of others. He knew of several families whose children were either the result of fertility ritual or lived now because their parents performed rituals to undo childhood illness. 

And then, of course, there was Lily Potter, who had worked the most powerful ritual of all—at the cost of the greatest sacrifice: the life of the caster.

These were the thoughts that ran through Albus’s mind as he stood in his private ritual room, bent over the pure silver bowl in the light of four large red candles and four smaller white candles placed between them. He had spent enough time casting various tracking spells after Harry Potter after his investigation of the home on Privet drive and none of them had worked. 

He had only three strands of the boy’s hair left, which could be burnt in a simple tracking ritual, but after using the spell forms of such magic to locate young Harry and remaining unsuccessful, Albus thought something more potent must be attempted. Thus, he had collected a vial of Petunia’s blood. She had not necessarily been willing, but since she would not remember him procuring the blood nor was she injured during the acquisition, he saw no fault in his actions. 

Finding Harry was more important than preserving that peculiar woman’s sensibilities.

Albus coaxed the gathering magic in the air into the silver bowl. It was filled with water and several drops of milkweed, giving the liquid a cloudy look. When a faint glow emanated from the surface of the water, Albus began to chant softly, gathering his will as he repeated the searching phrase. He lifted the vial and uncorked it carefully. With a steady hand, he poured half of the vial into the bowl, calling on the magic to draw on the connection between Petunia’s blood and Harry Potter and the last time they were in contact with each other in order to locate the boy now.

At first, the ritual performed smoothly, the gathered magic churned the water, swirling the blood down to the bottom and then blending it in. It changed to a solid color, progressing as it should, before suddenly the swirling stopped and the magic seemed to slam into a distant, but considerable obstacle. 

Here, an ordinary tracking spell or even a tracking ritual would have burnt away. This one, powered by blood and driven by Albus’s will, did not. It merely halted in place, pressing against that distant guard that he could only interpret as a strong ward.

Sweat broke out on Albus’s forehead as he fought to bring his magic to bear, channeling it down into a finer and finer point until he was able to work past the barrier. As the magic made its way through, seeking out his target, the water began to move again, slowly at first and then faster and faster. 

The bowl hummed with magic as the water moved so quickly it formed a vortex, creating a visible gap. Albus shifted his concentration into taming the magic, as he did not want to overload the solution or the silver bowl accidentally. As he smoothed out the magic, the water calmed until the vortex vanished and it moved in a steady circle once more.

At last, an image began to form on the surface of the water, made of milky white of plant sap and the red of Petunia’s blood. Any concern that he wouldn’t recognize where Harry was being held vanished as soon as the image solidified. The columns of white were shadowed with red blood and the steps blurred into cloudy water at the bottom, but there was no mistaking the building being shown.

It was Gringotts.

Harry Potter was at Gringotts.

Albus’s concentration wavered. The image trembled in response. Shaking his shock away, he focused once more. He gathered his magic back under his control and attempted to press deeper, to find where in Gringotts he was. Had the Goblins found Harry somehow and carried him off? It wasn’t entirely unheard of, especially since there were varying levels of animosity between wizards and Goblins from year to year, but of all the children to be snatched away, would they truly take Harry Potter?

They had to know that there could be nothing good that came from that. The wizarding public would turn on the Goblins in an instant if they thought the Boy-Who-Lived was being held captive—they had to understand that. Which meant that something else must be a play here.

Briefly, Albus envisioned the horrifying notion that someone else had gotten their hands on Harry and convinced him to either give them access to his family vaults or to allow them to adopt him. Certainly the Dursleys were not as hospitable a family as Albus had hoped they would be, but they were still Harry’s family. He would not simply abandon them! He could not. Or if he had, he would soon come to regret it deeply, even more so if he was taken in by some other family who took him in for his status or wealth.

Distracted as he was, Albus almost missed the shifting image before him. He felt a strange tension, much like the wards he had pressed past before but more flexible somehow. It was less like a stone wall and more like the surface of a pudding, perhaps, giving just enough resistance that he could feel the ripple of magic press against his own.

Abruptly, the image of Gringotts vanished and the water turned entirely blood red. The liquid trembled, unsettled still, and tiny bubbles of white rose to burst at the surface. As the milkweed sap rose through the red, Albus saw frost crawl in from the edge of the silver bowl as if the temperature of the metal had plunged below freezing. 

When the last bubble burst, Albus stared in absolute shock at the image in the bowl before him.

In the center of the red was a white triangle with a circle nested inside of that. A single line bisected them both. 

Albus knew this symbol all too well.

It was Gellert’s symbol.

Albus’s concentration crumbled in his shock. As he stepped back from the pedestal upon which the silver bowl rested, his control faltered. The magic contained within the ritual snapped out from under his fractured control and the bowl tipped with the force of the break, sloshing the water over the rim and down the side of the stone. It was thick and slushy, like it had almost completely frozen over, and a good portion of it landed on the floor with a wet splatter.

Albus exhaled sharply and found that his breath fogged the room. There was an unnatural, almost deathly chill in the air. 

“What,” he breathed out the words, teeth chattering, surprise making him breathless, “What in Merlin’s name—”

Albus lifted his wand with a mind to apparate to Diagon and go directly to Gringotts but he stopped before the magic left his core. But something stopped him. A fleeting memory, a connection between that symbol and Harry Potter. 

“The Potter insignia,” he murmured to himself. Of course. That image was more than Gellert’s symbol, though few would know that. Even he had forgotten it after the years. His discovery of it had been a momentary thing, a brief conversation about perhaps using the Potter Manor as the safehouse and placing it under a Fidelius. James had told him he never felt comfortable in the manor whenever he visited with his father. It had been Charlus’s home when he’d been Lord Potter, and that man had been a dark wizard, though politically more grey. When Fleamont inherited it, he had felt no more comfortable there than his son. James didn’t want to use the manor, even if it had contained stronger wards than the Godric Hollow house.

It had taken Albus one visit to understand and agree with James. That manor had been cold, not just physically but magically as well. 

And this symbol had been present as well, faintly visible on the entryway doors, but present enough for Albus to see it.

Albus lowered his wand. 

He had a sinking suspicion he knew exactly where Harry had ended up.

And it wasn’t with the Goblins.

Chapter Text

Waking up with a whole list of things to accomplish wasn’t all that unusual for Harry. He used to have a new list of chores every day, usually told to him while Petunia made sure he didn’t burn breakfast or when he got his rare morning shower and she wanted to make sure he didn’t waste any water. 

While he’d been in bed recovering, Harry hadn’t really noticed that he had little to do and, once able, he’d been up and wandering around. The morning after he’d gotten his lordship rings and met Ignatia, however, Harry had a whole list of things to accomplish only this time it was a list of his own choosing.

Somehow, that made everything seem so much more exciting to handle. 

Harry dressed in an outfit that his magical mirror declared as “Austere, Powerful, Lordly!” that was in dark blue and gray with a high collar, and broad, stiff cuffs with runes stitched on them in gold. It was a long sleeve outfit, which Harry didn’t mind since he was usually cold anyway, and which meant he was doubly protected from accidentally revealing his soulmate mark. 

Breakfast was quick, warm oatmeal and fruits with tea and juice, and the elves packed him a shrunken basket of food for lunch to take with him, which he appreciated. Ralson spent breakfast with him, though of course the portrait didn’t eat, and he regaled Harry with various items in the vaults that he needed to get. 

It was shortly before eight when Harry mounted his Stormcloud and took off up into the air. He felt a tad silly, wearing nice robes while flying a broom, and wished he had a very nice muggle car instead, but in truth, he knew that wouldn’t help either. He couldn’t drive and didn’t have a driver either so this was the best he could do.

He flew into Amesbury, running his list of errands through in his head over and over so he didn’t forget anything. He landed on the street next to the bakery and gave the pastries in the window a longing look. Apep drew his attention with a shiver of magic on his arm and hissed, “Such delicacies are only what you deserve, my beloved. You should indulge to your heart’s desire!” 

“After we return,” Harry told it softly, “I don’t want to have any crumbs on me while at the Ministry.”

Apep settled down again and Harry turned his attention to the other shops on the street. He found one that had to be the public owlery and so he headed over. 

The shop bustled with quite a few people, so Harry stood in line to wait his turn. A few people gave him curious looks, but no one spoke to him. 

Once at the head of the line, he asked about the floo use and was pointed in the right direction, paying a sickle in order to access it. The man gave him an odd look as he fished out the money and placed it on the counter, his eye drawn to Harry’s hand and the ring on it. But he remained polite and Harry bid him thanks and then walked off to the floo. 

He could feel more people staring at him now, but when he glanced over his shoulder, none of them approached. It was strange and he had to wonder why since the people in Diagon seemed so eager to come forward and shake his hand. Or at least the few that had recognized him. 

Here, it was clear that they did recognize him from the way they watched him, but no one came close.

Shaking off their curiosity, Harry took a pinch of floo powder and tossed it into the nearby fireplace. “Ministry Atrium!” he declared and the flames roared green.

Taking a deep breath, Harry stepped into the fire.

In a swirl of ash and embers, Harry stumbled back out. He managed to keep his footing, just barely, and brushed himself off with his hands before remembering his wand. He drew it and flicked it up and down, hissing the dusting spell that Apep had taught him ages ago. It had been incredibly handy whenever Aunt Petunia had wanted her drapes dusted, though it was much easier to perform with his wand than without. 

That done, he tucked his wand away again and then walked further into the Atrium, looking for what Ralston had described as the reception desk. There was a rather large statue and fountain that Ralston hadn’t told him about and must have been put in the last few hundred years. It was nice, Harry supposed, though he wasn’t sure how accurate some of those creatures were. But then he’d never seen a centaur before so maybe they were.

Bemused by the fountain, Harry took his time walking over to the desk and getting in line there as well. He tucked his hands behind his back as he waited, amused that adults spent so much time standing in lines. 

Once he was at the front of the line, a woman asked him, “Name and reason for visit…?” Her voice trailed off as she looked up from her paperwork only to immediately have to look down again to see Harry instead of the taller adult she must have expected.

“Harry Potter,” Harry said to her, “I’m here to submit paperwork to open up my manor to the floo network. Is that still with the Department of Travel or somewhere else?”

The woman gaped at him for a moment and her gaze rose to his forehead where it stopped. Harry sighed a little and leaned forward, “Yes, I’m that Harry Potter. May I please have directions, ma’am?”

She shuffled some paper and then cleared her throat. “Yes, all questions about floo networks, either establishing a new one or otherwise are directed to the Department of Travel. However, all minors must be accompanied by an adult inside the Ministry. Do you have an escort, Mr. Potter?”

Harry didn’t, of course, and honestly didn’t really want one. He didn’t want to spend any more time here than necessary and already had at least two other places he wanted to go before he went to Gringotts. He just knew that if he had some adult with him they’d want to stop and talk to people the way Aunt Petunia always did when she went shopping, forcing Harry to wait outside by the car for ages. 

But before he could say so, a young man with golden blond hair and light brown eyes stepped right up from behind him and said, “Yes, actually, sorry for my delay but as you can see, Mr. Potter is quite eager to get in.” He turned a little to Harry, smiling as he said, “I know you’re anxious, Harry, but we have plenty of time. There really is no rush.”

Harry huffed in annoyance. “I don’t want to spend all morning here, I have other appointments to make.” He turned to the woman and said, “Can we go in now?”

The man gave a charming smile to the woman, “Alexander Yaxley, here to escort Mr. Potter to the Ministry.”  He then held out his wand and said to Harry, “You need to present your wand for weighing, Harry, remember?”

“Right,” Harry said. He took out his wand while the woman weighed Yaxley’s and then made him a badge with his name and reason for entering. Then she did the same for Harry, handing him back a badge with his name on it as well as the title Boy-Who-Lived. Harry sighed a little at the sight but stuck it on anyway.

Yaxley led him away to the lifts, speaking as he did so. “This way to the lifts, Harry. We’ll need floor seven. Do you want to push the button?”

He was smiling as he spoke, but the man’s tone rubbed Harry the wrong way so he gave him a narrowed look. “No,” he said, “You do it.”

“As you wish,” Yaxley said. They stood in a group with a few others who got on the first empty lift, looking out at Harry once inside. Yaxley put his hand on Harry’s shoulder, however, arresting any forward movement, and he pushed the button to close the elevator doors and send those people on their own. 

Harry’s suspicion of the man only grew worse when he ushered Harry forward into an empty lift, pushed the button to shut the doors before anyone else could get on, and pressed a different floor number than the one he’d mentioned. Harry pulled away from him, moving to the other side of the small box, and asked, “Where are we going?”

Yaxley smiled, “Why, the Department of Travel, Mr. Potter. That’s what I said before, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, so why did you push the twelve button instead of the seven?”

“Because the Department of Travel is on level twelve, not level seven,” Yaxley said. He reached up and tapped the side of his nose, “You’re a bit infamous, you know? People will be going to floor seven to find you, not realizing where you really are.”

Harry frowned even more. He wished he’d looked at a directory first, so he could tell if Yaxley was lying to him or not. Yaxley was watching him with an unwavering, intense look that only made Harry even more nervous. 

Apep reacted to his anxiety, hissing soft words of comfort to him. Harry instinctively pressed his arm to his side, seeking both comfort and to muffle the sound in the otherwise mostly-silent elevator box. He knew he was unsuccessful from Yaxley’s slightly widened eyes. 

Hoping to distract him, Harry asked, “You didn’t come here just to escort me. Why did you really come to the ministry today?”

“So suspicious, Mr. Potter,” Yaxley said, the corner of his mouth rising in a partial smile, “I was on my way to pick up an international portkey, also within the Travel Department. Our meeting was quite fortuitous indeed.” 

Harry was confused by that word, having never heard it before. Apep picked up on his confusion and hissed softly to him. “He claims it was a chance encounter, my chosen. Though any encounter with you is most fortunate indeed.” 

Yaxley’s eyes dropped to his sleeve, half-smile still in place. Harry didn’t respond to Apep at all, only nodded to Yaxley and said, “Well, in that case, I’m grateful for your help. I hadn’t thought I’d need an escort.”

“Truly?” Yaxley wondered, “But you are only eleven, aren’t you?”

“I am, but I didn’t need anyone at Gringotts or anything,” Harry told him, “I can find my way around all on my own.”

“And I don’t doubt that for a moment,” Yaxley said, “Though, as a wix, you should be aware that goblins operate in a very different manner than us. As far as they’re concerned, once you’re a certain height then you’re an adult.” He waved one hand dismissively. 

Apep gave a discontented hiss and Harry frowned at the man. “That sounds a bit silly,” he told him, “And the goblins I met did not come across as very silly people. Are you sure you heard that right, Mr. Yaxley?”

“It was from one of my history classes,” Yaxley said, “Not that those were any good anyway. They still have professor Binns working the history position at Hogwarts even though he’s been dead for years.” He shook his head with a short laugh.

Curious, Harry asked, “How’s he teaching if he’s dead? Is it a portrait?” Having already spent some time with Ralston, Harry could imagine a portrait as a teacher, though he thought that it would be hard for them to grade papers. 

“No, he’s a ghost,” Yaxley said blandly as if it wasn’t utterly amazing that ghosts were real and could be teachers! It sounded almost like the title of a children’s book: My History Professor is A Ghost! And yet Yaxley continued on as if he hadn’t blown Harry’s mind with that fact alone. “He’s been teaching since the turn of the century and looks like he’ll be teaching for another turn if the Headmaster gets his way. Then again, I’m sure it must be impossible to find suitable replacement professors for any class when he has to hire new ones for the Defense class every year.”

“What?” Harry asked, momentarily distracted from the ghost, “Why?”

Yaxley gave Harry a sly look, reminding Harry of Mrs. Green from Number five who was always leaning over the fence to gossip with Aunt Petunia. “Why, don’t you know? There’s a curse on the Defense position. Every professor who takes that position only lasts for one year. They’re lucky if all that happens to them is they get fired—if they’re unlucky, they die.”

Harry gaped at the man. “No.”

“Yes,” Yaxley said. He pressed his hand to his chest and asked, “Would I lie to you?”

Harry squinted at the man. Apep was restless on his arm and that decided him. “Well yes, if you had a reason for it.”

This made Yaxley throw his head back and laugh. “You’ve got me there, Mr. Potter. But it is true. Of course, no one knows who cast the curse or why it hasn’t been broken yet, but it does exist.”

The doors to the elevator opened up then and Harry, frowning over this new information, exited with Yaxley. “But there must be some way to break the curse or to remove it or something,” Harry said, “How long has this been happening?”

“They say the curse has been in effect since the fifties,” Yaxley said, which made Harry even more shocked. 

“Forty years?” he gasped. “There’s been forty years of this?”

“It’s tragic,” Yaxley said, “And the reason why so many Aurors in Britain tend to get private training in dueling and defensive magic and, recently, potions as well.” He shook his head sadly, “Hogwarts curriculum has really gone downhill in recent times.”

“That’s terrible,” Harry said softly, mostly to himself. Rowle had mentioned that ritual spellcraft had been removed from Hogwarts and many of the more traditional practices discouraged if not outright banned. Perhaps there were some kinds of magic more dangerous than others, but to have a history teacher as a ghost? To let a curse last for years and years? 

“Someone ought to do something about it,” Harry said. They were walking down a hallway to a series of doors. He would have kept walking, distracted as he was, but Yaxley stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. 

“Here’s the office you need,” Yaxley said, pointing to the open doorway that led into a quietly bustling room. “I’ll be just a few doors down getting my portkey, if you want to wait for me when you’re done I can keep escorting you afterward.”

“Yes, thank you,” Harry said to the man and he took a step into the office. He stopped, though, as Yaxley’s hand was still on his shoulder. He looked up and saw the man wearing a strange little smile. 

Yaxley dipped his head a little bit and said in an undertone, “Many people have tried to change things at Hogwarts, but there are those in power who make it impossible to and the one who had the power to match them can no longer do so. Until that power balance changes, things will simply continue as they always have.”

He let go of Harry and stepped back, giving Harry a wink as he said, “Just something to keep in mind, Mr. Potter.”

Harry watched Yaxley walk further down the hallway for a minute before he shook himself and refocused on his task. He had a lot he wanted to do if he was to get to Gringotts on time! 

Heading further into the office, Harry soon found a secretary who, after much flushing and thanking and stammering over him for being Harry Potter, agreed to give him the paperwork for the floo access. It took a while to figure out the paperwork on his own, but he’d talked with Beryl and Opal before leaving the Manor so he managed.

He ended up keying two fireplaces to the floo network; the first to the large fireplace in a front sitting room that was wide enough to permit three people entry at once and the second to a much smaller fireplace deeper in the manor, primarily for family use. He had both of them named—Potter Manor and Potters Den respectively—and then finally brought the paperwork back to the witch.

She processed it all and provided him with two ward stones to be placed within the hearth of each fireplace. Thanking her, Harry headed away and went back into the hallway to go find Yaxley.

He finds the man exiting a room further down the hallway and walks up to him. 

“Ready to go?” Yaxley asked. 

Harry nodded and soon the two of them were headed back to the lift. This time there was another person already inside, as well as a cluster of floating paper memos. A few of the memos fluttered out and down the hall while the rest stayed inside while Harry and Yaxley joined them. The other wizard in there with them was distracted by a sheaf of papers they held and barely gave them a glance. 

“Any trouble at the office?” Yaxley asked Harry in a quiet tone. 

“None at all,” Harry said. “It’s all set up now, though I’ll have to go home to activate it.”

“How do you plan to return home in the meantime?” Yaxley asked. 

“The same way I did before, most likely,” Harry explained, briefly telling Yaxley about his floo trip to get to the Ministry and showing him the shrunken broom in his pocket. 

Yaxley let out an admiring whistle, “A Stormcloud, hm? An unusual purchase for a boy like you. Most boys I know are interested in flying for Quidditch and so they prefer those faster brooms with quick stops or turn charms on them.” 

“It’s a good broom,” Harry said, “And perfect for what I need. I don’t have much of an interest in Quidditch right now.” He still wasn’t entirely sure what it was, though he was getting the idea it was something like football on brooms. 

“No? Well, that might change once you get to Hogwarts. The school hosts yearly matches between the various houses and from what I remember going there, nearly everyone in the school went to watch them.” 

The lift stopped then, the distracted wizard and half the fluttering papers leaving together. A pair of witches came on wearing scarlet robes and Harry, half turned to Yaxley in order to talk to him, noticed the man pressing his lips together in a thin line, his shoulders straightening suddenly as his relaxed posture went rigid. Yaxley subtly shifted, moving to put Harry slightly more behind him, which Harry didn’t argue with. He was still getting comfortable with his fame and his position as a Lord. If Yaxley was willing to shield him, Harry would gratefully accept. 

One of the women glanced in their direction and her expression darkened. “Yaxley,” she greeted coldly. 

“Auror Shafiq,” Yaxley returned politely. “And Auror Clearwater. Good morning.”

Shafiq wrinkled her nose and asked, “And what business do you have in the ministry today? Or are you just loitering about and causing trouble for upstanding citizens?”

“Not that it is of any concern to you, but I was visiting the Travel office,” Yaxley said haughtily, lifting his chin to stick his nose in the air. “One would think that members of the esteemed Auror department would have more tact than to interrogate innocent bystanders going about their business, but it appears one would be wrong.”

Shafiq scoffed at this. “You’re a reporter, Yaxley, that’s hardly an innocent bystander.” She narrowed her dark eyes at him. “Just what story are you after now? Where are you headed?”

Harry, listening to this biting back and forth, noticed that the lift was almost back at the lobby. He tugged on Yaxley’s sleeve, getting his attention enough to prevent him from retorting to the Auror. Then he stepped forward, back into view of both witches. 

“Mr. Yaxley has been escorting me all morning, ma’am. In fact, we’re on our way to Gringotts now for an appointment that I simply must not be late for.” The lift stopped as he spoke, the doors sliding open. Harry walked forward immediately, glancing over his shoulder and calling out, “Alexander?”

Yaxley followed him out on his heels, catching up quickly and pressing a hand lightly to the middle of Harry’s back. In an undertone he whispered, “Better hurry to those floo gates, Mr. Potter, or else we’ll not make it out to Gringotts without being waylaid.”

At the fireplace, Harry tossed the man a grin as he grabbed a pinch of the floo powder. “Did I say Gringotts? I must have been thinking ahead. I meant to say: Oscar’s Oculus!” He flung the powder in and called out the shop at the same time, stepping through once it was green. 

He landed with a bit less of a stumble this time, turning sharply to keep from falling and then giving a celebratory little dance with his success. Yaxley stepped through a moment later, drawing his wand to brush the soot from their robes. 

They had landed in a little foyer that contained a few plush seats, a low table with magazines and a copy of the paper, and a witch sitting at the desk, clearly as a receptionist. She looked up at them with a bland smile, her strawberry blonde hair done up in a mass of curls on top of her head. “Good morning and welcome to Oscar’s. Have you got an appointment?”

“I haven’t,” Harry declared, walking over to the desk, “I was hoping I could squeeze in for a quick morning exam, but if I need to make an appointment to come back, I can do that.”

The witch began pulling over a ledger, her gaze moving over him quickly, only for her whole body to freeze up in that now-familiar way as she clearly recognized him. Harry absently patted his hair back over his scar and sighed. He was going to have to do something about that if he wanted to not get immediately noticed as Harry Potter The Boy-Who-Lived. 

“Harry Potter?” she whispered, “Here? In the shop?”

Harry smiled. “Yes. May I schedule an appointment?”

“Oh- Mr. Potter, that’s not necessary,” she hurriedly stood, “Let me get Mr. Oscar. Just one second and he’ll be right with you.” She rushed off, though she glanced back at him no less than three times before she reached the door.

Harry sighed.

“I take it you get that a lot?” Yaxley asked, clearly amused.

Harry shrugged. “Unfortunately.” He turned to properly address the man, “Um, you don’t have to keep following me around, by the way. I really can mind myself, you know.”

“I saw that,” Yaxley said, “Still, you can’t fault me for worrying, can you? You’re just a boy.”

Harry opened his mouth to retort, but Yaxley put up a hand and he closed it again without speaking. 

“I’ll go,” Yaxley said, “I merely wished to make sure you got to your next appointment safely. I don’t think the Aurors really followed us, but only because I don’t think they recognized you. However, if you ever do have any trouble with them, let me know. My father has some pull at the Ministry. Even if I’m on the suspect list because of my work, people will listen to him.”

“Your work?” Harry blinked, then remembered Shafiq’s words. “Oh, you work for the newspaper?”

“I’m not beholden to any one paper or another,” Yaxley said as he lowered his hand, “I go where the interesting stories are, but unlike some in my field, I can respect one’s privacy. If I ever write about you, Mr. Potter, it will be with your knowledge first.”

The door behind the receptionist opened again and Harry half-turned towards it. A wizard came bustling out, portly but tall in a way that reminded Harry oddly of a penguin. To Yaxley, he said, “I do appreciate that, Mr. Yaxley. And I also appreciate your escort earlier. I suppose if I have trouble in the ministry or need something put into the paper, I will know who to owl?”

Yaxley gave him a wide grin and a slight bow, “At your service, m’lord.” He straightened up and bid his goodbye, but Harry could only absentmindedly respond as Apep had begun to twist around on his arm at those parting words. He hadn’t noticed his mark in a while, Apep content to be still and quiet while he was around others. Something about what Yaxley said, however, was throwing the snake into a tizzy. 

Harry pressed his arm against his side as he turned to speak with Oscar, hoping that the pressure would make Apep settle again. He did and soon Harry was able to give his full attention to the wizard before him. This meeting was important, after all. Harry was finally going to get glasses with the correct prescription!

An hour and three new sets of glasses later, Harry stepped out onto Diagon Alley with better vision than he’d ever had before in his life.

He was gobsmacked at how clear everything, at the fine details he could see from all the way across the street! He could see each individual cobblestone and the roof tiles above. He could see glittering buttons and the actual shape of flower petals! He couldn’t help but wander a little bit in a daze, admiring every little thing he came across. Who knew that there was so much to see? So much he had missed because of his poor vision and even poorer glasses?

Apep hissed in delight as he wandered, though no one heard the sound over the general bustle of the street. 

Eventually, Harry found himself down one side street he hadn’t even noticed before, the entrance half hidden between two buildings and obscured by an overhanging curtain. He had ducked through, drawn by the fluttering cloth and the intricate patterns woven into it. He recognized that some of the marks had to be runes, as they were similar to those same ones stitched into the cuffs of his robe.

Down this alleyway, he wandered until he came across a storefront that advertised Avians of All Types, displaying various birds through large glass windows that shimmered with protective spells. Remembering that Beryl had told him that there were no more owls in the manor, he shook off the dazed wonder of his new, clear sight and pushed open the door to step inside.

It was noisy. But it wasn’t from the birds. They were in various cages all around and though he heard the occasional hoot and chitter, they were clearly muffled with magic so as not to be too disturbing. No, it was the two humans at the counter who were kicking up a ruckus. One was a witch with her back to the front. She wore mauve robes and gesticulated sharply at a golden cage that was on the counter next to her. As Harry arrived, she was in the middle of shouting “-seven of them! Seven! I’d raised those biddies from hatching! I did everything to keep him away. I only let him out with supervision! I put protective net spells up! This monster tore his way through them anyway! Take him and give me back the money Vincent spent on him. He’s clearly not worth that much if he can’t obey simple instructions!”

On the other side of the counter was an older wizard in dark brown robes and a white, stained apron. He had his arms folded across his chest and a bristling mustache that puffed up as he frowned at the woman. “We have a policy, Madam,” he said loudly and flatly, like he’d been repeating the same thing for a while, “Returns are only available if the creature is juvenile or younger and hasn’t bonded with a wix yet. It’s too late to return and you wouldn’t get any money either way.”

The woman grabbed the top of the cage, which Harry now noticed held a very large bird in it. It was mainly white with a gray beak and a pattern of brown arrow-shaped markings along its wings and back. This cage was not silenced like the others and so when she grabbed it and shook the cage, the bird let out a shrill cry and a chattering sound, its feathers fluffing out and wings fluttering a little. This cage didn’t seem like the others in the shop, where the birds were comfortable inside despite how small they looked. It looked cramped and uncomfortable, angry even as it screeched. 

Harry felt his heart lurch in his chest as he looked at it. He knew exactly what it felt like to be unwanted, to be locked up in a small space, to be argued over and not listened to. Without hesitation, Harry walked forward, eyes fixed on the bird that turned to stare at him, the shriek turning to chatter and then silence once he came to a stop behind the woman.

“I’ll buy it from you,” Harry declared. There was a moment of surprised silence and the woman turned. She looked young, Harry supposed, but he couldn’t really tell. She had a pointy nose and straw-colored hair that fell around her face from her short haircut. 

“What?” She demanded. Her eyes narrowed as she looked him over, “And who do you think you are, hm? This is adult business. Go away, boy.”

“I won’t allow resale in my shop,” the man announced, “If you want a bird, young man, you can look over there and wait until your parents arrive to buy one.” He pointed to the cages that held owls. 

“I’m being serious,” Harry said, “I’ll buy this bird from you, just name your price.”

The witch’s eyes glinted with a familiar greed—he’d seen it in Vernon’s eyes often enough to recognize it—and she drew her wand, levitating the cage up from the counter, “If you’re so eager to spend your mummy and daddy’s coin, little lordling, then sure. Let’s step outside and arrange a deal.”

Harry nodded. The woman headed to the door, the cage bobbing along behind her. The man behind the counter muttered in an unsavory manner as Harry followed her out. 

She didn’t go very far, once outside, but went to the right, where there was an alcove half-hidden by overhanging ivy. Harry followed her into it, fingering his own wand in response to Apep’s hissed warnings to be cautious. They were off the main street of Diagon, after all, and there wasn’t very many people around. 

In the alcove, the witch turned to him with a condescending smile. “All right kid, how much did mummy and daddy leave you to spend today?”

Harry drew himself up, though he knew he was far from impressive in height, and said coldly, “Quite a bit, considering they died ten years ago. How much did Vincent pay for the bird?”

“Why, a hundred galleons of course,” she said, barely blinking at his cold words, “A baby gyrfalcon? With magical enhancements? It was a steal at one hundred, it should have been two.”

“I’ll give you fifty,” Harry said, knowing that was still a hefty amount.

She laughed at him. “This beast killed seven of my precious biddies, boy! Don’t you think I deserve some recompense for that? I should be asking for seven hundred!”

“You want compensation for your dead birds?” Harry said, “How about fifty-seven galleons?”

She sucked in a sharp breath, eyes widening as she stared at him. “That would be an insult— You dare—”

“Yeah, I do,” Harry snapped at her. “I do dare. Your friend bought a bird you didn’t like and you kept it around anyway? Who knows how you’ve been treating it. It killed your other pets and you let seven of them die before you did anything? You put it in that miserable little cage and shake it around like it can even understand why you’re mad at it? It’s a bird, an animal. How would you like it if someone put you in a cage and was mad at you for acting the way you’re supposed to!”

“This is no typical bird, boy,” The woman argued back, “It’s intelligent. It knew what it was doing when it hunted my girls. It wanted to hurt me through killing them!”

“It’s a falcon,” Harry said, “It hunts things. If you didn’t want it to hunt things, why did you keep it?”

“A foolish little boy like you would never understand!” the woman said, “Are you going to buy it or not? If  you don’t, I’m going to sell it to the apothecary for potion parts!”

“I’ll pay fifty-seven galleons for it,” Harry stuck up his nose like Petunia did when she got cross with the tellers at shops, trying to get coupons or discounts or just to make a fuss, “It’s half of what it was bought for and one galleon for your other pets.”

The woman’s mouth opened to respond and then hung that way. She stared at him openly, her eyes suddenly fixed on the top of his head. No. Not the top of his head. His forehead. 

His scar.

Her throat worked and after a long moment of silence, she whispered, “You’re Harry Potter.”

Harry drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. This fame thing was so weird. He wasn’t used to being recognized—at least not in a good way. “So what if I am? That doesn’t change anything.”

“I can’t sell you this bird,” the woman said, sounding faint. Her eyes were still wide. “It’s a beast. A monster. It would bite your fingers off given half a chance! You’re Harry Potter!” 

“Well, I’m not going to let you sell it off for parts,” Harry said, “So either you sell it to me right now or I’m going to follow you to that apothecary and buy it back from them as soon as you get rid of it!”

Her gobsmacked expression shifted into one of confusion. “But why? It’s a terrible bird. It’s untameable by now—You’ve got to start young with them and he’s already over a year old. He’ll stay wild his whole life.”

“I don’t care,” Harry told her. “I want him anyway.”

She looked at him for a long time and then shook her head. Harry was about to argue some more, but waited, seeing her shoulders slump as well. “Fine,” she said, “Fifty-seven galleons and he’s yours.”

Harry fished out his wallet and counted out the coins, handing them over to her in a cluster. She took them and tucked them away, giving him an uneasy look as she urged the cage closer to him with her magic. “I’ll leave a featherlight charm on it for you,” she said, sounding much more subdued now. “Don’t let him out until you’re in a safe place and don’t stick your fingers into his cage. He will try to bite them off.”

Harry nodded and asked, “What’s his name?”

She huffed out a breath. “Vincent named him Octavian—an emperor’s name for a kingly bird. I just called him Monster.”

“Octavian,” Harry murmured, looking at the bird now. He watched Harry in turn, the dark eyes fixated on him and head twisted around in a way that only a bird could do. 

The woman swiftly left after that, casting a few glances back at Harry as she hurried away. Harry waited until she was out of sight before reaching for the cage’s lock. 

“There will be no cages and no locks for you anymore, Octavian,” Harry told the bird softly before hissing the unlocking spell on it. “I won’t be your master, just your friend, if you let me.” He opened the cage door and then held out his right arm close to it.

With an awkward fluttering of wings and what was too dignified to be a hop, Octavian escaped the cage and landed heavily on Harry’s arm. Fluttering his wings and shifting sharp talons back and forth, Octavian sought a steady position. He ended up walking up Harry’s arm to his shoulder, talons piercing through the thick layer of robes and clothing beneath. Harry winced, but didn’t admonish the bird. 

It was a very large falcon. Though Harry wasn’t the best judge in size, he wanted to say it was almost half as tall as he was, an impressive height for sure. Hesitantly, Harry reached up to brush his knuckles against the soft breast feathers that were against his cheek. He glanced up at Octavian, giving a little smile. “You’re very pretty,” Harry said, “I hope you don’t mind me saying so.”

Octavian chittered at him, throat working and weight shifting as he lowered his head. Harry caught his breath as the gyrfalcon turned and began to preen his unruly curls. With a little laugh, Harry said, “Oh, good luck with that nest. It’s always such a mess.”

Octavian chirruped and then continued to preen. Harry carefully drew his wand and then, with Apep’s guidance, hissed out the spell to shrink the cage down so he could easily slide it into his pocket. 

“We’ll go first back to the bird shop to get some supplies for you,” Harry said, “And I suppose perhaps an owl. I still need one to deliver letters for me.”

Octavian squeezed his shoulder a little and tugged on his hair. Harry glanced up at the bird. The witch had said Octavian was magical and more intelligent than other birds. Perhaps he could understand English?

“Can you deliver letters for me?” Harry asked, “Or I guess, would you be willing to do so?”

Another insistent tug and Octavian’s feathers mantled slightly. He gave Harry a look that seemed so judgemental, as if chiding him for thinking Octavian couldn’t deliver letters. 

“Well, I don’t want to make you do something you wouldn’t like,” Harry explained as he pushed open the door to the bird shop. The man at the counter was still there and he stared at Harry as he walked up.

Harry pulled out the gold cage and set it on the counter. “Hi. Could I perhaps return this cage, or sell it to your or something? I won’t be needing it. But I would like some supplies for Octavian, if that’s all right?”

Octavian was back to preening his hair, ignoring Harry’s interaction with the man. The wizard cleared his throat a few times, his watery blue eyes darting up to Harry’s forehead before he managed to wheeze out, “Blimey. You’re Harry Potter?”

Again? Harry thought with a sigh. Why was it always like this?

After sending Octavian back to the manor with the wardstones and a note to Opal to place them in the floos and activate them, Harry headed to his last stop for the day: Gringotts.

Waiting in yet another line, Harry eventually made his way up to a goblin and informed them of his scheduled meeting. From there he was escorted deeper into the bank. The minecart ride was exhilarating and nauseating at the same time, leaving Harry a little woozy at the end. Still, he made it safely down to the Ancestral Potter Vault and was soon left to his own devices inside.

Standing inside the vault, Harry took a deep breath and then sneezed.

It smelled faintly of paint thinner. Harry could only imagine why. 

Drawing the basket that Opal had packed for him out from his pocket, he resized it with a tap of his wand. Opening it, he pulled out one of the wrapped sandwiches. He unwrapped it and then bit into it, looking around his immediate area. There was old furniture and several chests of coins. Still eating, he wandered over to the table set there and frowned. It was in disrepair for sure. How long had it been down here?

Finishing the sandwich, Harry glanced to the open vault doorway. He could not see the goblin that had escorted him, however, so he deemed it safe to open his left cuff, roll up his sleeve and pull off the armband that kept Apep hidden. The snake curled into activity, tongue flickering in and out quickly as it tasted the air. 

Harry had never been sure if it actually tasted the air or if it tasted magic and Apep had never been clear on the answer. It was like Apep didn’t understand how the mark functioned, beyond creating a connection between him and his soulmate. Harry really needed to look up soulmate marks when he got back—after this last trip out of the Manor, however, he was pretty sure he wouldn’t need to leave again until it was time to go to Hogwarts which gave him just under a month to dig into the library.

While musing about Apep, and letting the snake ‘taste’ the air, Harry wandered into the vault. 

There were only three things, in particular, he was looking for, two of which had been listed with the rest of the items inventoried on the paperwork he’d been given. The third, however, had not been, but Ralston thought he should look anyway, since it was, after all, an invisible cloak. It was possible it had been overlooked. 

Wandering throughout, Harry found discarded books, many of which he’d been told had duplicates in the manor’s library. He found a few packaged cauldrons, which he decided to bring home. Potions seemed interesting to him, like some sort of mix between science and magic and cooking and he wanted to try to brew one of the more simple potions before Hogwarts.

He ended up finding what Ignatia had sent him for first: a small leather-bound case that shivered with strong magic when he picked it up. He brushed his fingers over the front of the case, first over the bisected triangle and then over the words burnt into the leather: flamma nati.

The case was locked, not just physically but with magic, but Harry knew this was the right one. He carried it with him back to the basket, tucking it in and pulling out another sandwich since all this wandering was making him hungry. 

It took another hour of sifting through the chests piled throughout until Harry found a tattered book that Ralston had seen on the inventory and told him to bring. It was surprisingly wide and tall, though very thin, and when he flipped it open he marveled at the scrawl of ink depicting lineages of whole families. The text was very small in some places, and the light in the vault was poor, but he flipped through it until he found the one he was looking for: Gaunt. 

Good. A clue to finding his soulmate already! 

“Look at this, Apep!” Harry said enthusiastically, tracing his fingertip along a line down to the bottom. “You said you were a Gaunt, right? This must be my soulmate’s family!” 

“Indeed, my chosen. Tangled and interwoven though it is, from this bloodline the Great Lord springs. Born of those who fell lowest, I rise to the highest heights of power and privilege.” Apep hissed softly, coils moving languidly on Harry’s arm.

Harry frowned a little at the muddled lines towards the bottom of the extended parchment page. They seemed almost to double back on each other, showing that siblings married siblings, nephews married aunts or nieces to their uncles. When he came across one branch that started with a father and his own daughter, Harry shuddered and decided to close the book. He couldn’t imagine why that was the case—were they isolated from the rest of society somehow? Why would anyone want to do such a thing?

It sounded gross. It also explained why Apep had reacted so badly when Ralston hinted that Harry might be a Gaunt. He hoped that his soulmate wouldn’t be interested in that sort of thing—that whatever reason the Gaunts had done so wouldn’t happen again.

Still, he closed up the book and took it back to the basket. All that was left to find was the cloak.

For several more hours, Harry searched. He resorted to casting the summoning spell that Apep had taught him, hissing “To me invisibility cloak!” over and over and over until his throat was too dry to speak. He didn’t find anything. There wasn’t any clothing of any kind down here, not even packed away in a box somewhere. He didn’t even hear rattling, like the cloak was trapped inside of something and unable to escape it. 

There. Was. Nothing.

It was incredibly frustrating.

So frustrating, in fact, that he almost forgot to cover Apep back up when he left the vault, his basket resized and pocketed once more. At the last moment he tugged his sleeve down, leaving the cuff open and his armband off for the moment. 

The goblin that waited for him outside his vault was a different one that took him down in the first place, but they had no trouble taking Harry to the Potter trust vault. Perhaps the cloak was there?

Upon arrival to this vault, Harry hurried in, wand already drawn. This vault was very different from the last one. It was full of coins; loosely piled everywhere in a glittering mass that arrested Harry’s quick movement inside. Frowning at this, and seeing that there wasn’t much in the way of storing the money, he cast loudly and with a hefty pulse of magic, “To me invisibility cloak!” 

He felt the magic leave him in a wave, seeking out the item he called to, but catching on nothing. He stood there in silence for several minutes, listening acutely for any shifting in the coins in case the cloak was buried but again, there was nothing. 

Where could it be? Ralston had insisted it should be in the vaults, even if it wasn’t properly listed, as it was a family heirloom not unlike the Lord ring he wore. It was tied to the Potter family through the Peverell line and had been within their family for generations. 

It should be here. 

There could only be one reason why it wasn’t.

Someone had it. Somewhere, most likely behind heavy wards if they had any clue what it was, someone took it.

Harry’s mind whirled. Rowle had told him how the Dark Lord had come after his parents; had he done it for the invisibility cloak? Was it that rare of an item? 

Yet, if he had, he had died while attacking Harry, so he wouldn’t have been able to leave with the cloak—unless he never did die and then just ran away with it and pretended to die. But that was silly, why would he do that?

No, Harry realized, the cloak must have been taken by someone else. Someone who went there the night of? Or perhaps beforehand, preventing his parents from using the cloak to hide?

Who would take it? Who would know it was there? Where was it now?

All these questions swirled around in Harry’s mind. What if the cloak was still at Godric’s Hollow, just tucked away? How much had been left there in the building?

Harry sighed heavily and pushed his glasses up to rub at his eyes. He was exhausted. All the running around and talking to people, getting glasses and opening the floo, and rescuing Octavian, it was wearing on him now. Especially with all the magic he’d been casting…

Shaking his head, Harry turned to leave the vault. He told the goblin he was done and ready to return to the lobby above, thanking them for their assistance.

One nauseating mine cart ride later, Harry staggered into the lobby and over to the floo. There was a goblin there managing them, but they waved him through to a free fireplace without a second glance. 

With a pinch of floo powder and a clear voice, Harry headed home with the call of “Potters Den!” 

His long day of errands was finally over.

Chapter Text

Harry had barely landed from his trip through the floo before he heard Ralston’s voice.

“Little Lord! You’ve finally returned!”

Brushing soot from his robes, Harry turned to look at the portrait. They were in the private floo room of the manor, the one Harry had picked for a family entrance. The room was somewhat barren, with dark wood floors and pale walls. The only furniture there was a cloak stand and a long, narrow table along one wall. Harry wasn’t sure he’d ever want much for furniture in this room, since it was just a place to gather and travel.

Opal appeared promptly, to take the basket from his hands. Harry took the book and the case from the basket first, thanked her and then finally said back to the man, “I was only gone for a few hours. Don’t tell me something’s happened already.”

“Why, only you displaying your wisdom, young Lord,” Ralston beamed at him. He’d never seen the painting so exuberant. Enthusiastically, the man continued, “The arrival of your avian companion is very welcome in the Manor! It has been such a long time since any falconry was practiced here. I believe it was my own grandnephew who sold off the last of my precious little darlings, but even I was never so fortunate as to have a gyrfalcon in my roost!” 

“Ah,” Harry said, smiling back at him, “So Octavian is settling in well then? I was worried he might not make it home in time, considering how long it took the bus to get to Amesbury. Where is he?”

“The elves have set up a wonderful stand for him in the Master’s study and he has been properly keyed to the wards, allowing him to travel through the more heavily warded windows,” Ralston explained. “You must tell me all about how you discovered him. He’s quite a beautiful and intelligent bird!”

“I’ll be happy to explain,” Harry said, “But I’d like to tell Ignatia about the things I found for her and the rest of it, so could you ask her to meet us in the study? I’ll be right up.”

Ralston agreed with a grin and vanished off the side of the frame. Harry left the room shortly after him, unbuttoning the high collar of his robe to give himself some breathing room. He was eager to tell the portraits of his day, having never had anyone curious about what he does except for Apep. Plus, he wanted their advice on what to do about the cloak and where to start looking for it first.

After recounting the day, and having some tea that Coral brought in for him to drink, Harry sat back in the tall chair at the desk and looked up at Ignatia while she mused over his words. He had turned his chair so he could more easily see both portrait frames, and though this put his back to Octavian’s stand, the falcon had settled on one plush arm of the chair instead, preening his own feathers idly. 

“The missing Cloak is a concern,” Ignatia said, “To have it lost after so many generations is deeply unfortunate. However, there is something to be said about heirlooms such as the Cloak. They often find their way back into the hands that they belong to.”

“They do?” Harry asked.

Ignatia gave him a sly look. “Such magical items tend to develop…personalities over the years. Some, even a sort of sentience. The Cloak belongs to the Potters through the Peverells and you are as much one as you are the other. Have faith in its return.”

“Either way,” Ralston said, “You’re much too young and inexperienced to go looking for it right now. There are plenty of other things to concern yourself with first. The Cloak will come back in time!” 

“Ralston is correct,” Ignatia agreed, much to Harry’s disappointment. He hated being told he was too young to do something. He had never felt young, not really. He always had so many big problems to worry about. Other kids would run and play after school, but Harry had to clean and cook and tend the garden. 

“Focus on your studies and improving your understanding and use of magic first,” Ignatia said, “You have a few weeks before Hogwarts begins and you’ll need that time to acclimate yourself to what many of your fellow students will already understand.”

Harry sighed a little. He was looking forward to Hogwarts, so he knew he shouldn’t be too upset… Still… 

“I don’t like that the Cloak is missing. What if someone is out there using it to cause trouble and it gets taken from them by magical police or something? How will I be able to prove it belongs to my family if we don’t have records of it?”

“Worry about it later,” Ralston said with a wave of his hand, “You have better things to do now! You have to train Octavian and read up on your classes. Why, you haven’t even made your first potion! By your age, you really should have a very strong foundation in the basics.”

“The words spoken from painted lips are true, my beloved, my soul,” hissed Apep, speaking up for the first time in a while. Harry idly stroked a finger down his scales. Apep twisted in delight at the touch. “Greatness is not cultivated from nothing. You must plant the seeds of your power and nurture them, my soul. Only then will you achieve the highest pursuits of magic.” 

“All right, all right,” Harry said, “I’ll put the Cloak aside for now. I couldn’t do anything to steal it back even if I did find where it was.” He set his empty teacup aside and frowned at the large book on family trees. “I won’t do the same for the search on my soulmate, though. Apep tells me that he’s lost somehow, or injured? It’s not very clear, but whatever it is, he needs my help. I’m going to find him and help him.”

“I would not expect anything less,” Ignatia told him quietly. “We shall endeavor to teach you all that you could need to know to find him.”

“And not just through magical means,” Ralston pointed out, “You have connections now, and you’ll have even more after your brunch this week. There are bound to be records in places you don’t have access to but others will. You can leverage your fame and future favors to discover more information on the Gaunts, if you’re willing to do so.”

“I am,” Harry said immediately. He had no question in his heart about it. “I’ll do whatever it takes to find him and bring him home.”

Apep coiled and uncoiled on his arm, hissing in giddy pleasure at Harry’s commitment.

“Then, unpleasant as it might be, you can only begin with the family tree,” Ignatia said. “Show us the page, Harry, and let us see from what stock your soulmate was born.”

Morfin Gaunt.

It was the last name on the very long and tangled lines written on the pages that recorded the Gaunt Family Line. Born at the turn of the century in the year 1900, Morfin was listed as the only child of Marvolo Gaunt, a name that made Apep hiss and writhe in turmoil on Harry’s arm. It took ages to calm down his mark, soothing it with gentle hisses and pets. 

Harry sat back in his chair, wondering about that. 1900 was so many, many years ago. He couldn’t imagine Morfin still being alive… “Ralston?” he asked, to get the portrait’s attention. “How long do wizards usually live?”

“Oh, anywhere from ninety to a hundred and ninety, depending on their occupation,” Ralston said. “Or the diseases rampant at the time. There was a dragon pox epidemic that swept through a few decades ago. I heard that it was what wiped out your paternal grandparents. A real shame for that, too. They were in their prime.”

Harry shivered. He had heard of chicken pox before. He didn’t want to even imagine what dragon pox must be like if it killed you. “So could Morfin still be alive somewhere?”

“Certainly,” Ralston said, “Though, there would be a rather simple way to check.”

“Really?” Harry asked. “How?”

“Why, there are rituals for that sort of thing,” Ralston said. He paused and gave Harry a look, “Though you might want to be a bit older before you conduct them. They can be quite… intense. In various ways. Some that you might not be ready for.”

Again with this ‘you’re too young’ nonsense! Harry sat up, “I can do it. I just need to be told how!” 

“You should listen to warnings, Young Lord,” Ralston admonished. “You might have a developed mark, but that is the exception, not the rule. Take it from one who, while alive, performed some of these rituals. You should wait until you are older to conduct them.”

“But I have got to find my soulmate now!” Harry exclaimed. “He’s out there somewhere suffering and he needs me. If this Morfin is the secret to finding him then I’ve got to talk to him.”

“Young Lord, you have not even spent a day at Hogwarts,” Ralston continued to admonish, now shaking his finger at him, “You’ve got your wand and some spells, courtesy of  your mark’s teachings, but have you got any of the theory behind it? Wait until you attend classes and at least learn the basics for how rituals are supposed to be laid out before you jump into such magic!”

“Well then I’ll be waiting forever because Hogwarts apparently doesn’t teach ritual magic anymore,” Harry declared. “Can’t you teach it to me, since you’ve done it before?”

“What?” It seemed Harry’s words threw the portrait off, “What do you mean they don’t teach rituals anymore? How are the students supposed to grow the strength of their core or connect themselves to the greater magical webs around them if they do not conduct rituals?”

“How should I know?” Harry said, “Mr. Rowle said they don’t teach rituals and Mr. Yaxley said a ghost teaches history and that there’s a curse on the Defense position. All I’ve heard so far is what Hogwarts doesn’t or can’t properly teach, not what it does right. I’m not even sure if I want to go, honestly. I have so much here to do and it’s not like I’m lacking information in the library. I’m sure I could figure something out. Maybe get tutors or something.”

“Hogwarts is a staple of society, an institution that has survived for generations. Every wixen worth their wand has attended those stone halls,” Ralston said. “That being said, one can never be remiss in using tutors to further their own education. There must be those who still practice ritual work who can properly instruct you.” He rubbed thoughtfully at his chin, his voice musing.

“And how am I to find them?” Harry asked, “Put up an advert in the paper?”

Ralston opened his mouth to argue and then closed it again. “Actually, that’s not a bad idea. First, however, we should get our hands on some newspapers and see which edition would be the ideal choice for your request. You want to reach out to those of a certain caliber, Little Lord. Not just any gossip rag will do.”

Harry added that to his growing list of things to accomplish this summer. It seemed that for every one thing he crossed off, he added three more to the list! 

But at least he was making progress. 

Harry knelt in the dirt, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the sun bearing down on him. It felt similar to the Dursleys, but he knew it was different in fundamental ways. For one thing, he could stop any time he liked and get a drink of water from the evercool pitcher that was on a table just a few meters away. For another, he wasn’t alone.

Beryl still gave him fretful little looks from time to time, but Harry had finally worn down the elf to let him help with the gardening. While many sections could be done magically, there were other garden beds that had to be tended without magic, or else the plants inside would suffer. 

Holding a claw tool in one hand, Harry was patiently weeding through the dirt, pulling out the plants that Beryl had shown him were the wrong sort for this bed. He hummed as he did it, really enjoying gardening for the first time in what felt like years. 

In the back of his mind, he thought about the dinner he’d get later, the nice long shower he’d have too. Living here was absolutely wonderful, Harry thought. He couldn’t wait to bring his soulmate home and to start growing their family. He was sure they would love it too.

Reading about potions was rather dry and boring. Harry nodded off onto his book three times before he gave up and thought maybe he should just go get some hands-on experience. He knew how to cut things, generally speaking, so he was sure he could follow the instructions well.

He ended up in the potion lab adjacent to the garden and set up his station according to the potioneering guide he had. With his cauldron in place, a measure of water inside, he went to gather ingredients. 

Just seeing the little bundle made him smile. It had been Octavian’s first delivery—he’d sent out the letter request to the apothecary the day before and Octavian had brought it back that same evening. He hadn’t expected it to be done so quickly! And he was proud of his bird, Octavian was fitting in well here at the Manor.

Opening his book, Harry flipped to the right page and then skimmed through it. He read through the ingredient list and pulled out the first thing he needed from the list to prepare it. It really was a little bit like cooking, he noticed, as he sliced up some sort of rubbery blue herb. Gross cooking, but still cooking.

There were a few bumps along the way as Harry worked—he wasn’t very good at timing things or adding them slowly. Still, he frowned into the cauldron as he noticed that the potion had taken on a bluish tint, not the greenish one that it was supposed to have. He didn’t know what he’d done wrong!

“Why is it like this, Apep?” Harry asked the snake, turning his arm towards the cauldron. “It’s supposed to be green!” 

Apep coiled around, peering down into the cauldron, tongue flicking in and out. “You have done well, for a start, but perhaps something is missing from the brew, my beloved. Such discoloring means the solution is unbalanced due to one of your previous ingredients.”

“Right,” Harry muttered to himself, “But how do I fix it?”

Off to the side, Harry heard someone speak. He blinked a little and looked up and over, surprised to see someone in the painting there. He’d noticed the painting before, having mistaken it for a window at first glance since the wooden frame was the same as the windowsills of much of the manor. That, and the inside was a mass of greenery, like it looked out onto an overfull garden. He hadn’t even seen the cast iron chair and table that a woman sat at now. 

She was very young, he thought, with wide blue eyes and soft, pale hair that curled around her head like a cloud. She wore robes of silver and very light blue, or perhaps a blueish gray. Harry smiled at her. “Hello,” he greeted, “Sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

She gave him a quick glance, but her attention was in his cauldron. Then she said, “Tu ferais mieux de remuez ça sinon ça va être ruiné.”

“What?”

A little urgently, she made a stirring motion with her hand. “Remuez, dépêchez-vous!”

Harry understood that well enough, so he quickly started to stir only for her to exclaim again.

“Non. Dans l'autre sens!” 

With a frantic glance up at her, Harry realized he was stirring in the opposite direction she was gesturing and quickly did it the other way. He kept stirring, glancing up at her curiously, amused to see she was staring down in his cauldron so intently like she was the one brewing it. 

When he started to slow down, she snapped out a quick, “Non! Continuer!” which he understood well enough and so he kept going. Curiously, he watched the brew as he stirred, noticing that the bluish look was starting to fade and it was turning more green.

“Maintenant, la figue jaune,” the woman said. 

Harry hesitated, slowing his stirring. “What?”

“Jaune. Figue,” she insisted, pointing at the counter now.

“Oh right, the fig,” Harry said. He stopped stirring entirely and picked up the yellow fruit. He made a few shavings, scraped off with the knife, and glanced up at the portrait before adding it. She made an impatient gesture so he hurried along.

After that, all he really had to do was let it simmer and stir for a while, which he did under the watchful eye of his new portrait companion. Once a blueish smoke came off the potion and the brew itself had turned a rich, dark olive green, Harry turned off the flames and carefully set the cauldron to a cold stand, just as instructed. He covered it, leaving it to cool as directed, and then turned his attention back to the portrait. 

“Hello,” He tried again, “I’m Harry. Who are you?”

Brushing flyaway hair from her face, the woman said, “Bonjour Harry. Je m'appelle Cosette.” She gave a little curtsey. “Voulez-vous préparer une autre potion aujourd'hui?”

“Um, I'm sorry, Cosette. I’m not sure what you meant,” Harry said, “I don’t speak French.”

Cosette rolled her eyes and then gestured down to the potion set up. She pantomimed stirring a brew and then said, “Un autre?”

“Oh! You want me to brew some more?” 

“Oui. Je ne peux pas. Allez-vous brasser pour moi?”

“Sure, I can brew again today,” Harry said. “I’m trying to get ready for Hogwarts and I don’t know anything about potions but what I’ve read in books. Do you want to watch me brew?”

Cosette nodded her head enthusiastically. “Venir. Brasser. Je vais vous montrer ce qu'ils ne peuvent jamais mettre sur papier.”

Harry flipped to the next page in his book and turned it toward Cosette. “This one is a boil cure, shall we do it next?”

She nodded again and so Harry began to set up his station. With Cosette over his shoulder, giving instructions all the while, Harry added one more thing to his list: learning French.

Harry rose higher and higher into the sky, the broom steady under his hands and Octavian circling around him. The gyrfalcon let out a piercing cry, swooping closer for a moment. Harry grinned back at him and whooped. He swooped in similar ways, until they were flying in circles around each other. 

Being in the air was exhilarating. Harry had enjoyed it for travel, but he enjoyed it even more for pleasure. Even wandering around Diagon Alley hadn’t felt so wonderful and freeing as this! Nothing was better than flight!

They flew all afternoon together, above the nearby hills and trees, swooping low and arching high. At one point, as they flew over a field, Octavian abruptly swung lower than before and then dove down into the long grass. A whole cloud of quail rose up into the air, fleeing from him (and from Harry, who came low to watch). 

Harry hovered in the air as he saw Octavian pin down a fat quail and bite at its neck, killing it. He half expected the gyrfalcon to start ripping into the bird right there, but to his surprise, he rose back into the air with a few heavy beats of his wings. 

With the dead quail in his talons, Octavian swung around until he was flying at Harry. Harry instinctively shifted his grip on the broom and put up his right arm. Octavian landed heavily, making the broom waver for a moment but Harry tightened his legs around it and steadied it. 

“Is this for me?” Harry asked as Octavian practically shoved the quail at him. 

Octavian snapped a bloody beak at him and then let go of the dead bird. Harry caught it before it fell. It was still warm and surprisingly heavy. “Well, thank you I guess,” Harry said. Was he supposed to eat this?

Octavian was looking at him keenly and Harry said, “I’d have to cook it before I ate any. Let’s go back to the manor so we can, okay?”

With a flutter of wings and another sharp look, Octavian took off from Harry’s arm. The push down made him rock on the broom, but Harry steadied himself quickly. He turned to head back to the manor, smiling to himself. 

It was a little strange to have a gyrfalcon trying to take care of him, but having grown up without anyone ever doing so besides Apep, Harry found himself charmed by it. Especially since Octavian didn’t try to force-feed him raw quail like he would a baby bird. 

Dinner that night would be extra delicious, he could already tell.

The morning of the brunch found Harry in front of the mirror, fretting about what to wear. 

He had several nice robes now, courtesy of Mr. Rowle, but he had no idea how fancy was too fancy. Not to mention that but he’d already gotten into an argument with the mirror about his hair. It insisted he did something about it, but nothing he tried worked!

He’d worked his final choices of robes down to two: a royal blue robe with ivory white accents and a dark, ruby red with what Harry was pretty sure was actual gold accents. He liked both their styles—long-sleeved with thick, stiff cuffs which would make it impossible to see his mark even by accident. However, the blue robe was mostly open at the collar and chest, meaning Harry would have to match an undershirt to it. The red one had a higher collar, but it was a gleaming, braided gold. It was actual metal—solid in texture and cold to the touch!—and Harry had no idea how Rowle had snuck in something so expensive right under his nose!

The mirror had cooed over both robes, declaring him to be handsome in either one (other than his unruly hair of course). There were no portraits in his room, so he couldn’t ask any of them about what to wear either. The elves’ opinions were that both were ‘well-crafted’ and suited his status.

Apep was the only one with an opinion on color, though Harry didn’t even have to ask to know he would prefer an entirely different robe than the two Harry was looking at. There was a bright green robe, lighter and more informal, that he would like better. Apep’s favorite color was green and that’s all Harry would wear if he always got his way.

Harry fiddled with the Lord ring on his finger, looking between the two robes. He liked them both, but which was best? Or should he wear the green one and make Apep happy?

Heaving a sigh, Harry finally chose the one he would be more comfortable in. The blue one was just too open at the neck. It made him feel like he should be wearing a necklace or something. So he put on the red robes, feeling more comfortable as he buttoned up the collar and cuffs. The gold was still… a lot, but it did look nice. 

And, he supposed, he was trying to make a statement of his new status as a Lord, so maybe the gold would help with that?

Once dressed, he attempted once more to flatten out his wild hair and then promptly gave up. There was nothing he could do there, so he might as well go before he became late!

Leaving his rooms, he hurried down the halls to the private floo room. He passed a few familiar faces along the way, some of the portraits that had started to wake up and would greet him or chat with him on occasion. He waved at them, smiling and blushing a little at the compliments called his way. He could feel Apep coiling and uncoiling on his arm, and knew that the snake was pleased with people admiring Harry as it thought they should. 

Once in the travel room, Harry took a pinch of floo powder and a deep breath. This was it. His first networking event as a Lord. He tried his best to quell his anxiety. He might not know what he was doing, but as long as he was sincere, he’d do all right. Ralston had emphasized that he could be forgiven quite a lot, considering his age and inexperience, but he shouldn’t try to take advantage of that goodwill or it would negatively affect his reputation. 

There was a moment where Harry wished he didn’t have to worry about such a thing but he pushed that thought away. It was useless to wish for that, just like it had proven useless to wish for his parents to come rescue him. His soulmate was a Great Lord and Harry himself was already famous. There was no changing the past, only the future.

“Show time,” Harry whispered. “Wish me luck, Apep.”

“May your power and beauty prove your worth, my beloved,” Apep hissed back at him. “May the world bend to your will, as it should.” 

Harry gave a little laugh and then tossed the floo powder into the flames.

Chapter Text

Alexander Yaxley had had a very busy week. 

It had been a routine trip to the Ministry that had started it all. He’d needed an international portkey to hop on over to Italy for an in-person interview and had happened upon none other than Harry Potter himself, dressed in fine robes and walking around the Atrium like he owned the place. He had half expected Dumbledore himself to appear as the boy’s escort, since everyone knew that the old man had kept his eye on the boy-hero throughout his childhood, but at the boy’s uttered words—opening floo access to his manor?—Alex had known that something was off here.

Children didn’t come to the Ministry on their own. And they certainly didn’t come to open a floo access! (Some children owned Manors, of course, but they still had adult guardians to keep track of them in said homes. And besides, their floos were likely already open!) 

So he’d run with his gut instinct and jumped into the situation. It had proved more than fruitful—the conversation with the boy had been enlightening in all sorts of ways—and Alexander knew immediately that he had to get his foot in the door with Potter. He could see that future paved ahead of him—exclusive interview access to the boy-hero, invitations to events and parties either hosted by or for the boy, headline articles in multiple newspapers all with his byline—and Alexander grabbed onto it with both hands.

He had put all his investigative and networking skills to work in order to pinpoint all the information he could about Harry Potter, going beyond what was publicly known in order to keep tabs on him for any future outings of any sort. This digging through every sighting of him for the past few weeks had led him to the quaint village of Amesbury, or more precisely, the meadowed garden of the McClares, a well-respected, if small, family that lived in the area that was hosting a summer brunch with Harry Potter as the honored guest.

Dressed in his finest warm weather robes, Alexander arrived shortly before ten, the time on the invitation. He entered through the apparation point at the northern edge of the garden. The air was sparkling with magic, not only enchantments to protect the area and ward off muggles but to keep the air breezy enough for it to be cool despite the summer sun. 

He pulled his invitation from his pocket as he approached the flower-covered archway, where a stoic wizard waited in dark robes. He’d spent a lot on that piece of parchment, not just in money but time, and was betting a lot on this paying off. 

The wizard guard took the invitation, checked it against some other copy he had, then made a mark on it and handed it back. “Welcome, sir,” he said. He waved his wand and the blurred image beneath the archway cleared, allowing Alexander to step through and into the garden proper. 

There was quite a gathering there already, at least twenty or thirty others. Alexander looked around, searching for the hostess first, but couldn’t see her. Considering the time, he wouldn’t be surprised if she was waiting for Potter to arrive at, most likely, a floo access point. 

Waitstaff came by with a platter with drinks on it and Alexander took a flute. He sipped it, not entirely surprised to see that it was a simple fizzy fruit drink, very light on the liquor, if any was present at all. It was a summer brunch, after all. 

As he waited for the event to start, Alexander made a round of the room, seeing who was there and making a few greetings to those he recognized. He was recognized in turn, receiving some surprised looks and one eager greeting from an old Hogwarts classmate, Heather Flint. She was doing well since they’d last seen each other a year or so ago. Broad-shouldered, she stood tall and proud in plum purple robes with her light brown hair braided back and draped over a shoulder. He chatted with her for a while, reminiscing about some old stories and catching up on new ones, until a chime played overhead.

Quieting, Alexander turned towards the sound. Across the garden they loitered in was a large covered pavilion. It was as heavily laden as that archway had been, utterly covered in various flowers. Standing there was an older woman in a lavender-colored robe. He recognized her to be Imogen McClare, the hostess of the event.

“Good morning everyone, I’m so pleased that you all could make it,” McClare said, her voice projecting with the aid of magic. “Our guest of honor has just arrived. Allow me to introduce you all to the esteemed Lord Harry Potter.”

She stepped to one side, gesturing to the boy who stepped forward from behind her. Alexander sucked in a sharp breath at the sight of him, despite the fact that he had just seen him a week or so ago. 

Short as he was, Harry Potter stood proudly, wearing blood-red robes with gold brocade at the throat and wrists. The lapel of the robes were black and threaded with golden runes that gleamed slightly with every movement he made. On his left middle finger he wore the thick gold ring with red stone that Alexander had noticed before but hadn’t realized was a Lord’s ring. Now, however, there seemed to be no doubt at all.

Potter’s wild dark hair was swept back from his face, partially obscuring the scar on his forehead and framing the new gold-rimmed glasses he wore. The smaller, more rectangular frames fit him much better than those thicker black, circular glasses had. They took away any distraction from the scar and his vibrant green eyes and only added to the lordly appearance he gave.

However, it wasn’t just the look itself that had Alexander so surprised. It was the cut and style of the robes. He had noticed the broad cuff and collar before on Potter’s robes, but had considered it just a child reusing older family robes, since such a style had been far more popular in certain circles in the past. 

That Potter wore much nicer robes in that same style spoke to a more recent purchase—a more recent visit to a tailor that had fallen out of fashion some time ago. 

Beside him, Heather leaned closer and whispered, “Do my eyes deceive me or is he wearing a Rowle royal cuff robe?” 

Alexander licked his lips. He’d done some digging on Potter’s movements, trying to figure out where the boy was staying exactly since there were no clear records for it, and had heard that he’d toured Diagon Alley in a whirlwind of purchases. Without looking away from the boy who was now being introduced to some of the notable families in the area, Alexander whispered back, “Rumor has it he went through Diagon recently and might have been seen coming out of the old man’s shop. I haven’t verified it, however. Rowle’s by appointment only now and the soonest appointment was a week out after this.”

“How many people do you suppose are going to recognize it?” Heather asked. Alexander joined her in looking around the crowd. There were plenty of Light and Gray families here and while Rowle had never put restrictions on his customers, there was an association that came with using the same tailor as the Dark Lord. That, and his price point had been more exorbitant in the past. Few would spend that much money on a new robe for one occasion, perhaps two. Twilfitt and Tattings had been more than enough for most high-end purchases of Light and Gray families, especially since the owners were Gray and Light respectively. 

“Not many,” Alexander answered her after a thoughtful look around. “I think the color is what’s caught them all off guard. That and the quality. He’s dressed for a gala dinner, not a summer brunch.”

“I can’t tell if it’s accidental or intentional,” Heather remarked. “He looks rather comfortable in the long sleeves and high collar, despite the heat outside. And he definitely will stand out amongst the others in their light robes.”

It was then that, through a gap in the people around Potter, he spotted Alexander. The boy blinked in surprise and then his expression shifted to one of delight, a smile lighting up his features. And then Potter fully turned towards him and walked away from the people he’d supposedly just been introduced to. 

Heather squeezed Alexander’s arm briefly, though he wasn’t sure if it was shock or warning that had her doing so. She didn’t leave his side, however, as Potter strode up and came to a stop in front of them.

“I didn’t know you would be here, Alexander,” Potter said with a grin. “It’s good that you could make it, though.”

Alexander smiled back, “I would’ve mentioned it before if I’d known, but I got the invitation very last minute. It’s good to see you again, Harry.”

His gamble on using the boy’s first name paid off as Potter grinned even more broadly at him and then turned to Heather. He stuck out his hand to her, “Hello, I’m Harry Potter. And you are?”

“Heather Flint,” she said with a blink of surprise. She took his hand and shook it, a bemused smile crossing her face. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Harry Potter.”

“The pleasure is mine,” Potter said politely. Turning back to Alexander, Potter said, “I’ve got to greet other people who came, but I’d like to talk to you later if that’s all right. I have some questions about the paper and I was hoping I could pick your brain a bit to see what I need to do.”

“Certainly,” Alexander said, “In fact, I’m free this afternoon if you’d like to meet up after the brunch?”

“That would be perfect,” Potter said, “I’ll see you then!” He then gave a little wave and walked off again, meeting McClare who gave Alexander a sharp look as she turned to guide Potter off to some other guests to speak to. 

The moment the boy was gone Heather grabbed Alexander’s arm tightly and shook it. “What was that?” 

“That, my dear Heather,” Alexander said smugly, “Was my foot catching the door.” He gave her a wink and asked, “Want to come along and see what he wants?”

She worried her bottom lip for just a moment and then smoothed out her expression. “Of course I do. Do you suppose he’d be offended?”

“I suppose the only way to find out is to try,” he said, confident that it would turn out all right. Potter was rather amicable, after all. And another witness to whatever the boy wanted wouldn’t be a bad thing either.

The food was delicious. 

Of course, Harry had been having some delicious food for a while. The magic of house elves was still something utterly amazing to him—so amazing that he even understood a little bit why Petunia had made him basically work as a house elf all the time. What wonder it was to have food ready to eat when he wanted it, his clothing cleaned and put away for him, his bed always made and the house always spotless! 

Not that Harry would ever treat his house elves the way Petunia treated him, of course. He had far too much respect for them. It was hard work to keep a house in order, even if those who were in it weren’t very messy! 

What did disturb Harry, however, was the reaction he got when he told Mrs. McClare her food was so good and really he wished he could thank the house elves who made it. 

Mrs. McClare laughed a little, as did some of the others listening in to their conversation, and Harry got a look from one of the men there that he was very familiar with. He liked to think of it as that ‘oh you stupid kid’ look—the one he always got when he said something too naive or ignorant for an adult. 

“Lord Potter,” Mrs. McClare said with a dignified little sniff, “You don’t need to thank the elves. They’re just doing what they were born to do.”

Apep stirred on Harry’s arm, reflecting the sudden spike of his temper. Harry himself set his glass down where he’d just been picking it up to drink from. He turned a little to look more fully at Mrs. McClare, who sat on his right side as the hostess—Harry had picked up some things from all of Petunia’s etiquette fussing over the years. 

“If someone does something for me, whether or not that is their job that they were born to do, I’m always grateful,” Harry said to her. He absently noticed that all the smiles around him had faded quite abruptly. “It isn’t difficult to show kindness and gratitude to those who are doing something for us.”

Someone else nearby—that man who gave Harry that look earlier, he thought—cleared his throat and said gruffly, “House elf work is beneath a wizard’s notice, Lord Potter. If we notice them, it is only because they’ve buggered something up and need a scolding.”

Harry turned his attention to this man. His eyes narrowed slightly. The man was older, and somewhat portly. He wore a light blue robe that didn’t quite match his complexion—it made him look pinker than he ought to, Harry thought. “Excuse me?” 

“It’s really quite simple,” the man said, “House elves aren’t to be seen or heard. They are to work efficiently and promptly. Certainly, some exceptions can be made for the young ones—they are still learning after all—but once you have an established elf, the only time you’d ever need to deal with them is when they’ve gone and made a right mess of things. Though, if you’ve trained them right, they’ll often punish themselves quite neatly for you.”

Harry felt like he was breathing in needles. In his mind’s eye, he saw himself as he was when he was seven, before Apep had come into his life and changed everything, when he was forced to do all the cleaning and cooking and gardening, back hunched against the threat of punishment, stomach caved in out of hunger, fingers dirty and nails cracked. 

He vowed to himself right then that if his elves ever had any babies, he wouldn’t make them work at all unless they wanted to. They could live in his giant manor and do whatever they pleased, so long as they didn’t hurt anybody. 

He also told himself he’d talk to his elves when he got home, to make sure they didn’t feel like they had to work all the time, to make sure they rested and ate and were actually happy. 

For now, what he did was take in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Apep hissed platitudes on his arm, along with a few threats mixed in—the snake hated it when people upset Harry. Then Harry looked at the man coldly. He drew his gaze around to all the adults near him and said firmly, “That was something my muggle relatives used to say about me. I shouldn’t be seen nor heard. I had to do my work right away and the right way or else I was punished.” 

He saw their shocked expressions and ignored them, staring hard at the man who had been speaking earlier. Beads of sweat formed on the man’s brow and he didn’t quite meet Harry’s gaze. 

“House elves may not be human the same way that you and I are, but they’re still people. They aren’t pets or machines or slaves. Seeing them as lesser is stupid. Punishing them for a mistake is cruel. They’re just as capable of making mistakes as we are. Should we punish ourselves when we have an accident?

“They’re just as capable as people as we are. They can talk and need to eat and are happy or sad. They have magic! We should feel closer to them than we do to muggles on that fact alone!”

Harry hadn’t realized how loud he’d gotten until a man further down the table agreed loudly with him, stating, “You’re quite right, Lord Potter!” 

There was a murmuring then, glances shared. 

A woman sitting next to the man in light blue cleared her throat. “But, you must understand, Lord Potter. It’s improper to-to interact with them, shall we say. They’re— They’re the…” She floundered for the right word, giving a bashful smile, “They’re the help, really. You can’t expect us to…to converse with them!”

Harry gave her a disgusted look. “And what if I do? Is it such a chore to say hello, to ask how they are, to make sure they are doing well?” He turned his glare on all of the adults near him. They looked either disgruntled or abashed or somewhere between. “You don’t have to become best friends with them, but they live in your homes. They make your food, they clean your clothes, they make your bed! Is being kind to someone who makes your life easier that difficult?”

“They don’t want us to be familiar with them,” came another argument.

“And they told you that themselves, did they?” Harry countered. It seemed his tone was starting to really grate on the adults, however, since more looked upset with him than embarrassed. They shifted in their seats, frowning at him. 

“Things have always been this way, boy,” blustered a man wearing a soft green robe, his hair a perfect tumble of amber curls. He looked down his nose at Harry and said in a sneer, “You clearly weren’t raised appropriately so you may not know, but this is tradition. There are some who are glad to break with the traditions of our people, but we are not those kinds of people! We are proud of the wixen we are!”

Fury clenched Harry’s heart in a burning grasp. He shot the man with an equally burning glare. “If your traditions promote cruelty and neglect, then I will not support them. If your traditions hurt others, then I will not support them. If it is so hard for you to be kind, then I feel sorry for you.”

“Lord Potter,” Mrs. McClare interrupted, giving a quelling look down the table to the others, “Perhaps we should not be so quick to make such declarations. I’m sure it’s just a minor miscommunication—”

“If you won’t support our traditions, then what is the bloody point of you being our lord?” that same man in the green robe demanded, “We’d be better off with Lord Malfoy in that case! He may favor his own interests first, but at least he understands the ways of being a wixen. He wasn’t raised by muggles.” He spat the word out as though it were a slur, and Harry supposed he thought it was.

Harry felt a chill in his blood, a pressure on his lungs, a spike of magic down his spine. His left arm burned with heat. His right arm burned with ice. He drew in a breath between his teeth, hissing like a snake, and felt Apep writhing where he was hidden beneath his sleeve.

“I am your lord because these lands were bled on and blessed by the Peverells,” the words burst out of Harry’s mouth without once forming in his mind—it was as if his tongue moved on its own, numb and tingling with magic. “I am your lord because your families swore oaths of blood and fealty in return for the guidance and protection from the Potters. I am your lord because I am both Potter and Peverell. I was Chosen and in return Chose.” 

Harry was on his feet. He didn’t remember standing. He was not any taller than usual, but he felt as though he towered over those at the table. 

“I am your lord, Travis Carmicheal, because it is my birthright and thus my responsibility. I will not demand more from you than you can spare, but I will demand that there is kindness in my lands. It is simple to be selfish and cruel. It takes strength to be kind. I expect my people to be strong.” 

There was an aching, ringing silence after his words ended. Harry stayed upright because he gripped the edge of the table and locked his legs in place. 

Down at the end of the table, two voices rang out in unison, one woman and one man, both of whom Harry recognized: Heather Flint and Alexander Yaxley.

“So the lord has spoken. So mote it be.”

Magic crashed down around them all—it was only then that Harry noticed it had been building up all around them—and cries of shock rang out. Harry swayed on his feet as the tidal wave flooded past him and along the table, watching in awe as he saw the faintest curls of red brush past people. 

Finally, as the magic dwindled, Harry sank down into his chair. The silence that followed that was strange—expectant but not tense. Wary and watching. He could feel the eyes on him, but when he looked out, there was no hatred—just awe and curiosity. And a little fear.

And relief. But those who looked that way quickly closed their eyes when he saw them.

“Well,” Mrs. McClare cleared her throat. “Shall we move on to dessert?” The question was stated out loud to the table as if rhetorical, but her gaze quickly fell to Harry.

“That sounds wonderful, Mrs. McClare,” Harry said with a wave of his hand. 

And so, the brunch continued. 

After all the other guests had long since left, including the most stubborn and nosy of the bunch as well as the little Lord himself, Imogen sat with her two dearest friends in her favorite parlor. The room was made up in hues of warm pink and cream, with dark brown wood and gold as accent pieces. There was a plush settee upon which Imogen sat, holding a glass of sherry in one hand and fanning herself with the other.

Barbara Abbott sat on the other end of the settee. The top of her lavender robe was unbuttoned slightly and she also had a glass of sherry—her second to Imogen’s first. She pressed her other hand to her forehead, eyes closed tightly. On the love seat across from the low coffee table where upon their decanter of sherry rested, sat Samantha Lovett, blue eyes sparkling as she used her wand to pour herself another glass. 

“Shall I top you off, Babs?”

“Do be a dear,” Barbara said. She brushed her blonde curls back from her face. “Oh, Imogen. Imogen.” 

“I know,” Imogen groaned. She covered her face with her hands while Samantha levitated the decanter over and topped off Barbara’s drink. It then settled down on the coffee table with a clink.

“What a brunch!” Samantha exclaimed.

“I know!” Imogen groaned even louder. “What a mess!”

“A mess!?” Samantha gasped, “How could you say so. It was perfect!” 

Imogen shot her a glare. “How could you say that! It was terrible. The whole thing was ruined!” 

“Oh I don’t know,” Barbara said thoughtfully. “It certainly will be the topic of conversation for a while. Everyone who skipped out is going to be so deliciously jealous.”

“Yes, jealous they didn’t see the trainwreck for itself!” Imogen declared. 

Samantha giggled. She settled back on her seat, legs crossed at the knee, “Well, I wouldn't say so. I thought it was a rather spectacular meal. I mean, the roast duck was quite delicious. And what was in those little crème puffs anyway? Apricot?”

“This isn’t about the food,” Imogen shot her friend a glare. “This is about him.” 

Barbara took a deep drink of her sherry and then said, “You know, I rather like having a different him to talk about than the last one.”

“The last one?” Samantha asked. 

“Oh, you know. He-who-must-not-be-named-or-else,” Barbara said with a twiddle of her fingers. Imogen flinched and Samantha dramatically shivered. Barbara continued, “I rather like this new lord we dare not invoke the name of lest he turn his angry little pout at us! It would break my heart to see him so furious again.”

“He must be furious with me,” Imogen moaned. “I’ll never get him to come to another luncheon again! I can forget about asking him to attend the solstice dinner! We’ll probably lose him to the Malfoy’s Yule, too!”

“Oh, I doubt that,” Samantha said. “In fact, I doubt all of that. I don’t think he thinks it's your fault that Bridger and Carmicheal were like that. Besides, he put them right in their place, didn’t he?”

Imogen sighed heavily. She rather hoped Samantha was right. What was she to do if she couldn’t keep Lord Potter away from the Malfoys and their influence! Perhaps he was strong enough to keep his own opinion on some things, but Lucius had a way with twisting people around on themselves like a fish on a hook! 

“He did an amazing job with them,” Barbara said with a curling smile. It was her devious look, the one that made Imogen worry for her. “Did you feel his power boiling over like that? It was incredible.” 

Imogen shivered. She drank more sherry quickly, trying to get the taste of iron out of her mouth. When she lowered the empty glass, Samantha topped her right off again. Imogen muttered a thanks and then said with a sigh, “I can still taste the iron.”

“Me as well,” Barbara said. “How long do you suppose it will last?”

Samantha smiled, sherry held up to her lips, “Isn’t it obvious?” When her friends gave her confused looks, she lowered the glass and giggled. “When we fulfill our lord’s contract, of course. He declared it right then, you know. Our families are bound to his in blood.” Her eyes lowered slightly and she added softly, “It’s part of why Malfoy was never able to completely take over and sway us all. We don’t belong to him, not those of us born here.”

There was silence for a while after that. Imogen thought over the words spoken at the luncheon and decided her friend must be right—not just that she hadn’t totally mucked it all up, but why they were in this state to begin with.

Curious, she cleared her throat and then called out, “Risky?” 

After a second, the house elf appeared, ears trembling attentively. The little creature bowed deeply and asked in its squeaky voice, “What cans Risky be getting for Mistress?”

“Risky,” Imogen asked, “Who made the brunch meal this morning?” 

Risky blinked owlishly for a moment, as if it couldn’t understand the question, and then said, “Risky be making the brunchies with Bisky, Mistress. Is something being wrong with brunchies?”

“No, dear,” Imogen said. She noticed the weird little twitch the elf made at the endearment and, nervously said, “Actually. I wanted to—Well. I’d like to pass on Lord Potter’s gratitude for the meal. He thought it was very good and was quite pleased. He wanted me to—to thank you. For the effort you put into it. So. Thank you.”

Risky stared at her for a long minute before it reached up and pulled on its own ear. It seemed very much like the kind of motion one might do to make sure they were not dreaming. 

For some reason, the thought of that made Imogen feel very sad. It must have been the sherry that made her so emotional. It must also have been the sherry to blame for why she then turned more directly towards the elf and asked, “Are you happy, Risky?”

Alarmed, Risky stopped tugging on its ear immediately and exclaimed, “Risky is happy, Mistress. Nothing is being wrong at all! Risky is happy Lord Potter is pleased with brunchies!”

Floundering for a moment, Imogen glanced at her friends. Barbara gave her a smile and a cheers motion with her glass while Samantha looked like she was smothering a giggle behind her hand. Imogen, on the other hand, noticed that the iron taste was gone from her throat. 

She cleared her throat and then said, “Thank you again, Risky, I think we’d like some tea cakes, please. We need something to soak up all this sherry.”

“Risky be fetchies tea cakes!” the elf exclaimed and then vanished with a pop.

Imogen stared after it for a moment and then said, bewildered, “You know. I have no idea if Risky is a male or female elf. It just…never came up, you know?”

Barbara drained her glass while Samantha said with a sigh, “Our little Lord. He’s been in the manor for a month and he’s already making waves…”

Barbara laughed. “If that brunch was any indication, those waves are going to be tidal.” 

Imogen lifted her glass in agreement. 

Chapter Text

It was easy enough to have Alexander and Heather follow him to the manor after brunch, Harry simply told them the name of his public floo and then went through first to let his elves know that he would have guests over.

He was excited about it too. He’d never had guests over before—the Dursleys had had people over, of course, but they weren’t there for Harry. So this was different. 

As soon as he arrived, Harry dismissed the soot from his robes and called out, “Opal?”

The elf appeared in a moment, just as the fireplace flared green and Alexander came through. Opal blinked in surprise and squeaked at their guest. Harry drew her attention and said, “Opal, which room is ready for me to bring some guests to? I have two visiting today.”

“The coastal drawing room is ready, yes! I is making tea for guests?” She turned imploring eyes to him. 

“That would be great, thank you,” Harry said, “Though you can be light on the snacks, we just came from a brunch after all.” 

“Of course. Tea is being served right away, yes!” Opal exclaimed before vanishing away.

By then, Heather had made it through the fire as well and both of Harry’s guests were looking around the relatively empty room. 

“So this is Potter Manor, hm?” Alexander said with a slight smile, “It definitely feels like a grand manor.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, “The drawing room is this way.” He gestured for them to follow and then led the way out the door and down the hallway.

Most of the portraits were awake now and so they were watched by interested eyes as they walked past. A few of them ducked out of frame, so as not to be seen, and Harry thought he saw Ralston walking up ahead of them—he knew that Ralston had the ability to go into pretty much any frame in the manor and that he used that to his advantage to always be around to talk to or watch over Harry. Really, it was only when Harry was studying potions with Cosette that Ralston left him alone.

Once they were at the coastal drawing room, Harry pushed open the door and let his guests inside. The room was decorated in various hues of blue, gray, and white. The stone floor was dark, like the craggy black cliffs of a steep shoreline and the walls were a gradient of light to dark blue like that of the ocean. Most of the furniture was so light silver it looked almost white with black accents and spots of gleaming mother of pearl. The portraits had similar accents and there were a few ocean-themed statues on the mantle that had actual pearls embedded in them. Chunks of coral were used as part of the light fixtures, as candle holders on the walls, and attached to the chandelier overhead. 

The lights flickered on as Harry entered the room and waved his lord’s ring slightly, a gesture he’d gotten very familiar with. The manor recognized the magic and not only would ignite the candles but pulled open the curtains of the large window to let in natural light as well. It was, in Harry’s humble opinion, very cool.

They settled down on the comfortable couches, Heather and Alexander seated together on either end of a large couch and Harry sitting in one of the wingback chairs across from a low table. Opal appeared with a bow, presenting a tea tray laden with a clear teapot steeping some flower-based tea and teacups that somehow also matched the theme of the room. Harry had yet to find where all the dishes were being held in the kitchen—he hadn’t been able to fully explore it, mostly because it stressed his elves to do so—but he wasn’t surprised. If it wasn’t such a silly idea, he would have thought that the dishes shifted according to whichever room they were used in.

“Thank you for coming over,” Harry said politely, he was trying to behave as he’d seen noble people act on Aunt Petunia’s programs. He was a Lord now, he supposed, so he should try to act like it. “I realize that it was short notice and I appreciate it.”

Alexander waved his hand dismissively. He plucked his teacup up and added a splash of cream to it. “To be honest, I was hoping we could have another meeting after our recent encounter. I have quite a few questions for you, my lord.” He gave a little smile and Harry thought he was teasing, but it still made him wrinkle his nose.

“You can just call me Harry like you have before,” Harry said, “I mean, I guess I am Lord Potter, but I don’t think I’m technically your lord?”

“That is true,” Alexander said, “But you gave quite a lordly display earlier and, if you are amenable to it, I would like to enter into a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

Heather snorted softly at this, stirring sugar into her own cup of tea. She shifted where she sat, one leg crossing over the other. 

“Oh? What do you mean by that?” Harry asked as he held his own teacup in his hands. It was warm and the smell familiar to him by now—this was the flavor he was usually served if he asked for tea shortly after a meal. It was light and refreshing. 

“As aware as you might be about your fame,” Alexander said, “I’m not sure how aware you are of all that surrounds it,” he sipped from his tea and hummed a little, as if he found it surprisingly delicious. “After all, you’ve been famous for almost ten years now, since you were just a child, and because of that the general public has been relying on third-party sources for information about you.

“Considering some of the things you said today at the brunch, as well as the fact that you recently came into possession of both your Lord’s ring and the Potter Manor, I have a feeling that a lot of what we’ve been told about you growing up is utter bullshit. If you’ll pardon my language.” He flashed a quick, charming smile. 

“I’ll say,” Heather added quietly, “Hearing you talk about being raised by muggles was quite a shock and I know I wasn’t the only one surprised by it.”

Harry frowned. “I don’t know what I should be more upset about, the fact that people care where I grew up at all or that someone has been telling people a lie. What do they say about me, anyway? I’ve not seen much in the paper or anything.”

The two adults shared a look and then Alexander explained, “Most of what we know is that you were put in the care of relatives—everyone assumed this to be distant relatives of your father, of course—and that you were being well taken care of and allowed to enjoy your childhood as the child you are. It was very important, apparently, that your fame wasn’t to get to your head and that you were supposed to be a child while you could.” He sipped his tea and eyed Harry critically. “Something tells me that wasn’t exactly what happened.”

Harry gripped his teacup harder and looked away. “You’re right. It wasn’t.” He shook his head and asked, “Who is it who said all this stuff about me? I mean, someone had to be spreading these lies for some reason. Do you know who it was?”

“Most of the time it was from various anonymous sources,” Alexander said with a shrug. “There would be someone who claimed they ran into you while you were out and about with your family and were able to shake your hand and personally thank you. They often said how happy and spritely you were, or how industrious and kind. One popular story was how someone came across you while you were out shopping with your relatives and you were holding the basket for your aunt. What a ‘kind and considerate lad, so willing to lend a hand to anyone in need’ was the quote, if I recall correctly.”

A sweep of furious shame burned Harry’s face and he looked away abruptly. He remembered the occasional random stranger who came up to him, eager to shake his hand and thank him for his sacrifice, but he never knew what it was for. If those people knew that every time they did that and Petunia caught them that Harry had been slapped and scolded and sent to his cupboard for two days without food, would they have still been so delighted to meet him that it didn’t matter what happened to him?

He hoped not. He hoped they would have been upset about it, but how would he know? These were the same sorts of people who saw house elves like furniture, or worse, slaves. 

“Not all of the articles were anonymous,” Heather said quietly, “Quite a few anniversary articles quoted Albus Dumbledore directly—mostly that you were safe and happy with your relatives. He was the one who pushed the narrative that you needed your childhood the most.” 

Harry looked back at them in time to see Alexander shooting Heather a sharp look, one brow raised and his lips pressed into a thin line. There was definitely something he was missing, but he wasn’t sure he should ask. Besides, he had other questions.

Harry took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Are there copies of these articles somewhere?” he asked, “I’d like to read them.”

“I might have some on hand,” Alexander said after a moment of hesitation. He then said, “If not, I could look into some of the Prophet’s archives for old copies.” 

“I would appreciate that,” Harry said stiffly. 

“There are a few books as well,” Heather added. In a dry tone, she continued, “My cousin is an avid fan. I’ll see what she has and send them along as well. Those are more obviously fictional and are either part of larger historical texts—though not entirely truthful—or are hypothetical. You’re one of the most prominent figures of our society right now and you’re about to become even more so.”

Harry grimaced. He couldn’t really argue with that, as much as he’d like to. If they were writing books and articles about him while he was just a baby and a kid, out in the muggle world and unaware of anything, he figured things would get more intense once he was actually around. Especially since he had gotten his lordship ring and was being invited to important meetings like that brunch and all these people who cared about his opinion on things. And, worse than that, looked towards him for guidance.

He sipped his tea, and tried to put aside his worry about what happened at the brunch. He wanted to ask Ralston about it and see what he thought, but he didn’t want to do that in front of Alexander and Heather, even if he sort of trusted them to help him. They certainly seemed like they were being honest, but could he be positive about that? What if they were just going to try and use him or take advantage of him somehow?

That did remind him that he did need their help—at least he wanted Alexander’s help. 

Alexander must have been thinking along the same lines since he cleared his throat and said, “You mentioned before that you wanted to pick my brain about something with regards to the paper? Do you recall what that was?” 

“Oh, yes,” Harry sipped his tea and then set the cup down. He wanted to get up and pace, to work off some of his nervous energy, and instead just put his hands in his lap, twisting his ring around and around on his finger. “You see I have a ritual that I would like to perform, but I’ve been advised not to do so until I have more experience with it and know what I’m doing so I don’t mess it up somehow. It turns out that I won’t be able to get that experience at Hogwarts, however. I found out when I was getting fitted for my robes that Hogwarts doesn’t teach rituals anymore. I don’t know how you’re supposed to learn something like that without a tutor—like a living one anyway—and so I thought maybe I’d put an advertisement in the paper looking for a tutor in rituals. And maybe some other things as well, since there’s just so much that I need to learn about the magical world.”

He paused there, looking up from his hands to see both adults were staring at him with widened eyes. Heather recovered first, blinking a few times and straightening up. She cleared her throat and caught Alexander’s eyes with a Look that Harry couldn’t quite interpret. He floundered a moment longer and then leaned forward, setting his teacup aside. “Did I hear you correctly? You want to learn ritual magic?”

“Well, yes?” Harry confirmed. He soothed himself by rubbing his arm over where Apep lay, listening and intent—at least so far as Harry could determine. “I’d like to learn all kinds of magic, really. I’m a lord and I need to become a Great Lord.” 

“Why?” Alexander asked, then quickly added, “If you don’t mind me asking. Is there some reason in particular?”

“Yes,” Harry said, “But it’s a personal one.” He remembered then Rowle’s warning that soulmate marks were sacred and not often shared. He’d showed his mark to Ralston and Ignatia already, but wasn’t ready to share it with these adults. And he definitely wasn’t ready to say that it was fully formed when it wasn’t supposed to be. “Is there a problem with learning ritual magic? I mean, I guess I can understand why it might not be taught at a school, maybe they can’t afford a teacher or something, but can’t I learn it at home?”

“Unfortunately, there is an issue,” Heather said, “Legally speaking, what ritual work isn’t forbidden is highly regulated and only permitted publicly in specially designated rooms within particular ritual rooms that have been established by the Ministry or Ministry-approved organizations, such as St. Mungo's Hospital. Being caught in the act of performing unregulated ritual work can lead to prosecution by law and punished either by fines or jail time. Even then there are divisions of punishment, as some rituals net you a stay in the cramped but somewhat comfortable holding cells of the ministry while other ones will get you sent to Azkaban for up to ten years. 

“And no one wants to go to Azkaban for a month, let alone ten years.”

Harry was shocked. “But why? I didn’t think ritual work was so dangerous, it didn’t sound that bad when Mr—when I was told about it.”

Alexander gave an unamused laugh, “Well, that’s because some ritual work isn’t dangerous and some of it is. It depends on the intent and the ritual and the sacrifice made for it to be conducted. Some rituals are benign, or require the sacrifice of plants or magic or precious stones. Some rituals require the blood of the caster, or the life of a creature or even another wixen. There are too many variables. It’s too broad a type of magic to permit some kinds and not others.” 

He gestured idly with one hand as he spoke, and though his movements were light, almost flippant, his blue eyes were hard as stone. “If you ban particular rituals but not, say, rituals entirely, then an industrious and intelligent wix could create a new ritual with a similar outcome but different technical steps. Banning everything is easier than going in and picking out specifically what is undesirable, after all. It takes much more effort to be precise.”

Heather shook her head, “It wasn’t all rituals at once that got banned, historically speaking they attempted to remove certain kinds at first. Permanent physical modifications got banned first, bloodline modifications, magical core modifications—all of those generally required the spilling of wixen blood. Then things progressed from there—soon anything that modified anything or gave a magical boost or even sought to tie one closer to the ambient magical energies was banned. Eventually, even the rituals that are practiced at our Holidays are removed—” here, she snorted and said wryly, “Of course, that doesn’t really stop people from practicing them. It only prevents them from being public about it. There’s an unspoken rule that Aurors are lightly staffed on Holidays—you’re only punished if you’re caught in the act of conducting a ritual, not if you’re setting up for one or have already completed it.”

Harry’s head swam with this new information. He hadn’t thought that learning magic would be so complicated! All he wanted to do was to perform a ritual to help him find his soulmate. What could be bad about that?

But then, what kind of sacrifice would a ritual like that require? He had no idea. He didn’t even know where to begin with that.

Rubbing his forehead, Harry sighed. “So you’re telling me that rituals are illegal, but I could perform one as long as no one catches me doing it and that people still perform them, except no one is allowed to, not even for Holidays?”

“Essentially, yes,” Heather said. She gave a wry smile, “It’s confusing, I know.”

“And in my opinion, utterly bullshit,” Alexander added. “Rituals are an integral part of being a wix and connecting to the magic all around us. I can understand shying away from bloodletting rituals that call for certain kinds of sacrifices, but some children wouldn’t have even been born if their parents weren’t allowed to perform any rituals at all. It’s all nonsense.”

“It’s all tied up in legislation,” Heather said, “Blame the Wizengamot and the utter fools that are pushing for such drastic measures. There’s no more nuance to laws—it’s either good or evil, nothing between.”

Harry sighed and slumped back in his chair. He pushed his glasses up, rubbing at his face. “Great. Just great. I guess I’ll figure something else out.”

Alexander cleared his throat. “Well. I wouldn’t advise putting out an advertisement in the paper for a ritual master, but I could talk to some people I know. There are those who still practice whether or not they have any permission from the law. It might take some time, but there are always those willing to teach what they know to the younger generation, and, considering your status not just as the Boy Who Lived but as the youngest Lord in at least several generations, they might be quite delighted to teach you.”

“Really?”  Harry dropped his hands from his face and sat up, “You think so?”

Alexander nodded.

However, suspicion crept up and Harry said doubtfully, “But why? I mean, besides being a celebrity, what does being a young Lord have to do with it?”

“You’re not just a titled Lord,” Heather said, “But you’re a landed one as well. You have seats on the Wizengamot—or at least they’re in your name. I’m not sure what their status currently is, but I’d presume they’re either being held in standby with neutral votes or in proxy. It would depend on what your father set up before he passed, or his father before him. If they’re in standby, no one would have been using those votes at all and they would have a null vote whenever one was cast for a law. If they’re by proxy, that means that there’s someone using the Potter seats to vote yay or nay. 

“Now, allegedly, they would be voting along with what the head of the Potter line would want. However, there’s no external oversight on that at all—if the proxy is voting out of line with the Lord of their house, then it is the Lord’s responsibility to either replace them or reprimand them.” She waved her hand dismissively, “There’s a lot of particular nonsense about it all. People have been picking at these sorts of details since they were constructed. We can go into the details more later.”

“How do you know all of this?” Harry asked, utterly bewildered. He thought he couldn’t get any more confused about everything going on. Banned magic and proxy voters, what else did he have to deal with? And he thought learning potions was difficult!

“I’m a solicitor,” Heather said, “And I’ve been meaning to become a barrister.” She gave a half smile, “I’m technically able to give you legal advice, if you’d like, Lord Potter.”

Harry sat up, “Really? I might need that. There’s a lot of paperwork I have to deal with from Gringotts and though I got pretty good grades in maths, I don’t know most of this.” He hadn’t made much headway on the ledgers he’d gotten for his accounts—the writing was so tiny in some places and so faded. Plus he just wasn’t sure what he was even checking for half the time! 

Heather smiled primly, “We can schedule a formal meeting later. We can discuss not only what you need taken care of but the payment for my services.” There was a glint in her eye as she added, “With your permission, I’ll start by looking into the Wizengamot situation. You seem like the kind of Lord that is intent on using his name proficiently and I would like to help you with that.”

“I’d appreciate that,” Harry said honestly. He shared a smile with her and then said to Alexander, “And I have other things I might need help with in the papers—I do need to know what people have been saying about me and…” he hesitated and ran his fingers over his arm. He felt Apep tighten and relax, as if the snake could feel what he was about to say and was offering him comfort.

“And, I’m looking for someone in particular,” Harry said, “Maybe you’ll be able to help me track them down?”

“Oh?” Alexander asked, tilting his head to one side and arching a brow, “And who would that be?”

“His name is Morfin Gaunt,” Harry said, “I know he was born in 1902, but I don’t have a death date. If you could find him for me, I would appreciate it. I’m not sure what I could offer in exchange, though.”

The corner of Alexander’s mouth pulled up in a sly smile. “Funny you should mention that, as I do have something in mind that would work as a fair exchange.”

Chapter Text

“Un. Deux. Trois. Quatre,” Harry counted under his breath as he stirred his most recent potion. He had to be extra careful with this one, as Cosette had eagerly urged him to try something new today. New and much more difficult than any of the potions out of his first-year book. “Then I put in the nymph wings?” 

He peered into his potion and then glanced up at the new portrait he’d bought and put on the wall next to Cosette. Part of the reason she wanted to do more difficult potions was because of this new painting. It was one of a potion lab, as detailed as he could find, with a shelf stuffed full of ingredients and a brewing station set up.

Currently, they were making the same potion, with Cosette keeping an eye on both of their brews, and Harry following along with her instructions. 

“Oui, alors les ailes de nymphe. Six d'entre eux, par paires, un remuant entre chacun,” Cosette said, pantomiming as she spoke, lifting six nymph wings up, placing two in the cauldron and then stirring once before she added two more. 

Harry had picked up more French as he studied with her, and even more potion theory from his reading. “Right, slowly because nymph wings are dense ingredients, despite their appearance, and too much too fast will overbalance the potion.” He mimicked what she did, slowly adding the wings and stirring.

As he did, the potion shifted from a sort of olive green to a darker, more forest-green color. He glanced at his notes and then up at Cosette and grinned when he saw her smiling down at him. 

“Vous allez mieux, mais ne laissez pas cela vous monter à la tête. Les prochaines étapes sont dangereuses, alors soyez très attentif,” she said. Her expression shifted to a serious one.

“That was too much too fast,” Harry told her, “What was it you wanted me to pay attention to?”

“C'est dangereux,” she repeated, “Montre.” She gestured to herself and then turned back to her brew. 

“C’est dangereux,” Harry mumbled to himself. Did that mean it was dangerous? He thought so. So he watched her carefully as she did the next steps. Brewing was so deceptively simple, he had to be much more careful than with cooking!

Harry still woke up much earlier than he really needed to—especially with most of his chores done by the elves and no one telling him what to do each day except himself. So he took to going to the roof with his broom, collecting Octavian from the mews along the way. 

Flying was an absolutely wonderful experience, even after he’d done it multiple times. There was nothing in the world more amazing than being able to float up above the trees and being able to look out for miles and miles. 

Harry often wished he was nearer to the ocean, as it would be amazing to go flying out over the sea. He’d never even seen it before—the Dursleys had never taken him to the beach—and so knew nothing beyond what he’d seen in pictures. 

He had enough money now, maybe he could take a vacation the next year and go down to a coastal town to stay for a while? He might even be able to take Octavian with him, so they could fly over the waves the way that he flew over the trees now!

As lost as he was in his thoughts, Harry didn’t even see the rising curl of smoke until he was almost on it. He pulled up his broom in surprise and then looked down. For where there was smoke, there was fire, and he’d just learned about a summoning water spell that hopefully should help!

Except, when Harry looked down, it wasn’t an uncontrolled, untended fire but one built in a small ring of stones with a larger ring of stumps around it and, most surprisingly of all, people!

Harry quickly made sure he was out of sight as he looked over the group more curiously. It looked like it was five people camping within two large tents. The tents looked muggle to him, though Harry supposed he wouldn’t know for sure since he’d never seen a wizard tent. They were also dressed like muggles—wearing jeans and shirts instead of robes—and no one had a wand. 

As he watched, they made up a breakfast around their campfire. It looked like they must have caught some wild rabbits and some of the ptarmigans that were in the area, as they had skinned the former and plucked the latter, gutted and butchered them and stuck them on skewers to roast over the fire. One of the women was also making a pot of coffee, it looked like, and some sort of hot cake or flat bread on a large flat stone. 

They must be some sort of wilderness fanatics, Harry thought to himself as he watched. Summer is a good time to go camping like this and it looks like they’re being careful with the fire. Indeed, not only was there a stone ring around the fire, but the grass around it had been pulled back and there was mostly packed dirt there, as if they’d gone through the effort of preparing the spot for the fire. 

In fact, with how old the stumps looked and how blackened some of the stones were, Harry thought this must be an old campsite—probably one that had been in use for a long time. They were technically on his property—according to the ledgers, he had a lot of property around here and it wasn’t just the manor—but Harry thought they were being safe enough. He didn’t mind them camping there at all.

Slowly, carefully, he rose back into the air. He looked back towards the manor and tried to memorize this spot—if he had time, he might hike out here on foot and see how they were doing—and to let them know he was fine with their visiting as long as they didn’t hurt anyone and kept their fire under control. It wasn’t like there weren’t enough rabbits and whatnot for them and Octavian to share.

Which reminded Harry that Octavian was out right now, circling overhead, waiting for him to begin their hunt. With a grin, Harry shot up into the sky after his bird and gave an excited whoop as the wind rushed past him. Time to hunt for their own breakfast!

The bells on the cafe door jangled as Harry stepped in. It was midafternoon and quite busy, so he just got in line behind several other people and waited his turn. 

During the busier times, Megara had help at the counter, and today it was a young man Harry had seen a few times before named Fáelán. He was cheerful and friendly, with light brown hair and a big smile. He was the one taking orders and packaging up boxes, chatting away with whomever was ordering.

When it was finally his turn, Fáelán brightened up and said, “Good morning, Lord Potter! Here for your usual?”

“Good morning,” Harry said, “I am. Also, I was hoping to get something for tea time later today. I’m going to visit a friend and thought it would be nice to bring something along. What would you recommend?”

“Oh, we have a summer lemon cake that is just divine,” Fáelán said, “It comes in six, eight, or ten inches round. How many people are  going to be at your visit?”

“Just a few,” Harry said, “Maybe four of us? Five at the most.” 

“The six or the eight would be best then,” Fáelán said as he packaged up Harry’s usual order of several danishes and a spiced hot chocolate with just a dash of coffee. “Six would be just right, eight would leave you with leftovers.”

Harry hesitated a bit. He loved the cake here at Megara’s. If there were leftovers, he’d get to have more cake after his meeting with Mrs. McClare and Heather. His mouth positively watered over the idea of cake for dinner. 

“The eight then,” Harry said, “That would be perfect.”

“Six months later, he was ousted as a fraud, but his votes were already on the books and while there was a call to revote, they only touched on one or two of the ordinances passed during the time he was active,” Heather said before turning over the parchment she held and going to the next one. “Things were quiet for about a year after that—all votes for the Potter seat were counted as neutrals or nulls, depending on the situation. Another proxy popped up around 1989, during the spring session, but they voted yay on some pro-Dark bills and were called out for it right away. Those votes were immediately questioned, the votes recast and someone had the bright idea that they should cast the votes for the Light side instead, as it would be ‘more fair and aligned with such a Noble and Light house’.” Heather said dryly. She paused to take a long drink of her tea.

The three of them sat around a table in one of the upper corner rooms of the Manor—they had a wonderful view of the wild garden below on one side and a painting of an orange-tinted field of wheat and autumnal trees on the other. Mrs. McClare sat to Harry’s left and Heather to his right—he had wanted Mrs. McClare there as she was a representative of the people that Harry was apparently in charge of. 

That, and she’d been asking after him and he felt bad about making a scene at her brunch. 

She looked rather pale at hearing Heather’s latest description of one of an astoundingly long large number of fake-proxy voters who thought they could take advantage of the empty Potter seat. Some of them had been more successful than others.

“My word,” she said as Heather ate a bit more of her lemon cake, “I had no idea that it was quite that bad. Of course, we heard occasionally that the Wizengamot would have a problem with votes here and there but— Only Lord Malfoy has entrance to the Wizengamot from the area, except if there’s an open session, and no one has the time to go out and listen to them prattle on about the same old nonsense they can never agree on— How many did you say faked their ties to Lord Potter’s seat?”

“There were six instances total, with the longest attempt being that second one we discussed earlier, from 1985,” Heather said with a frown, “By a Terrence Milsbrush. He got saddled with a fine of one thousand galleons for misrepresentation and a permanent barring from holding a seat. The last record of him is of him moving to Canada and, most likely, changing his name.”

“How could all these people pretend to be my proxy?” Harry asked. He was on his second slice of cake now, though the sugar was sitting rather sickly in his stomach after hearing all this. “Isn’t there supposed to be some sort of proof?”

“Some of them had filed the paperwork, or pretended to,” Heather explained, “Some of them had forgeries—of your signature or documents saying they had your guardian’s permission. Because your guardians were never properly listed with the Ministry, anyone could claim they were in contact with them if they had an official enough looking paper.” She slid one such forgery across the table to them. Harry took it and frowned. He had to admit, it did look pretty proper. There was even a shiny stamp on the corner of it.

The forgery of his signature was pretty bad, though. It looked like an adult had written it, not a five-year-old—which he would have been in 1985.

“I can only imagine what kind of standards they must have put in place to stop this sort of thing from happening again,” Mrs. McClare said with a shake of her head. “You’ll have your hands full of hoops to go through for a new proxy, my lord!”

Heather gave her a bemused look, “Oh. You’d think that they’d put more barriers in the way after all this nonsense, but you’d be very wrong. Adjusting the administrative paperwork for proxy positions, or indeed inducting any new lord or any new sitting voter, all that has to be voted on by the Wizengamot. And while it’s an embarrassment to be taken for a fool time and again, all sides have made use of the lax standards and so, no one has a reason not to bother tightening them. 

“It’s just as easy now to become a fake proxy as it was five years ago. Of course, it’s just as tedious to set up a real proxy, but at least that is just a single Gringotts visit away. The goblins will refuse any false declarations—so long as they’re provably false—but you don’t have to have a Gringotts notary to make the paperwork official, just the right paperwork and a notary from a common law office will work just fine.” Heather looked very disgusted for a moment as she added, “Like with many things, the Wizengamot members will look favorably upon Gringotts if it’s to their advantage and then turn around and deride it for being run by goblins if it isn’t.”

Mrs. McClare frowned at that, shaking her head and muttering something into her tea. Harry scowled.

“That doesn’t make sense,” Harry said, “Why not fix things? Why not make it less likely for people to take advantage of empty seats? Why distrust Gringotts, or at least, not make the standard for their notary to be done by the goblins if they’re so trustworthy?”

“There are lots of reasons not to fix things,” Heather said, “Most of them are selfish. As for Gringotts, well. Wizards don’t trust goblins. Goblins don’t trust wizards. That’s just how it is.”

“But why not?” Harry asked, “Aren’t you supposed to trust your bankers? That’s the whole point of them running the bank, isn’t it? I mean, I have a goblin who manages my accounts and my estate and all this other stuff. I trust him to make smart choices and not lie to me when I ask him about what’s going on. And I trust my vault is safe in the bank.”

“The animosity is entrenched in decades of war and malcontent,” Heather said. She frowned a little, tucking a bit of flyaway hair back behind her ear, “We don’t really have time to get into that right now, and besides, that’s all history you’ll learn at Hogwarts.”

Mrs. McClare wrinkled her nose at that, “That’s all the history you’ll learn at Hogwarts with the sorry excuse of a professor they have for history.”

“Oh right,” Harry said, “The ghost history teacher. Alexander mentioned him.” He frowned more. Alexander had been pretty dismissive of the goblins when they talked about them, too. Surely Alexander wouldn’t be stupid enough to distrust goblins, would he?

“We should get back to the topic at hand,” Heather said, “The summer session is meeting now, but it’ll come to a close at the beginning of September, in time for school to start up. Preliminary hearings will open back up at the beginning of October, and the full autumn session will start from November first until December fifteenth. You should get your proxy figured out as soon as possible so you can get the paperwork all settled and have them in their seat in November.”

Harry leaned back in his chair, sipping his tea as he thought it over. Who should he put in as his proxy? He didn’t really know a lot of people and he didn’t trust many more. He thought Heather might be a good choice, but she was busy with other things and had a job she probably didn’t want to leave. Besides, she’d probably like being able to help his proxy understand bills rather than have to do it all herself. 

Although he rather liked Alexander, he didn’t think he would be a good choice either. He traveled a lot for his work and, while obviously interested in what Harry was up to, seemed to have much of his own business he was taking care of at the same time.

Other than them, who did Harry know? Mr. Rowle, Mrs. McClare, Mr. Hatsfield—and him only having met twice! 

For a brief moment, Harry imagined Aunt Petunia as his proxy, sitting in this giant room full of witches and wizards, probably with silly matching robes and pointy hats. She would be torn between being so important—she would have seven votes, after all. That was more than nearly all the other lords and ladies had to their own names—and being surrounded by freaks. 

Apep hissed softly, an unusual thing for him to do when in company. “None so weak should carry your words in their mouth, my soul, my chosen. A strong spine must bear your will. A strong heart to carry your honor.” 

Harry took another drink of his tea, carefully not looking at either of the women he sat with, pretending like there had been no hissing sound at all. Setting down his cup, he turned to Mrs. McClare, “I think I would want to pick my proxy out of someone who lives in the area—someone who is sworn to me. Unfortunately, I don’t know many people in the area and I think I might’ve upset some of the ones who did meet me at your brunch. Would you mind putting together a list of people for me to pick from? I want someone who is stubborn enough to stick up for themselves in the Wizengamot, but good-hearted.

“What I talked about at the brunch, about being kind to house elves and such, I want more things like that,” Harry said, “I’m going to want to make changes— I think it’s stupid they haven’t changed their standards after so many people claimed they were my proxy and were proven false. So I need someone who can stand up for themselves but is willing to listen to me and understand what I want, even if I’m not there to tell them. Can you find someone like that for me?”

Mrs. McClare took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I think so,” she said slowly. Her gaze was distant, like she was trying to think of that person—or persons—right now. “I might be able to find someone like that. I think.” 

“Until then,” Heather said, “We’ll fill out the paperwork that we can and organize a meeting with Gringotts for a day or two before the semester starts.” She made a note on a pad of paper beside her stack of loose parchments, and then smiled sharply, “Does that work, my lord?”

Harry nodded. 

“How about in here?” Harry asked as he pushed open the door to one of his favorite sitting rooms. The walls were covered with thick tapestries and instead of a stone fireplace, there was a large metal stove. The couch here was wide and made of leather that was worn and soft with age. There was also a pair of smaller two-seat couches and a few plush sitting chairs, all of them comfortable, all of them slightly similar but not perfectly matching. This was the sitting room with the most seats—as there was even a large cushion on the floor that could be used to sit on—and Harry imagined that there was once a family that would gather here and enjoy their evenings together, talking and having tea and maybe even celebrating something like Christmas here, all gathered near. 

The furniture was varying shades of brown, the stove was black and the wooden floor was dark and covered with various rugs—dark gray and light gray mixed with red and gold. Most of the color in the room came from the walls—the tapestries depicted everything from blue oceans with white spray to the sunset orange-red-gold of a gryphon with its wings spread wide to the blue, purple, green cacophony of a lush jungle. There was magic in the tapestries as well, making them shiver and shift slightly, like those 3D cards that Dudley had hoarded where the image moved if you turned it from side to side. 

“A bit dark,” Alexander said as he looked around. He drew his wand and summoned a few candles that he placed on some of the otherwise unobtrusive small tables and on the low table in front of the large couch. “There, that fixes that. Why don’t you take a seat in this chair here and I’ll get the camera set up.”

Harry walked over to the taller of the two single chairs and climbed up onto it. It was higher off the ground than the rest of them, and with his short legs he couldn’t reach the floor. He anxiously fiddled with his robes—Alexander had him wearing the same red ones from the brunch a few weeks ago—but stopped when Alexander had set up the camera and stood beside it. 

“We’ll take several shots,” Alexander said, “Some of you smiling, some not. Then I’ll probably have you stand over there by that gryphon on the wall and maybe in a few other places. We’ll want to show a few so people know that they’re real.”

Harry nodded. He wrinkled his nose a little at the thought of some of the pictures that existed of him—there were more than a few frauds. He probably preferred that to real pictures, though, since that meant no one had taken pictures of him at the Dursleys. 

There was a flash of light and Harry blinked owlishly. “You took one already? But I wasn’t ready.”

Alexander grinned at him, “A few candid shots are good as well. I might take some during our interview, all right?”

Harry sighed. “I guess so.” It was all a new experience for him, really. He’d never had his picture taken properly before—whenever it was picture day at school, Aunt Petunia had made him stay home and told the school he was sick. And then he never was allowed to do make up pictures. 

“I won’t put in any unflattering ones,” Alexander promised, “But we’re trying to humanize you a little—and let the public know who you really are isn’t who they’ve been told about all these years. A few candid shots will help with that.”

Harry nodded again. He sat up a little straighter and said, “I understand. I’m ready now.”

“Excellent,” Alexander said, “Give me a smile then, and let’s get started.”

Alexander leaned forward in his seat, quill poised over parchment as he stared at Harry, almost uncomprehending. Merlin, he’d realized that muggles could be terrible, but even his bigoted uncle wouldn’t have treated a muggleborn child this way! 

Harry shifted uncomfortably under Alexander’s scrutiny, clearly not realizing why his last answer had spawned such a long silence. 

“You’re telling me that you never saw a muggle healer even once? Not in the ten years you lived in the muggle world?” 

“Well,” Harry shrugged a little, “I guess there was the nurse at the school. We had these tests that happened one day—they tested our hearing and our sight. It’s why Aunt Petunia got me my glasses, since they discovered that I couldn’t see very well.” He fiddled with his new frames, adjusting them. They glinted in the candlelight and Alexander instinctively triggered the camera to his left to take a picture—he’d turned the flash off so there was only the soft click and whirr as a photo spat out the back and into a tray for him to collect afterwards. 

Harry gave the camera a quick look—the same sharp one of acknowledgement he used whenever he remembered it was there—and then said, “My Aunt basically didn’t like to acknowledge that she was responsible for me to anyone. If she could pretend that I wasn’t hers, then she did.”

“I’m sorry to keep harping on this issue, Lord Potter,” Alexander said, “But what about the muggle immunizations? Aren’t there muggle diseases that have vaccines available? It’s quite common for muggleborn children to have received muggle vaccines before entering the wizarding world. Did you not receive those?”

And here, Harry simply shrugged. “I would like to say that I did, but I don’t know for sure. My Aunt might’ve taken me to get them, but if she did it was before I could remember.”

Alexander nodded. He made a note on the parchment on his lap—the one that held his questions and other various notes—that he needed to investigate this line. He was almost eager to see if he could track down this Petunia Dursley and interview her about the last ten years, but the more he heard about her the less likely he thought that interview would be. What a shame. He was sure he could use her to whip up all sorts of fervor in the paper.

“What about for any other injuries?” Alexander asked, “Hearing about how you ran the kitchen and worked the garden, there must have been quite a few accidents. You were only six when you were preparing the family meals, after all.”

Harry glanced away, lips pressed into a thin line. It was the same expression he’d worn when Alexander had first asked about those very chores—but Harry had told him then and Alexander was sure he’d tell him now, too. He just had to be patient. 

“There were some injuries,” Harry said, “Not all the time but, there were some.”

A soft hissing rose from Harry’s side. The boy pretended to not hear it and Alexander played along. Harry didn’t even flicker an eyelash at the sound he was so used to pretending not to hear it. It wasn’t hard to guess that he must have a snake on him somewhere, perhaps kept in a pocket or tucked under the long sleeves of his robes. The latter would certainly explain why he favored long sleeves and high collars. It was incredibly unusual for someone to keep a snake close and likely he was hiding it on purpose.

Alexander had heard it enough by now to be sure that it was a hissing snake. He intuited that asking about it was off-limits as well, at least for now, and that if he did, Harry would refuse to answer him. The hissing happened at random intervals, as far as he could tell, and was a large part of the reason why he hadn’t suggested an audio recording of their interview—a shame, for sure. He would have liked to put this out on the wireless and get even more coverage.

Harry turned his head to the side, staring at a tapestry as he said, “I have some scars. Not from any burns—those usually healed too fast to leave anything behind—but some other things. My cousin once threw a rock at me that hit me in the chest and left a mark. I was—there was a mean dog once. I have some scars from that on my leg. There were a few other times I got hurt and it was pretty bad…” He flexed his hands here, flattening them out and then tightening them into fists as if silently reminding himself that he could move them. 

It was very rare for Alexander to be so emotionally drawn to one of his interviewees. Usually he was after some story or their take on a specific event. He didn’t usually do character pieces like this—he wasn’t a biographer, really. He didn’t know what he should do with this sudden spike of intense fury at the realization that Harry was definitely omitting some of his injuries and their severity. 

He took a deep breath to help tamp down on his temper. He couldn’t help the lower quality of his voice as he asked, “Have you seen a healer since you’ve come back to the wizarding world, Lord Potter?”

Silently, Harry shook his head. 

“Off the record,” Alexander asked, “Would you like me to find you one? A private healer, whose honor I could trust? One who would not reveal any information about you that you didn’t want anyone to know? Not even to me?”

Again, Harry’s fists clenched tightly in his lap and though he began to shake his head, he stopped when an almost vicious hissing erupted from his side. Harry flinched and then sighed, shoulders slumping. 

For a moment, he looked like a broken doll, a marionette with its strings cut, as he sagged in his chair. Even his expression drooped, slipping from tight-lipped silence to one of resignation. 

Scrubbing a hand over his face, Harry nodded. “I probably should see one,” he said, “Especially if there are vaccines I’m missing.”

Alexander felt a tension he didn’t realize he was holding suddenly relax. He gave a shaky smile and said, “A great idea. I’ll get in touch with someone—they’re a private healer now, though they used to be affiliated with St. Mungo’s properly. I swear to you, they do not reveal any information about their patients to anyone, no matter who is asking.”

Harry gave him a grateful look. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Alexander said. After a moment, he asked, “Would you like to continue on, or should we take a few minutes for a breather first? Maybe get some of those other pictures?”

“Can we stop for a bit?” Harry asked hopefully, “I-I would appreciate that.”

“We can,” Alexander said, “We have all afternoon to talk.”

Wand in hand, Harry flicked his wrist from left to right, snapping his wand through the air the way that it said to in the book. “Diffindo!” 

The pillow in front of him split open as if he’d taken a knife to the top, the feathers inside spilling out in a puff as the cloth sagged. With a grin, Harry glanced at the next spell that he wanted to try and lifted his wand up. 

“Distraho!” He snapped his wand straight down, pushing his magic through his arm, through the wand and out, and visualizing the way he wanted the spell to work. The pulse of blue light struck the chair that the pillow had been sitting on and for one moment there was nothing but a sound of splintering wood.

Harry’s shoulders slumped. Had he failed the spell after all? It was supposed to be more difficult than the last one—a spell to break something constructed into pieces rather than to just cut—but then he heard a louder wooden crack and the chair began to list to one side.

Another moment passed and then the whole thing crumbled into pieces, legs falling away, the seams bursting open, the back toppling back and the bottom falling out! Harry gasped in delight. He’d done it! He’d cast the spell!

“Well done little Lord,” Ralston said from a portrait nearby. “However, you’ll swiftly run out of furniture if you test every new spell in a similar way.”

Harry winced. That would definitely be an issue. As the elves had finished airing out the rooms, they had discovered that several of them had furniture that was in terrible condition and other rooms that had been stripped bare. So far he didn’t have to buy anything new, but that would definitely change if he kept up testing this way!

“I suppose I could go outside then,” Harry said, “Maybe cast on an area in the forest?”

“Or you could use the dueling chambers,” Ralston suggested, “They might need their wards refurbished, but the instructions for that should be in the library somewhere.”

“Dueling chambers?” Harry asked, “Where are those?”

“Beryl!” Ralston called. The elf appeared promptly, bowing low. 

“Masters be calling?”

“Harry needs to be shown to the dueling chambers. Are they prepared for use yet?”

Beryl straightened up, ears twitching as he thought it over. Finally, he said, “Dueling chambers are being swept and aired. They are not being safe for testing. The wards is being very old and tired, Masters.”

Ralston sighed. “That’s unfortunate. You’ll have to refurbish them before you do any substantial dueling training.”

“Well, what about stuff from my school books?” Harry asked. He’d been reading from one of the spellbooks he’d bought from Agareth instead of his school books—they didn’t look as fun as 101 Spells And Magicks Ye Ought To Knowe —or as easy to understand. “That’s easier and safer stuff. I probably won’t be breaking furniture.”

“It is being safes enough for little spells,” Beryl nodded, his ears flopping up and down. “Beryl be showing Masters the way?”

“Yes please,” Harry said, “I’ll have to look up the wards to fix it later.” He scooped up his book and trailed after Beryl with a little smile. There was always so much to do—he hoped he got around to the warding sooner rather than later! Dueling sounded fun.

Chapter Text

Harry straightened up when the flames in the fireplace suddenly shifted to green. It had been a few days since his last visitor—who coincidentally was Alexander—and so he was quite excited to see someone new. He nervously patted his hair, though he knew it wouldn’t do anything to how it looked, and then had to force himself not to bounce on his heels with anticipation.

The whirling figure that appeared stepping out of the fire looked younger than he expected her to be, considering Alexander had said she was his grandmother. She had dark gray hair with small curls loose around her face and the rest of it pulled back and piled up on her head, held in place with a black netting studded with small, shining gemstones. Her eyes were a glassy green, reminding Harry of the slivers of broken bottles that he sometimes came across at the park near the Dursley’s, and there were lines on either side of her mouth that deepened when she smiled at him.

She wore a much more eclectic robe than Harry had seen on other witches before, with multiple overlapping layers of red and blue and green and even gold and a stack of necklaces that rattled together as she dropped into a curtsey. Harry bowed back to her, figuring it was only polite, and tried to remember how Mrs. McClare had welcomed him to her home that one time so he was at least sort of correct. 

“Madam Raenmaeld,” he said, pronouncing her name carefully—he’d practiced with Alexander so that he got it correct, “Welcome to Potter Manor.”

Raenmaeld took a deep breath, her eyelids fluttering shut for a moment. When she opened them, she swept forward and took Harry’s hand in both of hers, “Lord Potter, it is a blessing to be received by you here. I gladly share that blessing back to you.” 

She squeezed his hand and Harry felt a tingle of magic in his fingertips. “Thank you,” he said, since it seemed like the polite thing to do. “I appreciate you coming here to help me. From what I’ve heard and read, ritual magic is usually passed on only through family members. I know I’m not related to you, so I really do appreciate your help.”

She smiled more broadly, “Tradition allows for the teaching of rituals to those who join into the family whether through marriage, adoption, or service. Little Alex tells me that as young as you are, there is a curiosity and determination that makes you a Lord worth serving. You seek the traditions of our people—the magic that ties us to our world and to each other—instead of shunning them. You are unusual this way. Very few children outside a core group of families pay much mind to ritual work anymore. It has fallen by the wayside ever since it was removed from public practice.”

“I’ve heard that,” Harry said, “But even if I’m not particularly good at them, I should know how they work and what to do if I need to do one for some reason.”

“As you should,” Raenmaeld said, “For as Lord, you will be able to conduct rituals of far greater power and influence than those who are not tied to the land they build their circles”

“See, I’m not even sure what that means—to be tied to the land like that, I mean. I’ve been told about similar things—something about families swearing themselves to mine and stuff, but not what that all really means.” Harry stepped to the side, offering his arm to Raenmaeld the way he saw in all those old Telly programs Petunia liked. “I’ve set aside a drawing room for these sessions of ours. I have an ancestor in a portrait who told me it is one of the more magically sensitive rooms in the manor and would be safe for you to enter.”

Raenmaeld’s eyes widened at those words and she took Harry’s arm, tucking her own into his elbow. She wasn’t a particularly tall woman, so it wasn’t an uneven match even if he did feel a little silly for it. “I am quite curious about this room,” Raenmaeld said, “Did your ancestor say why it was so sensitive?”

“Something about it being the last ley point on the line before Stonehenge?” Harry said. 

“Oh? How curious. I wasn’t aware that the Potter manor was so close to Stonehenge.”

“It isn’t far,” Harry explained, “It’s south of here by a good five or ten minutes by broom. I don’t know how many kilometers that is, though.” 

“Perhaps, if you become quite adept at the work and interested in more complex ones, we might perform one or two there. It can be quite challenging with the muggles who like to visit, but with enough muggle-repellant wards, it’s possible,” she explained. “In my youth, I attended a Malfoy-sponsored ritual there that was officiated by a powerful young wizard. It was a divine experience and drove me into the deeper research of rituals myself, though I was never quite able to replicate his proficiency myself.”

They reached the drawing room and the door swung open silently. Opal was inside, placing a tea tray down that was laden with small sandwiches and pastries and a full tea course. This was a different room than he’d used before—there were so many rooms he never felt bad about using a new one for each visitor. At least that way they were being used. 

The furniture in this room was simple, almost plain compared to other rooms. There were three chairs around a circular stone table. The only light came from a few standing candelabras and one large window that faced outside of the Manor instead of inside to the courtyard. Harry went to pull out the chair for Raenmaeld, but she had stopped by the window and was staring out. 

“My word,” she murmured, one hand reaching up to clutch at one of the stones hanging from her neck. “Is it truly that close?”

Harry had only been in the room once before—he’d poked his head in to see how it looked since there seemed to be a new theme with each room—and had been somewhat surprised at all the gray stone. He hadn’t looked out the window, but now as he did he saw what amazed Raenmaeld so.

There in the center of the window, as if it stood outside on a hill not a stone’s throw from the Manor, rose Stonehenge. Harry gaped at the glass. “I don’t think it’s supposed to be,” he said, “It’s really quite far.”

He got closer and saw that it didn’t look like the pictures he’d been shown when he was in Primary School. For one thing, the stones were in an almost complete circle—none of the pieces were broken or had fallen over. “I think it’s just a picture of it,” he said, “Some of the windows are like that—they show places that aren’t real, or aren’t really outside anyway.”

“Remarkable,” she murmured. She turned slowly from the window and then visibly shook herself. Her necklaces rattled and clinked together. 

Harry walked her to the table and helped her with the chair. Soon they were both settled and she was reaching into her pouch and pulling out a surprisingly large book from the little bag. She smiled at him, a twinkle in her eye, “A grandmother has to have an extended pouch, dear. You never know what you might need next.”

She slid the book across to him. “Here is a compilation of some of the most basic sorts of rituals, the ones with slight sacrifices—minor offerings for minor rewards—and all of the sort that would not get you into too much trouble if you’ve been caught doing them. I’ve created this book for some of my grandchildren in the past, including Alexander himself, though the boy has a poor temperament for such work. I want you to study it and choose a ritual you would like to perform before the end of August.”

Harry blinked as he slid the book over to himself. “Oh—I thought you wanted to meet with me before we decided on what you’d teach me. Um. Are you sure you’re able to help me?”

“Lord Potter, I am willing and able to do so. Stepping into this room I was able to feel the energy that you spoke of. The manor is imbued with the energy of the leyline in a way that speaks to the use of many, many rituals being performed on these grounds. Why, I would not be alarmed at all if there were private family tomes within your library that were not just for the Potters but those families that married in over time. 

“The fact that you are naturally curious about rituals speaks to your natural aptitude. Magic pulls us towards what is good for us, what will nurture our souls and hearts. It is not an entirely benign energy, but one that is based on connection. Clearly, your family finds its roots in ritual magic, drawing their power from the earth upon which they built their homes.” Raenmaeld reached out and took her hand in his. Again Harry felt that tingle of magic, though it was warmer and lingered longer. “I would be honored to be the hand of Magic that guides you into understanding this aspect of your ancestral gift, Lord Potter. If only so that I might participate in such divine rituals once more.”

Harry blushed. “I’m not certain I’ll be the best at it, but I do want to try.” He felt a little ashamed that he’d wanted to learn ritual magic not because of the ties to his ancestors or even to magic as a whole, but to help him find his soulmate. But Harry pushed those thoughts aside quickly enough. He was dazzled by magic, but that couldn’t distract him from his real goals. 

He would learn this in order to perform rituals that would help him find and help his soulmate. That’s what mattered most to him.

“I am grateful for your help,” Harry said honestly, “I really am. What can you teach me today? I want to start learning right now. Where do I start?”

Raenmaeld let go of his hand in order to fix herself some tea. “Open the book and begin, my lord. I’m happy to spend the afternoon discussing what you find there. The key to a powerful ritual is the base with which you build it upon and I will offer my knowledge to you so that you might learn all that you need.”

While she sipped her tea, Harry flipped open the book—turning the thick, handwritten pages until he reached the very beginning—and then he began to read.

“Lord Potter, thank you for coming this evening,” Imogen said with a deep curtsey. Though Harry was a young Lord, younger than any she could recall in recent decades, he carried himself well. He had little tells, moments of uncertainty or stiffness that must be because of his muggle upbringing, but he wasn’t noisy and demanding as many lordling children could be—especially those ones she had met before. “Is there anything I might get you to drink?”

It was after dinner, an unusual time for guests, but the soonest she could coordinate this meeting. She hoped that Harry liked this choice for proxy better than the last one, because she was starting to worry they wouldn’t find someone in time—Hogwarts started in almost a week.

“A hot chocolate would be nice, thanks,” Harry said blithely. “How are Risky and, it’s Bisky, right?”

Imogen smiled a little helplessly. And here again was one thing that Harry did so differently than most other people she knew, lords, ladies, and common folk alike. “They’re quite well. They’re sorry they didn’t get the chance to make you dinner, my lord.”

Harry gave her an apologetic smile, “Sorry. I’ve been studying with my tutor quite a lot recently.” He seemed to think something over and then asked, “Mrs. McClare, did the Potters used to host Festival celebrations? For things like Mabon, Samhain, and Yule?”

Imogen hesitated in gesturing for the door. She felt her heart pick up slightly. Was Harry really going to suggest what she thought? “Yes,” she said slowly, “For all major and minor holidays of the Wheel—the Potters hosted various events in the past. Or they had various, ah, favored members of the community do so—or those who wished to would petition for the honor. Some of the minor ones were more privately held, and even larger festivals had some private ceremonies.”

Harry nodded thoughtfully. He looked so serious in his dark blue robes—long-sleeved and high-collared as usual—and he didn’t say anything more about it as they walked to the drawing room. 

Opening the door, she motioned for Harry to step in first. 

Standing in the room near the fireplace was the broad-shouldered, heavyset man she had picked as a possible proxy almost accidentally, if not reluctantly. Harry hadn’t liked the three previous choices—though she could understand one or two being too obnoxious or stubborn—and she had only chanced an encounter with his wife earlier that day and they’d gotten to talking. One thing led to another and here stood Phillip Graves in her drawing room, wearing the deep charcoal gray robes he favored, hair cut short, a thick mustache covering his upper lip, and a general solid air about him.

He turned to greet them, one hand resting on the mantle that he lowered and brought to his side. He was broad-shouldered and, compared to Harry’s small and skinny body, he looked like a stone wall.

“My Lord,” Imogen said as she stood to the side, “This is Phillip Graves. He and his wife have lived here in Amesbury for their whole lives. They have three children, though I believe the youngest is abroad right now. Mrs. Graves works at one of our local enchantment shops. Mr. Graves assists her there at times, I believe, but otherwise works from home.”

“Lord Potter,” Graves said gruffly, “‘Tis an honor to meet you.”

Harry walked right up to him and shook his hand, looking up to his face. “It’s nice to meet you too. Mrs. McClare said you wanted to be my proxy in the Wizengamot?”

“The option has been suggested to me,” Graves said, “I wanted to see what you were asking for your proxy to do. My youngest has been out of the house for some time and my research has gone about as far as I can take it right now. I’ve got time on my hands, my lord, and I’ll be damned if I just sit on them and do nothing when there’s work to be done.”

There was a soft hissing sound, one that Imogen had heard before and just put out of her mind. So Harry seemed to have some sort of pet snake he carried around—it was no bother to her, since she hadn’t ever seen it. Graves, on the other hand, peered a little harder at Harry, his brows furrowing together. 

Imogen cleared her throat. “Risky, some drinks, please?” Her elf delivered the drinks personally in the next moment, stopping in the room long enough not only to place the tray down carefully but to give one long stare at Harry.

Harry turned and gave the elf a little smile and murmured his thanks as he collected his hot chocolate.

Graves himself had peppermint tea. Imogen had tea as well, though hers had just a splash of brandy in it—she needed it for her nerves for sure.

Harry perched on the tall chair near the fireplace, leaving Graves with the shorter one and Imogen nearby as a witness on the couch. She sipped her drink in silence, watching both boy and man examine each other.

“Have you any experience with law?” Harry asked, “Or with the Wizengamot?”

“Personally, not so much,” Graves said, “I understand how to read a contract—both wixen and goblin—and I know the family names. The Graves have been around for a few generations, but there have been plenty enough muggleborns in the blood that we’ve never been seen as pureblooded family stock and we swore ourselves to the Potters back before they were the Potters.” 

“You mean when they were Peverells.”

There was a pause. Graves gave a slow nod of his head. “We Graves were close to the Peverells, once, long before.” He cracked his first smile, a slow pull of the corner of his mouth, almost a smirk but too grim somehow to be called such. “The bones had to lie somewhere, you know? Death takes us all home eventually.”

Harry sat up at that. “It does,” he agreed, “We’re all carried home eventually.”

Imogen shivered, not understanding the look that they gave each other now. Harry’s was thoughtful, considering; Graves was intense, almost unblinking.

“I want to change things,” Harry declared, “I want things to be made better. They aren’t going to like that and they’re going to try and stop me. Can you stand up to them, Light or Dark, or whatever they call themselves? Will you do what I want you to do, say what I want you to say, act in my place, Phillip Graves?”

Graves leaned forward with his elbows resting heavily on his knees. His dark eyes seemed to absorb the light around them. Imogen couldn’t look away from either of them. “My lord,” he said in a low, gravelly tone, “I will do so. I will say so. I will act so.”

“If you stand in my name, you’ll have to fight against nearly all of them at all times,” Harry said, “Because as much as I love magic and this world I’ve been brought into, there are a lot of things that need changing and I am going to bring that change.” He too leaned forward, his knuckles white where he held his mug tightly. “I am going to be a Great Lord one day. It’s my destiny. But things can’t stay this way anymore. I won’t wait until I’m an adult to make things better, do you understand?”

Graves gave that slow smile again, nodding once, twice. “I understand, my lord. You need someone to start the work. You need someone to take up the shovel and break the earth. To make a road, a home, or a grave, it all starts with breaking the earth and digging a hole. We Graves are used to carrying shovels.”

Harry grinned back at him.

Sitting there, watching them, Imogen felt awash with a jittery excitement.

Things were changing. Oh, things were definitely changing.

Chapter Text

Harry’s stomach churned at the thought of meeting with a doctor. He never had before and only had Dudley’s horror stories to go off of. Would he get stuck with needles? Would they stick things into his mouth and shine lights into his eyes? He didn’t know how similar Healers were to Doctors—maybe they were even worse somehow.

Yet Apep had had a point about how he did need his health if he was going to go on to be a Great Lord and so he had agreed to Alexander’s offer to find him someone. 

Harry sighed heavily. He really owed Alexander a lot, didn’t he? Was that article really going to be enough for him as repayment? It wasn’t even going to come out for months!

Opal popped into the room he’d chosen to meet the Healer in—the sea-foam room from before, as he felt very calm here—and announced, “Missus Healer is at the doors, Master. Beryl be leadings her in to see the Master, yes.”

“Thank you Opal,” Harry responded. “This isn’t much of a social call like the others, but will you make sure there’s tea ready just in case? I don’t know if we’ll be getting right into it or not.”

Opal nodded, ears flopping. “Yes, Master!”

She vanished away, leaving Harry alone in the room. He couldn’t help his nervous energy and so he began to pace in front of the window, hoping that might help. 

It seemed to take forever before there was a squeaky voiced announcement—Opal again—and the doors swung open to receive the Healer. Harry came to an abrupt stop, wondering if waiting in the room like this was a bad idea after all. Alexander had suggested she liked a ‘more traditional greeting’ whatever that meant, and that he should let his elves lead her to him rather than wait himself. Harry wished he’d greeted her himself at the door, though, because now it was time to get to business and he’d only just met her.

In swept a tall, dark haired woman with sharp eyes and rosy lips. She looked well dressed, wearing a stylish coat over her fitted robes—it looked more like she wore a dress than robes, honestly—and she had a large cloth bag floating along at her side. She held a cane in her left hand, the only sign of her age since she looked young still. 

Her eyes moved over the room and then zeroed in on Harry. She inclined her head ever so slightly. “Lord Potter.”

“Healer Travers,” Harry greeted back. He crossed the room over to her, and hesitated a moment before offering his hand. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

She eyed his hand and then, briefly, shook it. She wore dark gloves that matched her dark outfit well. “I understand that you have been neglectful in visiting Healers in the past?”

“I was raised by muggles, ma’am,” Harry responded, “And they didn’t particularly care for me. Would you like some tea or are we to start immediately?”

She sniffed minutely. “Tea would be welcome. I will need a verbal accounting of every notable injury you can recall then, Lord Potter. As best to your memory, of course.”

“Opal?” Harry called to the room as he turned to the seating area, “We’ll be taking that tea now, thank you.” There was a pop and the tray was deposited. He went over and sat down, Travers following behind him. She set her large bag on the coffee table and then served herself tea. 

Taking a cup of his own, Harry held it and the saucer and thought about his ‘notable injuries’. “I’m assuming broken bones are notable injuries?” He asked.

“They are,” She responded, “As well as concussions, losses of consciousness, a fever or virus that lasted over a day, anything that made you vomit for more than a day, and anything that required stitching to mend.” She said the word ‘stitching’ as if it was somehow personally offensive.

Harry pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Well, I never got stitches for anything, but I’ve broken a few bones. My left hand was shut in a car door when I was younger. I’ve twisted my ankle a few times while running from my cousin. I don’t remember having any flus or any fevers. Every time Dudley—my cousin that is—would get sick like that, I didn’t. I’m not sure about concussions. What are those?”

“Have you ever been hit hard enough on the head to lose consciousness however briefly it might’ve been?”

“Maybe? I did get pushed down the stairs when I was younger. And I fell out of a few trees too.” Harry paused and sipped his tea. It was difficult thinking about all the ways he’d been hurt. There were just so many that sometimes they all blurred together. “I’ve had some burns, but those tended to heal quickly, and once or twice I was bit by a dog. Those were pretty bad.”

Travers’s brows rose slowly, giving her a very surprised expression. “You were bit by a dog?”

“It was my uncle’s sister’s dog. She brought it with her when she came to visit. It was a bulldog or something? I don’t remember for sure,” Harry explained. “She would have it chase me around the yard.”

Travers stared at him. He got the feeling she was trying to determine if he was telling the truth or not. 

Harry set down his teacup and reached down to roll up his trouser leg. “Look, here’s one of the scars.”

On his calf were a ring of indentions in the shape of a dog’s jaw. He turned his leg and ran a finger over them to help her see. “This was the worst bite. It didn’t stop bleeding for almost a week.”

“Lord Potter, are you aware that these claims would indicate that your…muggle relatives abused you?”

Harry lowered his trouser and shot her a sharp look. With a huff he said, “Why do you think I got out of there as fast as I could? As soon as I found out I had magic I started planning to get away. I was just waiting for my letter. If I’d known that I had this manor to move into, I would’ve done it when I was eight, ma’am.”

She hummed thoughtfully. Travers leaned back and sipped her tea. She then set the teacup down on the tray and said, “We should begin your proper examination. With these injuries of yours, and the fact that you have not had any proper healing done, I would request for you to undress down to your undergarments, Lord Potter. I need a visual of the locations of your injuries as much as possible.”

Harry felt his face heat up in embarrassment, but he’d kind of figured this would happen. In hospital programs on the telly people had to change too. He hopped up off the couch and then hesitated.

Travers lifted her wand and swirled it around, creating a hovering curtain off to the side, “If that would help you? I do have something you can wear afterward. It is a specific healer’s robe that allows me to transmute the material clear in localized spots so that I might see beneath it easily.” She summoned said robe from her bag. It was a silky white cloth and felt nice in Harry’s hands.

He thanked her and then went behind the magical curtain to dress. He took everything off—except for his pants and the band that covered his soulmate mark—Apep hissed softly at him as he tugged on the white slip. “How well you have grown already, my soul, my beloved, that you look so healthy is truly a marvel of magic.” 

Harry pressed his palm against Apep’s cover and smiled, but he didn’t dare respond where he might be heard. Instead, he brushed back the curtain and stepped out. The robe he wore felt as soft and light as tissue paper, though was much silkier than that. 

Travers had rearranged things a little while he’d stepped out. The couches were pushed back and the table to one side. She was on her feet and had her wand in one hand and a grayish crystal in the other. Her gaze swept over him as he appeared and she nodded to herself. “I shall begin the examination with a series of diagnostic spells. For each spell, I will be using a different channeling focus that you will hold in your hands. We’ll start from the inside and work our way out, Lord Potter, so if you will hold this?”

“What is it?” Harry asked, “It’s very pretty.” 

The crystal was smooth and cool to his touch. 

“This is calcite. It will help focus my spell on your internal bone structure. All you need to do is stand still and continue to breathe evenly. Do not speak until I am finished.”

Harry nodded and stood still. Travers cast over him, murmuring the spell to herself and flicking her wand this way and that. It seemed like quite a long spell, almost as long as some of the rituals he’d been reading about, and made him wonder if—with the crystal as a component, was this spell like a ritual?

There was a strange tingling sensation in his bones, but Harry was able to easily brush that off. Still, he gave a little sigh when the spell ended and the buzzing sensation passed. 

A quill floating in the air beside Travers began to scribble onto a parchment that got longer and longer until it finally was almost as long as his arm. She frowned as she plucked the page from the air and read over it. 

Harry desperately wanted to ask, but didn’t want to bother her. So he kept quiet and simply handed over the crystal when she asked for it.

This whole action was repeated several times with a few other stones—a bloodstone, a citrine, a chunk of obsidian and even a piece of diamond, though that one he had to hold up to his forehead. Each time the quill would fill up a parchment and Travers would look over it with a tight frown.

Harry had done his best to remember every ‘notable injury’ he could, but he wondered what she was seeing that he had either forgotten or didn’t realize was as important as he thought.

Eventually, she put the parchments and quill aside in a little pile. “I will do my physical examination now. Just stay standing a little longer, Lord Potter. We’re almost finished.”

“Okay,” he said. He did his best not to fidget as she went around, turning small patches of his robes clear and looking beneath. He was able to see some of what she looked at, like the residue of burns on one arm or that one scar on his chest from when Piers had thrown a rock really hard at him. 

When she came to his left arm, however, she turned the sleeve translucent and then made a strange noise in the back of her throat. “Lord Potter, what is this guard you have on your arm for?”

Harry blinked and glanced down. “Oh, I have my soulmate mark covered,” he said. “Mr. Rowle said it was very quite common to do so? Is that a problem?”

“I need to examine your arm,” She said, “I will not record the color of your mark, only the stage of its development, if you want to maintain your privacy.”

“I uh,” Harry hesitated. He flexed his arm. Then he glanced up at her and asked, “Do you really have to? Only, I was told that it’s kind of sacred? I’ve always hidden my mark.”

“I am a Healer,” Travers replied firmly, “I am sworn under Oath not to reveal the specifics of my patients to any who do not have permission. However, you have traces of a very severe breakage here on this arm that has since healed over and I need a closer look.”

Harry sighed. He lifted his arm up and tugged down the cover. Travers immediately went still as Apep was exposed. Her eyes fixed on his serpentine form. For a moment, Harry thought that Apep would remain still and quiet—since it was probably in their best interest to stay unremarkable. 

Travers gingerly touched the underside of his arm, lifting it up to get a better look. Her eyes were very wide with surprise. 

The moment their skin touched, Apep’s tongue flicked out rapidly. Then his head turned and body constricted, coils looping in and out of the eyes of the skull. Travers gasped. 

“My beloved, my chosen, how powerful a healer you have found. She has tasted the viper’s milk herself and believes in truth. You are so clever and wise to draw in such a dangerous one and charm her before she can turn her fangs against us,” Apep hissed. He dipped his head a little lower, almost down to where Travers’s fingers rested. 

“Viper’s milk?” Harry repeated back automatically, wincing when Travers’s head snapped up to stare at him.

“You speak the serpent tongue?” Her voice was hushed with reverence.

Harry grimaced. “I do, but it’s a secret.”

She nodded, “You may trust me with your secrets, my lord.” She looked back down at Apep, wonder glowing in her dark eyes. “Might I know what was said?”

“He said you’re a powerful healer,” Harry said, somewhat reluctantly, “And that you’ve tasted the viper’s milk and believe in the truth. He said you are dangerous and you could turn your fangs against me.” He pulled his hand away from her touch, feeling uneasy. “But healers aren’t allowed to hurt their patients, right?”

Travers straightened slowly. “That is true, my lord, but in my haste I neglected to cast the oaths that would bind you as one of mine. Allow me to rectify that now.”

She lifted her wand and pronounced solemnly, “I, Mary Alice Travers, Healer Sworn, shall do my very best in maintaining the health and wellbeing of my patient, Lord Harry James Potter, while he is in my care. I shall endeavor to preserve his life, to safeguard his breath, and to aid him in any recovery he requires. So mote it be.”

There was a crack and a flash of magic around them. Apep writhed in that way Harry knew meant he was ecstatic with whatever had just happened. He absentmindedly pet the snake, both to help calm him down and soothe himself.

After the oath was sworn, Travers curtseyed deeply and intoned, “Healer Travers, my lord. I am at your service.”

Harry pushed aside his uneasiness—what did it mean that his healer had only now sworn to help heal him? What did Apep mean that she was swayed to his side? That she would have turned against him?—and stood straighter himself. “We don’t have to do all those ritual spells again, do we?”

She blinked a bit and then smiled at him. The expression softened her face immensely, turning her from a very stern-looking woman to a jovial one. “Of course not, my lord. I still have all the reference material. I shall send you copies as soon as I am finished with processing them.

“However, even without reading every detail I can tell you several things. First of all, your magic has done a remarkable job of healing your injuries. You have fine-line fracture points in various places of  your arms and legs, but nothing that should require the removal and regrowth of your bones. I shall prescribe bone promoter potions instead, once a week for six months, and that should do the trick.

“Secondly, your internal organs could use some assistance both in digestion and absorption. You’ve undergone prolonged starvation and malnutrition, though thankfully not so severe as to permanently damage some of your organs. The potions for repairing this damage will be ongoing, but we’ll begin with three times a day with each meal. 

“And lastly, your eyes and mind. You must have recently gotten these glasses you’re wearing now because there are remnants of strain around your eyes indicative of poor prescription glasses. I would suggest that you wear these for at least a year before you consider potentially treating your eyes with spellwork, as the surgery is quite delicate and the strain your eyes are recovering from could make it exponentially more difficult to accomplish. 

“Your mind, however, is perfectly clear. Your magic seems to have prioritized head injuries whenever you received them, as there is no internal indication to accompany external ones. You should not face any issues with your memory.”

Harry nodded along to that rapid fire explanation. If that was just what she saw at a glance with his paperwork, what would she see when she sat down to read it all? 

“The potions—” he began, but stopped when she shook her head, still smiling.

“I shall procure the potions for you from a very reliable source,” she said. “This master has done all my potion work in the past and has never given me a faulty potion, not once.” 

“Oh?” Harry asked, suddenly curious. He’d been reading about potions whenever he wasn’t reading about rituals or spells—they were just as interesting to him as the other kinds of magic. “Who are they?”

“His name is Severus Snape. He’s a difficult man to endear, my lord, but his expertise is unique within the British Isles. There should be no other who brews your potions.”

“Okay,” Harry said. She sounded reliable about that, and very enthusiastic. Harry absently rubbed his arm again. Surely just looking at Apep wasn’t enough for her to change her mind… “Um. May I get dressed now?”

“Of course,” Travers said, “I’ll clean things up here while you do so. If you have any other concerns, we can discuss them when you’re comfortable again.”

Having said that, she didn’t really look away until Harry vanished behind the curtain. He hesitated before changing, wondering if he should bother with his sleeve cover. Around Travers it didn’t seem like it would matter, considering she already knew what it was. 

He wondered if it looked like another mark she’d seen before. Was that why she was acting like this? Had she recognized it?

Curious, and a little excited himself now, Harry dressed quickly and stepped back out. Travers immediately rose to her feet and welcomed him back, making Harry feel a little embarrassed.

She’d fixed everything up and so they were opposite each other with the table and tea between them as they talked. Travers was more than willing to answer questions for Harry, like what the different stones were supposed to do and how long she’d been a healer for.  It was an enlightening conversation, and one Harry surprisingly enjoyed.

When he had finally worked up his courage, he asked, “Healer Travers? About my soulmate mark…”

She straightened in her seat, leaning forward ever so slightly. “Yes?”

“Do you recognize it? I mean. I don’t want to sound rude but you were different before you saw it, much more, um, chilly with me.”

Travers blinked a few times and asked back, “Have you never seen such a mark anywhere else before?”

Harry shook his head. “No. I only know that it’s the mark of my soulmate because he told me so. Muggles don’t have that and they didn’t want to even look at mine so it was always covered up.”

“Well,” Travers said, “I suppose the truth is that I was very surprised to have seen such a mark on your arm, not just because you are so young—much too young—to have fully developed your mark but also because it was the sign of a snake. You see, snakes are regarded as unlucky, untrustworthy, or even disreputable in our society for various reasons. Many Dark witches and wizards associate themselves with snakes and the connotation has stuck.”

She reached up and unbuttoned the top of her dress collar. Pulling back the cloth, she revealed a stitched silver snake in the stiff fabric. Harry peered at it, blinking a few times. That looked a lot like Apep—a snake with a silver outline of a circle nearby, or was that perhaps a skull? “Some of us wear a similar mark in order to signal to each other that we are the same in our beliefs.”

Enlightened, Harry nodded, “So you think I must be the same then?”

“Whether or not you are, my lord, I know that your soulmate must be. You are young enough yet that you may or may not be a snake, after all,  you haven’t been sorted at Hogwarts yet.” She gave him a smile, eyes sparkling as she lifted her cup to her lips.

“Right,” Harry nodded. “If there’s a House at Hogwarts that is represented by the snake, then why are snakes so hated? Wouldn’t that make them a fourth of the population?”

“Ah, the snakes have a reputation from the moment the are sorted as such,” she said, “It’s from their history—Salazar Slytherin was notable in his distaste for mixed blood in wixen kind. And multiple Dark wizards and witches have risen to power or some amount of fame, many of them coming from or claiming to have come from Slytherin’s den.”

“So because there are a few bad Slytherins, they’re all painted as evil,” Harry said. “That’s stupid. Just because my relatives were muggles and treated me badly doesn’t mean all muggles are bad. I’ve met so many people this last month and they’re all sorts of good or bad or kind or mean.” He huffed in annoyance. 

“You shouldn’t be so surprised, my lord,” Travers said. “Such is the way of humanity. It is us versus them. It is our goodness and their evilness. We are educated and they are barbaric. You’ll find such a dichotomy within communities of all sorts. Why, even amongst healers we argue over who is right and pure and who is foolhardy and cruel.”

Harry shook his head. He wished he could change all of it. He wished people would just be kind to each other. Why was there so much cruelty? 

“Well,” he said, “I’ll just have to work harder on changing everyone’s mind then. If I want things to be better, I guess I’m going to have to be the one to make sure it happens.”

Travers gave him a bright smile and said, “You will not walk alone, my lord. I and many others will gladly stand at your side to see your plans to fruition.”

Harry returned her smile with one of his own. She was right—he wouldn’t be alone—and he was ever so glad for it.

Hands trembling with excitement, Harry had to stop and take a deep breath to try and calm down first before he could even begin his chalk circle. 

Raenmaeld’s book had been filled with simple rituals—the kind that children couldn’t cause too much trouble with—but even they had to be done properly or else they wouldn’t work. If his circle wasn’t right, if the runes he drew were shaky, or if his materials were poorly chosen or fake, then none of this would matter. 

And Harry really wanted it to matter.

The white chalk went smoothly over the stone floor. He’d thought at first that it was one large slab that was the floor, but once he was this close to it he could see the faint etching of ridges—other circles and broad shapes necessary to make rituals. Harry’s chalk outline followed these guides and he felt tears prick his eyes.

His ancestors must have put these here. His ancestors must have cast their own rituals in this room. What had they worked for? What had they wanted? What spells had they cast? Did they make these marks thinking that their great-great-great grandchild would be here, on his own knees, chalk dust on his robes and fingertips, drawing like they had?

Instead of pushing away the thoughts like he normally would have, Harry let himself consider them, to think them over. After all, part of the ritual was intent, and thinking of his ancestors would help with that.

Once the outer circle, inner circle and the runes between were all drawn, Harry carefully laid out his supplies at each of the four main cardinal points. First was the chunk of obsidian at the southern edge, facing the window that looked on to Stonehenge. Then was the western side, where he placed a gathered handful of mature wheat. At the northern side was a block of ice, shaped identical to the obsidian and preserved with a frost charm on its surface. On the east side was an equal handful of wheat grain gone to seed. 

Harry then stood in the center. The chant was simple enough, a repetition of a simple phrase in Latin.  Manus mea me deducet ad futuram.   Over and over he whispered it, gathering his magic in his core and then pushing it out through his fingers and toes. He felt a gentle touch on his shoulder at one point, almost like a hand squeezing the joint, but he kept his eyes shut tightly. That, according to Raenmaeld, was very important.

It was dangerous to look upon the spirits of those past in times outside of Samhain. 

So Harry chanted and he wove his magic with his intent and he ignored the occasional touch on his shoulder or head. He’d never gotten those congratulatory pats of pride from family members before—but he’d seen Dudley get them and could imagine that was what was happening here. The Peverells and Potters from beyond the grave were welcoming the newest of their line into their work. 

At least, that’s what Harry liked to believe. 

When the magic was so thick in the air that Harry couldn’t speak, he turned and then jerked to a stop, letting the magic direct him in where to stop and where to go. He knelt down and reached for the offering that was before him, heart pounding in his chest. 

His fingers plunged into the pile of seed and Harry gasped. He gripped the seed tightly and pushed his magic out one last time, completing the ritual with one more chant: Manus mea me deducet ad futuram. 

There was a clap of sound, or at least of magic that felt like sound, and Harry’s ears popped. He cracked open his eyes carefully, squinting at first and then blinking and looking down. 

In his hands, the wheat had begun to sprout, shooting out thin little fibrous roots and pale green leaves. Harry thought most if not all of the seeds had gone to sprout, which was a good sign according to Raenmaeld’s notes. 

The fact that magic had directed him to the seeds was also good, though that was more his preference than anything. He had wanted to find himself at the seeds in the end—it meant that it was his future that held promise, which was what he wanted.

He had a home, but not yet a family. He had his magic, but didn’t know how best to use it. He had people to help him, but they hadn’t accomplished anything real yet. All his successes were in his future and this proved it.

That he hadn’t felt alone while casting the ritual was a wonderful benefit. He hoped that the spirits of past Potters and Peverells looked on at him with fondness. 

Gathering up the wheat germs gently, Harry decided he would try to plant them in the garden and grow them more. Perhaps, if they went to seed, he could take the wheat and grind it for bread for a later ritual. 

Smiling at the thought, Harry left the room with a light heart and lighter footsteps. Tomorrow he would be getting on the train to Hogwarts and beginning the rest of his future. He would learn and he would grow and he would make new friends.

He would find his soulmate and he would change the world and together, they would be the greatest Lords that the magical world had ever known— unconquerable, unstoppable, unending. 

Chapter Text

“We shall prepare for the festivities, Master! We will honor the Potter name!” Beryl declared, clenching his fist and thumping it against his chest. Harry looked proudly at his elves.

“Of course you will,” Harry said. He couldn’t help but hug them each at least once, which made Coral cry harder and the other two sniffle more. “I’ll be back before you know it,” he said.

“The time will pass much more swiftly than you can imagine,” Ignatia said with a smile, “Soon enough it will be Yule and then the end of the year. Before long, you will be graduating and on your way to becoming a Great Lord.”

Harry turned towards her and tried to feel as confident in himself as she looked. Her smile grew into a grin and she leaned forward slightly. “A true power base is not built within a day. You have sown many seeds already, but it is time to better yourself with education. Go to Hogwarts and devour all knowledge that crosses your path, Harry. It is the only way.”

“But do not forget to make good connections and to work hard,” Ralston added hastily. “You will not survive on your own. Do not forget that many people with one focus will always have more power than one person alone.”

Harry nodded to them both. “I won’t forget,” he said, “I’m going to write letters to the others while I’m gone as well. I even already have one from Heather about some of the new bills the Wizengamot is seeing this autumn session. I want Mr. Graves to be ready when the time comes to vote.”

“You have such a weight on your shoulders, Little Lord,” Ralson said with a sigh, “You should be careful not to burn your wick at two ends or else none of your plans will come to fruition. Keep your goals reasonable and achievable.”

Harry huffed, “I know, I know. I have time, I remember.” He rubbed his hand over Apep, who writhed in place on his arm. The snake was just as excited as he was to go to Hogwarts. Harry wondered if there would be more clues to the Gaunts or to his soulmate’s location once they were there as it seemed like such an important place to Apep.

“You should leave shortly, so you have enough time to find a comfortable place on the train,” Ralston said.

Harry nodded. He turned to the elves one last time and hugged them. Then he said goodbye to Ralston and Ignatia, bowing slightly as he did so. “Watch over the place for me while I’m gone. Let me know as soon as possible if something comes up that I need to deal with.”

“We shall,” Ralston said somberly, “Travel in safety, Little Lord.”

“Walk with pride, Lord Potter,” Ignatia told him, “We will await your return.”

With that as a goodbye, Harry left the room, shrunken trunk in one pocket, a leather satchel slung over one shoulder and the weight of his future bearing down on him.

Heather stepped through the doorway and into the kitchen, wiping her boots on the charmed mat and lowering the hood of her cloak. It was only the first day of September and already autumn’s chill was present in the early morning. Philip Graves moved back from opening the door for her and headed over to a countertop, where a kettle rattled soundlessly with boiling water. 

“I appreciate you meeting me so early,” she said as she walked in. “I wanted to drop off the bills as soon as I could. They take some time to get through and the preliminaries will begin in only a month. If we have any revisions or counterbills we want to issue, they’ll have to be prepared by then.”

Graves rummaged through his cupboards in the muggle way, but poured tea for them both with a twitch of his wand—the wood as pale as bone, which surprised her—and then he floated the cups over to the table. There were the remnants of a breakfast for three present, but he cleared those with another sweep of his wand. 

“Are revisions not permitted during the discussion for the bill?” He asked as he set out a few biscuits to go with the tea. He gestured for Heather to take a seat and so she did, removing her bag and placing it in the chair next to her. 

Graves took the third chair across from her, added some cream to his tea and waited.

“They are, but only if they’re pre-proposed as amendments or are made by those who originally wrote the bill during the discussion period,” she said, “At least we have a month to look at these ones first. Sometimes bills will get plenty of time to be previewed before they’re put on the docket, and other times, when whoever is issuing them wants them to go through without being looked at too hard, they’ll submit them right at the last minute. It’s legal, but irritating.”

Opening her bag, she pulled out the thick bundle of parchment. “Here,” she said, “This is your copy. I sent one along with Lord Potter, but I doubt he’ll have much time to get to it soon since he’ll be starting classes tomorrow.”

Graves grunted in assent as he took the bundle. He flipped through it a few times, as if testing the heft of the paper. “I see. I am aware of many of my lord’s preferences by now, so even if he doesn’t give me any direction, I should be able to vote accordingly.” He looked up at her then, brows lifting, “That is, as long as my status is accepted?”

“That was the other reason I’m here,” Heather said. She drew out another two items from her bag. The first was a stiff scroll case made of a brightly varnished cherry wood and bound with a gold cord. “Here is your official registration as Proxy of the Potter seats in the Wizengamot, notarized by wizard and goblinkind. And here are your Wizengamot robes, I apologize for the color but these are the standard robes.” 

The second item was a shrunken robe box wrapped in cloth and with a wax seal with a pressed W on top. Graves took both items, setting the robes aside for now and examining the registration case. He pried it open and slid it out, looking it over silently. 

Heather sipped at her tea. It was quite refreshing, a nice morning blend. She added just a little sugar. 

Sliding the registration back into place, Graves nodded. “Thank you for the delivery.”

“You should be getting official mail from the Wizengamot regarding any urgent meetings or location changes or summonings as standard issue with that registration in place. I would recommend keeping it on you for a while until people are certain you’re a true proxy, but to keep it warded.”

“Of course,” Graves said, and for the first time since she’d met him, he cracked a little smile as one corner of his mouth turned up and showed the tip of a canine. “I’ll safeguard my position as my lord’s proxy quite well, don’t worry about that, Ms. Flint.”

Heather blinked a few times and then smiled sharply right back at him. 

She had a feeling that working with Graves was going to be just fine.

The platform was crowded with people, making Harry quite glad he’d said his goodbyes and simultaneously sad that he had no one to say goodbye to here. He glanced at children being hugged by their parents, sometimes hugging tightly back and other times squirming to get free as quickly as possible and felt a pang in his heart. He knew he’d never get the same—there would be no parent to see him off, to hug him so tightly he’d get lifted off his feet, to ruffle his hair and shout their goodbyes and call him a silly nickname as he hurried to the train. But someday, he knew, that he would be that parent for a whole gaggle of children. 

He saw a few sets of siblings get on the train at once and thought how wonderful that must be, to always have someone to sit with even if you didn’t know anyone else. Harry saw a pair of young girls, probably his own age, hand in hand as they walked up to the train, their trunks floating behind them and their dark hair pulled back in matching braids. They were twins, he noticed, and that envy of a sibling grew even stronger for a moment.

Harry shook off those feelings by force, focusing on the fact that he couldn’t change his past, but he could do anything in the future—and that he would make his life better in the future. His own and his Soulmate’s. 

Apep hissed comforting sounds to him, wordless as it tended to be in crowded places, and Harry pressed his hand over his arm briefly, sending his thanks to the snake. He wasn’t alone. He just had to remember that.

Getting onto the train was easy enough, he slipped through the crowd quickly as he didn’t have to worry about a trailing trunk, and soon he was peering into various compartments to find one that suited him. Many of the ones he saw at first were filled with older students or were closed and locked already. He thought he’d like an empty one, perhaps, when he peeked into one and saw those twin girls from before along with two others. He pulled back, about to move on, when a voice called out to him, “Are you Lord Potter?”

Harry blinked in surprise and leaned back into the doorway, “Uh, yes? Who’s asking?”

A girl with blonde hair blushed a little and said, “Me. Hello.” She leaped up to her feet and gave him a bobbing curtsey, “My name is Hannah Abbott. My Auntie Babs met you this summer and told me to look out for you on the train.”

Harry frowned for a moment, trying to place the name, before he recalled the excitable woman from Mrs. McClare’s brunch. “Oh, Barbara Abbott you mean?”

“Yes!” Hannah beamed, “She said she had such a fun time at the brunch. Would you like to sit with us?” She looked at the other girls and asked nervously, “That’s okay, right?”

“Sure,” said the brunette sitting beside her. She had a gray-striped tabby cat on her lap and was scratching it behind the ears. “I don’t mind. Do you two?”

The other two girls were the twins that Harry had noticed before; they were Indian and identical, though they gave different reactions to his presence. One of them wrinkled her nose and the other looked curiously over, “Did you say Lord Potter? As in Harry Potter?” 

“Yes,” Harry said. 

The twin who wrinkled her nose looked more interested now. “Like in the books?” she asked.

“Oh probably not,” Harry said, “I mean, I am that Harry Potter but I’m nothing like the books say.”

“Come sit with us,” Hannah insisted, “At least for a little bit.”

“Okay,” Harry said as he stepped in.

Hannah beamed at him as he took a seat next to her. “This is Susan Bones, we’ve been friends for years. And these two are Padma and Parvati Patil. We all went to the same finishing school last summer.” 

“It’s nice to meet you,” the Patil twins said simultaneously. Parvati giggled after doing so and Padma gave an irritated look to her sister. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you all,” Harry said. He didn’t know what to say to them at all—before this last summer, he’d had no casual conversation with anyone and up until now the only people he’d really talked to were adults. He nervously fidgeted in his seat and blurted out the first thing that came to mind, “Does anyone know how long it will take the train to get to Hogwarts?”

“It’s a couple of hours,” Susan said, “There’ll be a sweets trolly that comes by after a while.”

“I’m so excited for that,” Hannah gushed, “They have cauldron cakes and licorice wands and even chocolate frogs. I saved up so much of my allowance for sweets.”

Harry relaxed a little bit as the conversation on sweets carried naturally to other things. The girls were quite content with talking amongst themselves, leaving him mostly out of it. It was kind of nice, he thought, to be part of the group enough that he could add things if he wanted to, but they weren’t just staring at him the whole time. Well, Parvati tended to stare a lot, but that was fine. He was sort of famous, after all.

There were other people who peeked in as the train filled up, but after a quick glance at the girls chattering, most of them left again. Harry had somehow ended up between Hannah and Susan, mostly because he’d asked to pet the cat—Susan’s cat Silvester—and had to move over to do so. Soon, the train had started up and off they were headed to Hogwarts. 

The trolly came and Harry joined Hannah in loading up on sweets. He had no idea when he’d be able to buy these again and definitely wanted to try it all. He got some chocolate frogs to share and a giant bag of Berties Beans to snack on himself. The chocolate was just as delicious when charmed to hop around as it had been for his ice cream earlier that summer and Harry decided that chocolate was definitely the best sweets flavor around.

He was picking through his Beans for some good ones to try when Hannah asked the group at large, “What House does everyone think they’re going to get?”

“Mm, Hufflepuff or Gryffindor for me,” Susan said thoughtfully, “Lots of my family ended up Hufflepuff.”

“I want to be in Gryffindor,” Parvati said excitedly, “I love the red and gold colors and I hear they get to live in a tower!” She linked arms with her sister and exclaimed, “Padma and I are going to have so much fun together!”

Padma gave a hesitant smile. “I think living in a tower would be fun,” she said, “I heard Gryffindor is really rambunctious, though. I’d like a quieter House. Maybe Ravenclaw?”

Parvati frowned at her sister, “But if you go to Ravenclaw and I go to Gryffindor, then we’ll be alone!”

“We could both go to Ravenclaw,” Padma said with a little shrug, “I think it would be smart to go there anyway, they’re the ones that study the most.”

“What about you, Harry?” Hannah asked before Parvati could respond. “Are you going to go to Gryffindor like your parents?”

“Oh,” Harry blinked, “I didn’t know it was like that. I figured I’d go to Slytherin.”

His declaration made the twins stop their quiet bickering while Susan gasped and Hannah’s mouth dropped open in shock. “Slytherin? Why would you want to go there!?”

“Well,” Harry shifted uneasily, shocked by how surprised they were. Was this what Healer Travers had meant when she talked about how people didn’t like Slytherins because of the snakes and Dark magic association? “Slytherin is the home of the ambitious. I like to think I’m loyal like a Hufflepuff and smart like a Ravenclaw and courageous like a Gryffindor, but most of all I’m ambitious. I mean. One day soon I’ll be a Great Lord. I’m going to need help doing that and in the House of Slytherin I’ll get that help.”

At their dismayed expressions, he continued nervously, “Not that I wouldn’t be able to get that help in other Houses too, I just— well being responsible with my Lordship is really important to me.” He floundered a little—he didn’t want to tell them about his Soulmate; he was determined to keep his mark as much of a secret as possible, but that meant finding another reason he could tell people about why he wanted to be a Great Lord rather than just because his soulmate was one.

Susan recovered first, blinking hurriedly and asking, “I guess I can see that. I suppose that heirships are important, I just worry that you’re not going to find any good help in Slytherin. They’re notoriously self-centered, you know.”

“I mean, I wouldn’t know,” Harry said, “I don’t know if anyone I’ve met yet was a Slytherin or not. If they were, then they’ve helped me despite that.”

“Slytherin is full of dark wizards though!” Hannah exclaimed, “They’re all supporters of You-know-who!”  She clutched her hands together in front of herself, eyes wide with fright, “They’ll try to hurt you because you defeated him as a baby!” 

Harry frowned. “How could I have? I was a baby. If anyone did anything, it was my mum and dad, and they died doing it. If they try to hurt me because of that, then I’ll deal with it. I’m not totally defenseless.”

“I don’t know,” Parvati said, “It sounds pretty courageous and reckless to go somewhere you’re going to be under attack. You might end up in Gryffindor with a thought like that.”

“Then I’ll end up in Gryffindor,” Harry shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t really care which house I go to— My goals aren’t going to change because of where I sleep or what color I wear. I’ll do my best in any case.”

“And that’s a very Hufflepuff thought,” Susan said with a grin, looking a little less pale now, “You really could end up anywhere, you know.”

Harry shot her a sharp look but she just laughed. 

“Well, I don’t think you’ll end up in Ravenclaw,” Parvati declared, “You’re not bookish enough. You’d have to be more like Padma then.” This statement got the twins arguing about which tower was better, Gryffindor or Ravenclaw, and Harry relaxed a little bit. He leaned back with a sigh and went back to sorting through his Beans.

Quietly, Hannah leaned closer to him and whispered, “If you do end up in Slytherin or Gryffindor, will you still be friends with me, Harry?”

Harry blinked, surprised at the ask. Someone wanted to be friends with him? Really? 

He hadn’t ever had a friend before because of the efforts of the Dursleys to keep him isolated from other kids his age and he didn’t think of the adults he met this summer as his friends. Even the elves weren’t quite his friends—they called him Master after all. They were his servants.

“Sure,” he said after a bit, “We’ll stay friends. We can study together too, if you like.”

Hannah beamed at him. “Great!” 

Harry smiled back. Whatever House he ended up in, at least he’d have a friend.

Mary Travers knocked on the red door and then stepped back, waiting. There was some shuffling from the other side before the heavy turn of the lock sounded and the door opened ajar. 

Oswyn Rowle looked about as ancient as he had the last time she’d seen him several years ago, wispy white hair curling around his temples, but his eyes were bright. His age hadn’t overcome him yet. 

They stared at each other in silence for a long minute. Mary arched an eyebrow. Oswyn sighed. 

He pulled open the door further and let her in. 

His shop looked different from the last time she was there. More bolts of cloth littered the front area, as well as multiple mannequins in various robes. The models carried his typical style, but with fresh patterned fabrics and new twists here and there to the layers and folds. She didn’t have much of an eye for fashion, but she could tell that these were new enough—Oswyn must be working commissions again.

Of course, that was what rumor had already told her. A certain celebrity had been spotted in his well-known style and it had brought buyers back to the man—even though he’d been almost fully ostracized only a decade ago.

Oswyn led her right through to the back of his store, which was as cluttered as the front, though with more half-finished pieces here. He cleared off a table with a wave of his wand, sending some embroidery off to a shelf and summoning a tea set. “Herbal or black?” He asked.

“Herbal,” she said. She took a seat, smoothing out her robes and settling in. Oswyn set the water to boil and shuffled together the necessaries for their tea. He didn’t have any biscuits, but instead a bit of sweet bread that he cut and offered. 

“This is quite lovely,” she said after taking a bite. It was a fine lemon cake, perfect for the herbal brew she could smell. She ate about half her cake and then pushed it to the side. 

Oswyn poured their tea out and then sat down, sighing as he did so. 

“I’ve met him,” Mary said as she cooled her tea with a silent wave of her wand. 

“Oh?” Oswyn retorted as he poured cream and sugar into his own drink. He didn’t bother to prevaricate and added, “What do you think of him?”

“I’m sure you can guess,” she said, “He’s much like his parents. Naive and trusting. Good-natured and powerful.” She sipped her tea and then gave a sharp smile, “I can’t decide if it’s irony at its greatest or karmic justice that he ended up bound to our Lord.”

Oswyn hesitated in raising his cup to his mouth. Then he sighed again and drank. He looked older as he set the cup down. “So you saw it.”

“Yaxley’s nephew asked me to be the boy’s healer,” she said, “Of course I saw it.” She sipped her tea and then added, “I saw also your handiwork on the wrap he wears to cover it. So I know you’ve seen it too.”

“I won’t argue with you about that,” Oswyn said. “He had a muggle bandage on it when we met. He would have been caught out within a week if I let him go without a cover.” He shook his head, “Poor boy.”

Mary rolled her eyes. “He’s linked to the strongest wizard of our age—stronger even than Dumbledore and you pity him? There are so many who would have given anything and everything to have what he has.”

“You think him fortunate to be bound soul to soul to the murderer of his own parents?” Oswyn frowned at her, “Powerful or not, our Lord is not kind nor compassionate. That boy will suffer at his side, of that there is no doubt.”

“So you would have him refute his match then? You would refuse to help bring our Lord back? Now that we have proof that he still lives?”

“I did not say that,” Oswyn returned, “I simply said he is unfortunate. The boy is pure and kind, he is the child savior of the wizarding world and renowned for destroying our Lord and ending the war. Once people find out that he is bound to his soul, that he is a herald for our Lord’s return, all that fervor and adoration will turn to fear and contempt. The whole world will turn on him.”

“Not the whole world,” Mary countered fiercely, “Not nearly the whole world. Those of us who still believe will be at his side. We’ll bring back our Lord and he’ll combine his power to Potter’s and become even more powerful than before. All that we fought for and believed in will then come true. Don’t you see? He is a herald—a herald for a true Dark Age.”

“Who have you told of his mark?” Oswyn asked, eyeing her, “How many know besides you?”

“I have no proof except my own testimony,” Mary said, “I’ll tell the ones who will trust me, but my reputation isn’t what it once was, as I’m sure you can understand. You and I will need to work together so that people will believe us and help us prepare.” 

“Did you tell him?” Oswyn asked, “Does he know who he is bound to?”

Mary sniffed, “Of course not. Who do you think I am? He is in no position to bring back our Lord yet. He must be more fully swayed to our side first. If he finds out who he is bound to now, he’ll surely refuse to assist us. He’s a self-righteous child. He would refute our Lord in a heartbeat.”

Oswyn took a deep drink of his tea, looking off to the side. 

Mary leaned forward, “Think about it, Oz, think what it could mean to have our Lord brought back. All that we have suffered and lost, you know he would get justice for us. He would right the wrongs of our world once more. He would fight for our rights and with Dumbledore aging and the Ministry full of windbags, he’d win in a heartbeat!”

“And on a field of blood,” Oswyn muttered, “Can we be so certain that his sanity will return when he does? Or will he be that half mad man he became at the end?” He looked at her again, his eyes glinting and cold. “Don’t tell me you have forgotten his fury and impatience. He was just as free with his curses to his own followers as he was to his enemies. He ruled with fear even in his own domain. Is it not better to live free of fear and with minor inconveniences, than to live with the terror of the Dark Lord present over us once more?”

“It will not be the same,” Mary said firmly. “His connection to Potter’s soul will stabilize him.”

“Are we certain of that?” Oswyn said, “Are we at all sure that his sanity can be returned to him? Where is he now? If his body was obliterated, but his soul remains, then where is it? What does he experience now? How will that change him? He’s spent ten years as a soul, tethered to the world somehow, but we don’t know for sure. We don’t know what kept him or how to find him.”

“Perhaps not, but he’s the boy’s soulmate. He’ll seek him out and help him come back. Without permanent repudiation, he won’t be able to resist it,” Mary declared firmly. “You’ll see.”

Oswyn leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. He turned away again. “Unless we are sure he will return sane again—I do not think it wise to pursue his resurrection.” 

Mary set her teacup down firmly. “I see. Then I shall not bother you further. Good day, Mr. Rowle.” She got to her feet, hesitating for a moment, waiting for Oswyn to refute his declaration. 

When he did nothing but sip from his teacup, Mary left the table. She saw herself out of the shop, a fierce fire burning in her chest—there would be others who believed her, others that would help her, and soon, soon, her Lord would live again.

She would see to it herself if she must.

Harry ended up arm in arm with Hannah as they made their way towards the lake and the boats to cross it. They followed along with the other first years in the wake of the largest man he’d ever met in his life. 

At the boats, where they could only sit four to a person, they split from the twins and ended up with a boy they didn’t recognize. Hannah, ever cheerful as Harry had discovered, immediately introduced herself to him. “Hello,” she beamed, “I’m Hannah Abbott. These are my friends, Susan Bones and Lord Harry Potter.”

Harry blinked a little, surprised at the addition of his title. The boy in the boat with them straightened up slightly and replied, “Blaise Zabini.” His dark gaze was focused on Harry. 

“It’s nice to meet you,” Harry said quickly before he whispered to Hannah, “You don’t need to use my title at school, Hannah. We’re all peers here.”

“Are you ashamed of your title?” Zabini asked before Hannah could respond. Harry immediately turned back to him, frowning.

“Of course not,” he said.

“Then why are you shying away from using it?”

“I just don’t see the point when I’m not acting as a Lord right now,” Harry said, “I’m here to learn magic with everyone else so I’m just Harry Potter.”

Zabini nodded slightly and then looked away. Hannah huffed and elbowed Harry, pouting at him, “You are a Lord though, you should use your title when introducing yourself. It’s only proper.”

“Well, as a Lord don’t I get to say what’s proper?” Harry retorted, “Then I think it’s unnecessary and I won’t bother.”

Hannah huffed again, but went quiet, looking up at Hogwarts instead. Susan, who sat on her other side, was oddly quiet and stiff, watching Zabini and the castle in equal measure, though Harry wasn’t sure why. He decided to look up at the castle as well, rubbing his left arm as he felt Apep twisting around in place. He could tell the snake wanted to see the castle for itself, but that it wasn’t safe to do so.

Instead, he stared and stared, trying to take in the whole beautiful sight. He thought he’d never seen anything quite so beautiful—except maybe the view of his own Manor appearing on the horizon. Just like the Manor, this castle would be his home, his refuge from the past that he wanted to leave far behind him.

All of the boats went in under a gate and into a cavernous dock, where Harry and his future classmates shuffled off and were handed from the giant man to a stern-looking woman in a pointed hat.

She looked over the whole of them with her lips pursed, but the moment her gaze settled on Harry she very obviously paused and stared. She seemed to take a deep breath and almost smile, as if seeing him had relaxed some anxiety for her, and she then began to speak.

Harry nodded along to the introductions, learning her name and some basic rules and that they’d have to wait a bit before they were sorted. Then they followed her into a side room to the Great Hall and waited there as she stepped out for a bit. Some of the other children began to whisper amongst themselves. 

Harry, edging closer to the wall, reached out and put his right hand on the stone, feeling the magic thrumming in it the way he had at the Manor. It wasn’t as strong—he didn’t feel drawn anywhere like he had when entering Potter Manor for the first time, but there was something alive here that he hadn’t ever felt in a building before that or since. There must have been so much magic that was done here, so much power released and settled into the stone, into the very land.

That wasn’t surprising, though. It was a school after all.

Harry looked up when he heard shrieking and he saw ghosts floating through the ceiling in a parade. There were some that showed their grisly ends, including one who was boisterous and introduced himself as the Friar. When the ghosts spotted Harry, a few of them gave excited shrieks of their own and vanished back through the stone. The Friar exclaimed, “Oh my word!” 

And one of the ghosts, who looked like he was covered in blood, stared down at Harry, his eyes hooded and his face a stony mask.

Before anyone could move or ask a single thing, however, Professor McGonagall returned and dismissed the ghosts with a glare. They faded away, leaving the room quiet and somewhat disturbed, and she then hustled the lot of them into the Great Hall.

Harry dragged his feet a little, suddenly feeling a lot more nervous about all of this. He knew he’d have to write back to Ignatia and Ralston about the ghosts. Of course, his family magic was tied to death—he’d figured out that much, thank you—but he didn’t think it was apparent to others, not even ghosts. But maybe they were more magically sensitive? He had no idea for sure.

His thoughts about ghosts was utterly distracted when he discovered that their Sorting would be done by a magical singing hat. He stared, jaw slack, as the thing danced through the air and sang about the various Houses, their virtues, and the value of unity throughout the school. Harry had gotten used to his talking mirror back home, but a whole talking hat? What else could wizards make talk with magic?

He waited in a group with the other students as McGonagall called out their names one by one. Hannah was sorted first and ended up in Hufflepuff, where she was welcomed with a cheer and plenty of clapping. Susan followed her into the house and the two girls sat with each other, smiling. 

The Patil twins were sorted before Harry, Padma first into Ravenclaw, Parvati into Gryffindor. He watched as the two girls parted ways near the tables and saw Padma looking after her sister with a trembling lower lip and Parvati with a nearly identical expression. He supposed they didn’t really think they’d be separated, even if they’d joked about it on the train.

And then it was his turn.

“Potter, Harry,” McGonagall called his name clearly, her voice ringing like a bell across the room. Immediately the whispering started and Harry saw people craning their necks to try and get a view of him. 

Harry lifted his chin and stepped forward. His heart pounded in his chest. This was it. 

He took the hat off of the stool and sat down. With one glance up at McGonagall, who gave him a slight, encouraging smile, Harry put the thing on his head.

“I do hope you know what you’re doing, Alex.”

Alexander paused in turning a page of his book and glanced up. “Uncle,” he greeted, “I didn’t know you were visiting.”

Corban Yaxley stood just inside of Alexander’s study, hands clasped behind his back. He looked as severe as always, his hair slicked back, his lips pressed into a slightly downward line. He approached slowly, eyeing the many books and papers that Alexander had out on his desk. 

He stopped a few feet from the pedestal that was near his bookshelf. The pensieve was dark, now, as Alexander knew better than to leave important memories just sitting in a bowl, but the cover was removed still, showing he’d recently been using it.

“Your efforts to fan dissent haven’t gone unnoticed,” Corban said as he peered at the pensive, “That you would embroil our family in so deeply disturbs me.”

“And what efforts might those be?” Alexander asked, leaning back in his chair. He put his quill back into its resting pot, realizing this conversation might take longer than he’d like. 

“Do not play dumb with me,” Corban said. He turned sharply to look at him, “You’ve been sighted with the boy several times now. There have been whispers of a new proxy stepping into power in the autumnal session, and that they’ll be legitimate.” He gestured to the books around Alexander, “How go your preparations? Do you really think you’re made for the Wizengamot?”

Alexander blinked in surprise. He managed not to laugh, but only barely. “You think I’m the proxy?”

Corban’s expression twisted, “Don’t tell me you let it go to that Flint girl. There’s no way she can fight the sharks that circle in that room.”

With a shake of his head, Alexander said, “I doubt that. I don’t think they’re sharks at all. Perhaps very large fish. Perhaps very used to exactly how big their tank is and who else lives in it, too. Heather would do fine there, but no, she’s not the proxy either.” 

Corban turned fully towards him now. “Then who? You’ve let your puppet get too much string if you’ve given him leave to pick some other proxy. You can’t afford to let him make such foolish mistakes, not when your grandmother is tied to his name.”

“The only people who know Grandma is tied to him are those in the family and him,” Alexander said, “And you mistake my relationship with him entirely if you think he’s my puppet.”

“He’s a child,” Corban argued, stepping closer to his desk, “A child of Light folk and the child that brought about the end of the war and the end of the Dark Lord’s reign, what more could he be than a puppet? Don’t tell me you’re so blind that you’ve been converted to their idiotic views!”

“True, Harry is a child,” Alexander said, lifting his chin stubbornly and meeting his uncle’s gaze. He didn’t have to worry about his thoughts being viewed—his uncle didn’t have a deft enough hand to have a conversation and invade his mind at the same time. “He is a child of Light wixen. He’s the child that brought down the Dark Lord. He’s also a child who was raised with abusive muggles and nurtures a deep desire to understand the culture that he was excluded from growing up. He asked me to find him a tutor in ritual work even after he knew it to be an illegal act. He sought out a proxy to his seats on the Wizengamot and chose someone who is certainly loyal to him.

“Uncle, Harry is a Lord. He is not an heir, he is not the head of a minor house. He is a Lord with land and people. He is also a Lord with purpose. Tell me, when you were my age and you swore yourself to a Lord, did you not first engage in acts of service to see if he was worthwhile to follow? What, exactly, is the difference between you vetting your Lord and me vetting mine?”

Corban’s face went first pale with Alexander’s words and then flushed. Anger flashed in his blue eyes. He leaned forward, looming over Alexander, but Alexander refused to let that intimidate him. “My Lord had a vision for the future that saw us in power over the muggles, as it should be. We were not beholden to those who would devalue our customs and throw out our traditions in favor of catering to mudblood sensibilities. My Lord had power and purpose. Yours is a child who does not know which end to hold his wand!”

Alexander took a deep breath and refused to rise to match his uncle’s anger. It wouldn’t be helpful and besides, the insult was baseless. He had seen Harry cast with his wand more than a few times. And not always in English, either, though Alexander would bet his left foot that Harry didn’t always realize when he slipped into the serpent tongue while casting.

“You think that your Lord sprang fully formed into existence?” Alexander said instead, scoffing at his uncle, “That he wasn’t a squalling babe born to a mortal mother? That he didn’t have his own childhood, his own youth, his own adolescence? Harry might be young, but he is not without power nor is he without vision. You have to be blind not to see his potential. Uncle, you may keep to your Lord, I will not change your mind, I know, but you will allow me the choice to follow my own path.”

“I will cast doubt and judgement on that path so long as you see fit to drag our family into it,” Corban countered, his voice rising with his anger. “You endanger us all with this action. If the boy is found out, all he must do is point his finger at our family and your grandmother would be arrested—”

“Harry would not do that, nor will it come to that,” Alexander said. “He understands that there is danger in learning rituals and—”

“What does a child understand of danger?” Corban shouted, “What does a child understand of planning for the future? They simply cannot fathom what sort of world they are in, what sort of people will do anything to claw them down! You have chosen a weak Lord, Alex, and I will not see you bring the family down with you. Not after all I have done to keep it afloat.”

Alexander stood sharply, “All you have done to keep it afloat? You mean after you tanked our status yourself by swearing yourself to a madman who tore after a child for no reason? He had killed Harry’s parents already, what was the point of killing the child when he had spared so many before? If he hadn’t done so, he would still be here and we wouldn’t even be having this discussion!”

Corban drew his wand, “Do not speak such a way about my Lord,” he said firmly, “Do not dare to doubt him in my presence.”

“If you don’t want to hear my words,” Alexander said, gesturing to the door to his study, “You may leave at once. I would rather you did, in fact, since I’ve got plenty of work to do.”

Corban’s grip tightened on his wand. His gaze narrowed. For a moment, Alexander thought he might have to dive to the side to avoid his uncle’s curse, but no. Instead of casting, Corban made a show of sheathing his wand again and shook his head in disgust. 

“You watch,” Corban said with a sneer, “That boy will disappoint you. He will fail you. He is no Lord. He is nothing but a prop for the Light, a puppet of the great puppeteer himself. You will have put all this investment into a poor excuse of a wizard and when it comes crumbling down around your ears, I will not spare you my judgement then, Alex.”

He stormed out after speaking, not leaving Alexander an opportunity to reply. He didn’t want to anyway, simply watching his uncle stomp out of the room and quickly drawing his wand to muffle the slamming of the door. 

With a sigh, Alexander sat back down. He rubbed at his eyes and dragged his hand through his hair, shaking off his uncle’s anger as best as he could. These accounts were barely legible as it was, he didn’t need his temper to make him impatient. He was onto something, he was sure of it.

He would prove himself to Harry, just as he was sure Harry would prove himself as a truly Great Lord to follow.

“SLYTHERIN!” 

Severus had just picked up his wine to take a sip, utterly prepared for the Hat to shout out the name of the lion house, home of the foolish, brash, and hypocritical. So, of course, when the brat decided to defy expectations, he froze in momentary surprise. His wine sloshed in his goblet, thankfully not quite enough to cause more than a little dribble off the side. Severus lowered his goblet and muttered a wandless cleaning spell at his hand as he watched Potter pluck the Hat from where it rested on his head for a mere handful of seconds.

Beside him, Pomona leaned nearer and whispered, “How long was that? Ten seconds?”

Severus, out of long habit of correcting others and a sense of time that had been finely tuned after years of potioneering, responded automatically, “Five.”

“Oh my,” Pomona replied. There had been few enough children that were sorted so fast—and of this cohort, only Draco had been quicker. Of course, knowing his godson, he had likely been chanting the name of the house he wanted in his head so that the Hat would pick the right one.

Potter strode down to the Slytherin table, head held high as if the foolish brat were actually proud of his sorting. 

While there was no doubt in Severus’s mind that Slytherin was the most accomplished house of the four, he had not expected Potter to think so. No, the boy should be slinking to the cover of the snake table, scowling and looking over his shoulder with longing at the lions. He should not be so seamlessly moving into the group of Slytherin students, seeking out an empty spot he liked, rather than going immediately for the nearest one.

He was acting as if this were expectant, as if this were the house he chose, as if he couldn’t have picked anywhere else.

Severus spared a glance for Albus and found his gaze lingering a moment. Albus had gone somewhat pale and tight around the eyes. His smile was fixed, forced in a way that was hard to notice from a distance, and his hand rested on his beard, a momentary pause in movement.

Interesting. He wasn’t sure if this was Albus’s reaction simply because the thought of the little Light hero sleeping amongst the den of Darkness wasn’t within Albus’s expectations or if he feared this sorting for some other more poignant reason. It was no secret that Albus not only neglected Slytherins but actively distrusted them the longer they had been in the house.

Severus would have been the first to tell him that being Slytherin was only a small portion of what caused the Darkness to grow within the students, but he never bothered. Albus wouldn’t have listened anyway.

As Potter settled down in that middling space between first and second years at the table, his housemates looked at him with trepidation. He wasn’t supposed to be there—everyone knew that. Everyone except for the boy himself. 

Minerva continued the Sorting, but everyone was thrown and antsy. Many children turned to crane their necks and stare at Potter, whether for his celebrity status or for his unusual sorting. Severus forced himself to relax his jaw and to finally take a sip of his drink. So he had Potter’s spawn in his House. Well then.

He would show the boy that there would be no tolerance for any foolish Gryffindor behavior. If he was to wear the colors of Slytherin, then he must be a Slytherin. And if that meant Severus had to grind what that meant into his tiny little brain by hand, then so be it. 

The boy would learn his place. Severus would make certain of it.

Chapter Text

The Slytherin common room was very green. 

Delighted, Harry looked around the room as his eyes adjusted to the dimmer lighting. They were deep in the dungeon area and the cooler temperatures denoted that, as well as that faint taste in the air—like damp earth or cold water. It was reminiscent of a burrow, he supposed, though he knew that snakes were too cold-blooded to enjoy cold places.

When one of the older years raised their wand and flicked it with a whispered command, several fireplaces sprang into life at once, bathing the room not only in heat but light. Harry relaxed onto his heels, now this was the warm sort of hidey-hole that a snake lived in.

He continued to admire the common room, as sprawling as it was, filled with tucked-away alcoves, chairs and couches of varying shades of green, black, and gray. There were a few bookshelves and a handful of portraits—the largest one hanging over the mantle catching his eye immediately. The frame was ornate, not only in design but color. As far as he could tell, it was the only source of gold in the whole room, including the wall sconces—those were perhaps a sort of silver or some other similar metal. 

A woman sat in the frame, her eyes cast to the side and her mouth pressed into a line. She had an oval-shaped face and dark hair that went to her shoulders. On her head was a thin circlet made of gold. She wore a dark red dress with a gold sash, another unusual color combination in the room, and sat in front of what appeared to be an open window that showed dark green forest and blue sky behind her. Her arms were folded close, her right hand resting on her inner left arm, and there was a large black stone ring on her left hand.

She didn’t move at all, which after several months of interacting with many portraits Harry found quite unusual. Perhaps she was shy? But if so, she could have gone to another portrait, couldn’t she? He frowned a little as he wandered over to look closer at the portrait. There was something strange about it, but he couldn’t put his finger on it…

“Firsties, listen up!” 

Harry blinked and turned away from the portrait. He noticed that the room had quite filled up with students and, besides the first years like himself, they had found their places all around, either sitting or standing in groups. Harry walked back over to join the other first years, ignoring the looks that they gave him in favor of paying attention to the speaker.

“My name is Gemma Fawley,” the young woman said, “And this is Eustice Carrow. We’re your seventh-year prefects this year.” Beside her, a thin-faced young man nodded. He had cold, sharp eyes and he was staring at Harry. 

“You’ve probably heard stories about Slytherin your whole lives,” Fawley said, her gaze moving from one first year to the next, “Some of that is true, some of it isn’t. What is true is that Slytherins have the oldest broom in the shed here at Hogwarts. The other students don’t like us. The teachers don’t believe us. The headmaster doesn’t trust us. If anything goes wrong and you’re around the corner and minding your own business, congratulations, you’ve got detention.”

There was some shuffling, not just from the first years but the older kids. A few murmurs rose and then fell again and one boy snickered behind a hand.

Fawley shot them a glare, but they only shut up when Carrow turned his head and pointedly cleared his throat.

Into the silence, Fawley said, “Now, if you’re a true Slytherin,” and here she gave Harry a narrow look, which he held very still under and did not respond to, “you’ll know that our strength comes from our unity. Outside of these walls, every one of us is family—you do not ignore your brother in need, you do not let your sister walk alone, understand?”

Harry nodded along with the other first years. 

“Now of course we have our disputes,” Carrow said, smoothly stepping into the brief silence Fawley left, “but they are to be handled here, in the privacy of our den, not amongst the others.” He flicked his finger dismissively, “Our business isn’t theirs to know about, so keep it that way, got that?”

There was more nodding and murmured agreement. 

“Good,” Fawley said, “Professor Snape will speak to us in the morning at seven forty-five exactly to give us our schedules and give some brief information. You will be there on time, understand?”

More agreement, though with a distinct gloominess to it. Harry figured his new yearmates probably wanted to sleep in as much as they could. He could understand that, even if he found it impossible to sleep in himself—he’d spent too many years getting up at the crack of dawn with Petunia to do so naturally.

“Now head up to your dorms—boys on the left, girls on the right,” Fawley said, “Go on.”

There was some shuffling but eventually the first years left; Harry went along with them. He sent one glance back at the portrait, curious, and saw the woman’s gaze had shifted ever so slightly—she was looking out at them, watching them, and Harry saw her eyes clearly for the first time. 

They were bright, crimson red.

The dorms were similar in style to the common room, Harry noticed. Very green and black and silver, though with a touch of white in the linens. It was very nice, he thought, and he would have admired it more if not for the fact that as soon as he’d gone into the room all the other boys had clustered up together and turned to look at him as one unit. Well, not exactly all of the boys—Zabini, whom he’d met before, was a little back and outside of the cluster, sitting on the bed he must have claimed as his own. Another boy, pale and tall and with somewhat sunken eyes, stood off to the other side, watching them in silence.

It was the other three that stood stubbornly against Harry, the blond Malfoy—Harry remembered him being sorted, since he’d heard that name before—and two bigger boys that had all the look of Piers Polkiss to them but with Dudley’s bulk.

“Well, well, well,” Malfoy sneered, “Harry Potter. So you think you’re a proper Slytherin, do you? You think you belong here with us?” 

Harry blinked. “I did get sorted here by the Hat,” he said, “You were there, Malfoy, you saw it happen.”

Malfoy puffed up like an irritated bird, “And you think that makes you one of us? You’re not. You never will be.”

Harry stared at him. Apep writhed on his arm—silently, thank goodness—and Harry really wished he wasn’t keeping his mark a secret so he could shut Malfoy up by showing it to him. Nothing had to be more Slytherin than his soulmate mark being a talking snake. 

He hated having to deal with bullies and Malfoy sounded like the most annoying kind—the ones that wouldn’t hurt you themselves and would cry to a teacher if you retaliated even a little bit. Piers had been a bit like that before he crossed paths with Dudley and they became best friends over a game of Harry Hunting.

Coldness settled in Harry’s belly. If he didn’t deal with this now, would the rest of his seven years look like those of his life with the Dursleys? Trying not to be noticed, scurrying around at the edge of the group, never having any friends?

No, Harry thought fiercely, no, I will not live like that anymore. Slytherin or not, I am a Lord. 

He drew himself up and gave Malfoy his most scathing look, lip curled, chin lifted, head tilted a little so he could look down his nose at the other boy. “Is that it? Is that your big threat, Malfoy? I’m not a proper Slytherin despite being sorted here? I’ll never be one of you?” He let his lip curl even more, letting himself feel the disgust of all bullies he’s had to face growing up fill him up to the brim, “Have you not considered that I don’t particularly care if I’m one of you? I’m not here for you, Malfoy. I didn’t even know you existed before today. I don’t care what you think.”

The color rose on Malfoy’s cheeks. He took a step forward before stopping himself. “Well, if you don’t care what we think of you then—”

“I said I don’t care what you think. You specifically ,” Harry cut him off harshly, speaking louder than he had before. “From what I can see, you’re little better than my muggle cousin and he was a stupid bully. I don’t have time for bullies, thanks.”

Malfoy gasped. “How dare you! I’ll tell my father you compared me to a muggle!”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Oh so you’re a tattle-tale too, yeah, you’re just like this muggle kid I used to know. He was always spying on other kids and then running to tell on them to the teacher. No one is going to like you if you’re always snitching on them, you know? They’ll pretend they like you, but they won’t really. They’ll always make fun of you behind your back. I know. I’ve seen it before.”

Malfoy bit his bottom lip, his eyes going wide. He looked like he was trying to compose himself, his face contorting a little before smoothing out. But his bottom lip was swollen from being bitten and his gray eyes were too wide to be calm. “You take that back,” he demanded. His hands were fists at his side, “People don’t make fun of me behind my back!”

“If you snitched on them then I bet they do,” Harry said, “Snitches aren’t liked by anyone. They always get called rats or weasels.”

“No!” Malfoy exclaimed, as if this were a particularly foul insult. “I’m not a weasel! I— I— You wait until my father hears you calling me a weasel!”

Harry folded his arms over his chest, “That is exactly what I’m talking about. You want to go complain to your dad about every little insult? Fine. Go ahead. He has no authority over me. It means nothing.”

Malfoy’s face was flushed again, a mottling of pink and white like he was angry enough that it couldn’t settle on one or the other. He opened his mouth and shut it again. He looked like he was about to work himself into saying something, but then Zabini chuckled.

It was a quiet noise, barely there at all, but the room was otherwise silent and Zabini was only muffling the sound a little by snickering into his hand. Malfoy whipped around to stare at him, eyes going huge again, as if he just remembered they had an audience. His face dropped in mortification. 

“Just give up, Draco,” Zabini said with a smirk on his face, “Potter’s got a point. What can your dad do to him? After all, aren’t they both Lords? It’s not like anything he does against Potter can be done on the sly.”

“Potter’s not a Lord!” Malfoy snapped at him. 

“Yes he is,” offered the other boy, his voice soft. He dipped his head towards Harry’s side, “He’s wearing his ring.”

“That’s an heirship ring!” Malfoy argued, “Obviously!”

“Except heirships don’t get given out before thirteen,” Zabini said, “And I’ve sat next to him twice now. I’ve seen it well enough. That’s a Lord’s ring.”

Malfoy whirled to face Harry, expression disbelieving. “That’s not true! You don’t have your Lordship! You’re just eleven like me!”

Harry sighed. He lifted his hand and wiggled his fingers, letting the red stone flash in the light. “Actually, Zabini is right.” He glanced at the sallow boy, “You both are.” He dropped his left hand and then turned, extending his right hand to the unknown boy. “We haven’t met yet. I’m Lord Harry Potter.”

The boy looked at his hand, then glanced over at Malfoy and then back to Harry. With a hooded gaze, he took Harry’s hand and shook it once, “Theo Nott. Heir-apparent.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” Harry said. He then turned to the two boys that flanked Malfoy, both with confused, if somewhat stubborn expressions. “And you two are?”

They exchanged a look with each other and then to Malfoy. Malfoy stomped his foot and stuck his hand out first, “Greet me first, Potter, not my vassals! I’m Draco Malfoy, heir-apparent to the Malfoy Lordship!”

Harry considered the pale hand before him for a long moment. If he shunned Malfoy now, he was sure it would be a blow to the boy’s pride, just like calling him a bully and a weasel had been. He looked up into Malfoy’s face and saw just a glimmer of anxiety or perhaps fear—Malfoy wasn’t sure he would accept his handshake.

But Harry didn’t want to be a bully in turn. He was a Lord. He had to be better than that. 

So he took Malfoy’s hand and shook it firmly, “Lord Harry Potter. It’s been interesting to meet you, Malfoy. Perhaps we can get off on a better foot now that we’re properly introduced?”

Malfoy huffed and looked away as he let go. He briefly squeezed his right hand with his left, as if he couldn’t believe he’d actually gotten a handshake. He looked pleased, even if a little upset still. Harry wondered what his letter back to his parents would look like after all this. After all, Harry had no doubt Malfoy would write everything back to his parents as soon as he could.

Then Harry was able to introduce himself to his other roommates—Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle—before politely excusing himself. He wanted to familiarize himself with his portion of the room and get a letter written before he went to bed. 

The dorm was a long room divided up into six beds with an adjoining small desk and dresser that formed a little alcove. At the far end of the room was a fireplace, which was currently burning low and filled with embers. Harry always felt a little cold so he picked one of the beds closest to the far end and pulled his trunk from his pocket. He unshrunk it and then rummaged through. 

He’d never shared a room with anyone before—previous to the manor, he’d never had a real bedroom to share. But his run-in with Malfoy did remind him that he didn’t know these other kids and he couldn’t exactly trust them. They might not be outright hostile right now—at least not anymore—but they probably didn’t like him still. 

So, Harry only withdrew from his trunk the clothes he would be wearing tomorrow and hung them up in the wardrobe. He then took out his school books, put them in his shoulder bag and set that in the bottom of the wardrobe as well. Closing the door, he murmured one of the locking spells that Apep had taught him and tapped his wand against the handle. 

There was enough seclusion between his wardrobe and the bed that he changed without worrying about being watched and though he’d gotten used to taking his band off at night so that Apep could ‘breathe’ Harry was hesitant to do so now. What if they saw his mark? Perhaps they might not think as badly of him as others, since they were Slytherins, but they would probably tell others. 

Harry rubbed his arm thoughtfully. What if he could find out who his soulmate was more quickly if other people knew? He could show them and ask them if they’d seen it before… But then, would it be as special? What if his soulmate didn’t want anyone to know about their mark? What if people thought Harry was evil because he had a snake on his arm?

Deciding to put that circle of questions aside for now, Harry sat down at his desk and wrote two letters—one quick one to his healer, asking a few questions and letting her know he’d settled in all right and could receive his potion delivery at Hogwarts, and the other one to the elves and portraits back home—his family. He wrote until his eyelids began to droop and then, with a yawn that cracked his jaw, Harry signed his name. 

Tucking the letters into his notebook, he put that in a drawer, locked it, and then crawled into bed.

With the warmth of the fire nearby and the soft sounds of the other sleeping, it took Harry only moments before he, too, was gone.

Morning came early for Harry, as it usually did. 

The fire was low still, only smoldering embers, a soft glow of red-orange light that he used to dress by. He made up his bed with a flick of his wand, put his dirty clothes in the basket in the bottom of his wardrobe, straightened his tie and picked up his bag. Grabbing his notebook and the letters inside, Harry crept out of the dorm quietly enough that not one of his roommates woke.

The Slytherin common room was also silent, though there was a strange tang of magic in the air. Like someone had been casting a lot of spells and it hadn’t all dissipated yet. Harry approached the fireplace so he could get a better look at the woman in the portrait frame. She had her eyes to the side again, demure in her expression, and utterly unmoving.

“Hello,” Harry said to her, “My name is Harry Potter.”

She didn’t respond. 

He watched her for a minute or two more, but decided if she didn’t want to talk, then that was her right. So he said goodbye to her and left. He had a letter to send and a gyrfalcon to check on.

Out in the halls, Harry worked his way up to the main level, where the portraits started. He walked up to the first one he saw with people in it and asked for directions to the mews.

“You mean the owlery?” replied a knight in silver armor and leaning against a fortress wall. 

“Well, I suppose so,” Harry replied. “Wherever they keep falcons around here.”

The man perked up slightly, “Why, it has been some time since a wizard has turned to the royal art of falconry! Still, it is likely that your bird rests amongst the others within the owlery. You will find the access point on the second floor, betwixt the statue of the owl maiden and the portrait of Jaune by the sea.”

“Thank you,” Harry said. He chatted a bit more, to get the name of the knight in the portrait and tell him a bit about Octavian, but soon he was on his way up to the second floor. The stairs up to the owlery were quite long and winding, leaving Harry a little winded at the top.

Once there, he was welcomed by the familiar scent of bird dust and sight of Octavian perched overhead. There were quite a lot of owls there, many of them shuffling in place or sleeping, some of them with packages or bundles of letters clutched in their talons and obviously waiting to deliver them.

Octavian called out to him and swooped down to Harry’s outstretched arm. He looked pointedly out to the window and then back to Harry, mantling his feathers briefly in suggestion.

“I can’t fly with you this morning,” Harry said sadly as he scratched beneath some feathers on Octavian’s neck, “I haven’t got my broom since first years aren’t allowed to bring them. I do, however, have some letters for you.” He produced them both for Octavian, who held out his leg for them. 

“This one is for Healer Mary Travers,” Harry said as he tied the smaller letter to his left leg. “And this one is for Opal and the others back home. If you have time, go ahead and swing by Mr. Graves and Alexander for me, would you? They might have some letters for me.” 

Octavian chirped at him and fluttered his wings. Harry carried him over to the window and helped launch him into the air. He stayed there for a while, watching Octavian fly off into the sunrise over the distant green hills of Scotland.

“Wow,” Harry murmured, “This place is so pretty.”

He could see out over most of Hogwarts grounds from where he was, at least the lake and the woods and the small stone hut down near the edge of the woods. There was a path down to that and also to the gates at the far end of the land that Hogwarts was settled on. He saw the small village that the train had arrived in last night; it was a fair collection of buildings along two or three little streets and some of the chimneys had smoke rising from them.

Drawing his wand, Harry checked the time. He still had about an hour before he had to be in the common room for his morning meeting with the other Slytherins and their head of house. Perfect.

“Apep,” Harry asked, “Where in the school should I explore first?” 

Beneath his long sleeves and the obscuring band he wore, Harry could feel the snake twist and turn in thought. Apep had been quiet recently—only speaking up when it thought it absolutely necessary. Harry missed their frequent conversations and, of course, the stories that Apep could tell him of his soulmate. However, he missed most of all just being able to see his mark and remember that he wasn’t alone—no matter how difficult things became, he would always have his soulmate.

“So much of the school still slumbers, my dearest, my soul. Beneath the stone, in the pipes, in the cold, there rests a king of kings. In the spires, lit by the sun’s earliest rays, rests a machine to see beyond the skies, into the expanse of space, to read the stars. In the belly, where warmth seeps into the stone, work those familiar to you, my soul, my chosen, industrious and unseen, the hidden hand that keeps all of Hogwarts functioning. A hall of endless tomes, surpassing most other collections on the isles, sits and waits for deep exploration. Within such shelves will be knowledge beyond anything you’ve seen yet, all twisted amongst the detritus of pompous fools who waste their words in their own ego.” Apep hissed, his voice rising and falling in a lulling cadence. 

“And these are just some of the few places within these stone walls. My chosen, you have entered a whole new realm of possibility here. The magic you can embrace here is deeply rooted, not just in the stone but in the land, in the earth and the waters of the lake. All of it shall be ours, all of it shall bend to our will. The Great Lord, he who carries the blood of one of the Founders in his own veins, once called this place his home. So too can you, my dearest. Do you not feel how the magic unfurls beneath your fingers?”

Harry laid his hands on the stone of the window sill. He closed his eyes, trying to feel it like Apep had said, like he had felt it back at the Manor. 

After a long minute of silence, during which all he heard was the fluttering and chittering of the birds around him and all he felt was cool stone beneath his fingers, Harry thought that maybe, just maybe, he felt something. 

“I feel…” Harry started, brows furrowed together. “I feel a pulse? Maybe?” 

“Good, my dearest, my soul, good. The more you practice, the more you shall feel.” 

Harry smiled. He pressed one hand briefly against Apep and then turned from the window. “I think the first thing to do is to get familiar with my way around,” he said, “Then we can go look for sleeping kings and machines to stare at the stars.”

He felt Apep contort itself into a pleased little knot, a tickling sensation that came with a little burst of warmth. Harry trailed his left hand along the wall as he walked back to the stairs, smiling the whole way.

Harry managed to get back to the common room with only a few minutes to spare. He stepped through the doorway and paused, looking around the full room for his yearmates. He spotted Malfoy’s head bent amongst his fellows off to one side and was about to head over there when he was stopped by an older teen.

“There you are, Potter!” the boy stepped in front of him, a scowl on his face, “Just where do you think you’ve been?”

“Uh— I had some letters to deliver?” Harry blinked, surprised at the sudden hostility. “I’m back in time. I checked.”

“You got up at seven to send letters?”

“It was closer to six, but yes, I suppose. Why?”

“You were supposed to wait in your common room until the meeting this morning. What if you’d gone out and gotten lost in the castle, huh? Did you think we’d wait around for you to show up?”

“If I got lost, I’d just ask for directions,” Harry pointed out. “There are portraits all over the place.”

“Ralph, cut it out,” said some other boy with a sneer, “He’s not going to get it. Didn’t you know? Little Potter here is too good for lowly rules. He is the Boy-Who-Lived, after all.” He laughed meanly. 

Harry frowned. “What rule? I’m back on time, aren’t I?”

Ralph looked down his nose at Harry and said, “Pretending you don’t know the rules doesn’t mean you have permission to break them, Potter, even if you are so important.”

Harry opened his mouth to argue that he really didn’t know what rule he’d broken—because he was here when he’d been told to—but before he could, the doorway behind him opened up. He frowned and glanced back, eyes widening at the sight of the man standing there behind him. 

With long dark hair, a hooked nose, a deeply unimpressed look on his face, and black robes that billowed as he swept through the entryway, Professor Snape looked every inch the easily irritatable and unsympathetic man that Mary Travers had warned Harry about. He quickly moved to the side, trying to get out of the man’s way and not catch his attention, but those dark eyes fixed on him almost instantaneously. 

There was a flash of something in his face, a quick curl of his lip and wrinkle of his nose, before his expression smoothed out into the same apathetic one as before. “Mr. Potter,” he said, somehow making it sound like Harry’s name was a foul word that had to be spoken carefully. His gaze moved up to the boy, Ralph, and he continued, “Mr. Gates. Is there something here that needs addressing?” 

Gates puffed up, the shiny badge on his chest glinting slightly as he straightened up beneath the professor’s gaze. “Just explaining some rules to Potter, sir. He was out of the common room on his own before curfew let up this morning, wandering lost around the school.”

“I was not lost,” Harry started, but he shut up when Snape gave him a sharp look. He bit his tongue and felt the familiar and hated heat of shame burn on his cheeks. What had he done to make Snape look at him as if—as if the man were Petunia and Harry was, well, Harry? Was this more of what Malfoy had been on about before? About him not being a ‘real’ Slytherin?

“It seems our resident celebrity is undergoing some harsh introductions to reality,” Snape said coldly, “Mr. Gates, you and the other prefects are to make sure that he has a clear understanding of the rules of our House and of the school.”

Harry gritted his teeth together, hands clenched at his sides. He knew what that meant. Uncle Vernon had given Dudley and his friends permission plenty of times to make sure Harry ‘understood the rules’ when it came to playing with them. Meaning mostly that Harry was never the winner, Harry wasn’t supposed to have fun, and Harry had to do whatever it was that Dudley told him to do. 

I am a Lord now, Harry thought as he fixed his gaze on the far wall, I will not let this affect me. 

Softly, a susurrus barely louder than a sigh, Apep hissed, “They shall pay for their disrespect, my soul. They shall writhe in agony, knowing nothing but pain for their disloyalty!” 

Harry pressed his left arm against his side, taking strength from Apep’s conviction, even if he did understand they had no loyalty to him here. He would have to earn that from them still, though it would be difficult since they all disliked him already.

Harry let Snape’s ‘welcoming’ speech wash over him. The prefect from the night before had gone over the main points already—they were the least liked in the school and needed to protect themselves from the others. They would be hated and distrusted and targeted just because they were Slytherins. They needed to stick together against the other houses, displaying a unified front even if there was disharmony in the back.

He named the prefects and spoke about some other things, something called owls and newts, but Harry didn’t focus on the words as he stared at the wall and worked to get his temper under control.

He did take his schedule when it was handed to him, skimming over it and then putting it away in his bag. As the meeting came to an end, Professor Snape swept out of the common room with a billowing of his cloak just like he’d entered. Harry waited only a handful of seconds before leaving as well, determined to get down to the Great Hall for breakfast without talking to another Slytherin that morning.

The Great Hall wasn’t as majestically decorated as it was the night before, but it was still brilliantly illuminated. The ceiling overhead was a brilliant blue with big fluffy clouds and Harry felt so much better once he stepped in and could smell the food waiting here. He noticed the empty Slytherin table but ignored it as he spotted not only the Hufflepuff table, but a familiar blonde and brunette combo sitting there. 

Harry walked over, a smile already taking over his face as he met Susan’s gaze across the table and she lit up with a smile. Hannah, sitting across from her, turned to look. She saw Harry as well and waved. 

“Hi Harry!” she said when he got close enough. “How are you?”

“Starving,” he said, “Mind if I sit with you?”

Hannah blinked. She looked around and asked, “Are you allowed to? I mean, don’t you have to sit with the other Slytherins?”

“It’s just for breakfast,” Harry said with a shrug. “Do you mind?”

“No, go ahead,” she said. 

Harry plopped down beside her with a sigh. He pulled his bag into his lap and pulled out one of his potions—he only had a few left and hoped Travers would send the next batch soon. He set the potion down beside his plate and then began to serve himself. 

“What’s that?” Susan asked as she poured herself and Hannah some juice.

“My breakfast potion,” Harry said as he pushed out his glass, “Pour me some juice too?”

“Sure,” she poured and then asked, “Are you okay?”

Harry paused, thinking over that question. He saw Hannah give him a wide-eyed look, as if she too were wondering how he was. “If you mean am I okay because of the potion, then yeah. I’m just recovering from some stuff when I was younger. If you mean am I okay today? Well. It’s better now that I’m here having breakfast with you, that’s for sure.”

“What happened?” Hannah asked, “About this morning, I mean. Unless you want to talk about the potion more? What kind is it?”

“It’s something to help me absorb more from my food,” Harry said. He started to slather jam on his scones and said, “But today was already kind of weird. I got up early, sent off a letter and got back to my common room in time for the morning meeting, but then I still got in trouble for being out. I didn’t realize that there was a curfew that extended to the morning!”

Another student, from the other side of Hannah, leaned forward and said, “That’s because it’s not an official rule. The curfew starts at ten for the younger years, but after about two in the morning they stop doing as much patrolling. Most people don’t bother leaving their common rooms before six, though, since breakfast doesn’t even start until six thirty.” 

Harry wrinkled his nose at that. He’d have to keep that in mind for the future—either he wouldn’t get caught leaving early or he’d stay in the common room until six like others. Still, he didn’t think it was fair that he’d gotten singled out—but at least it was an unfairness he could deal with. It wasn’t like the Dursleys had ever been fair with him either.

Conversation moved on after that and Harry enjoyed both chatting with Hannah and Susan as well as the food. It was much richer than he was used to—lots of hearty scrambled eggs and potato hash, pancakes with blueberries, scones with nuts and the like. Harry drank his potion after he’d eaten some and then washed it down with orange juice. He ate mostly fruit, a few eggs and scones and stayed away from the heavier foods. 

By the time breakfast was over, Harry was in a much better mood and was well satiated. He got up and walked with Hannah and Susan out of the Great Hall, though they had to split ways as the girls went to Transfiguration and Harry ended up going to Charms. He got directions from a portrait of a young woman by a lake and hurried on his way so he wasn’t late.

Harry arrived just as the doors to the classroom were opened up. He joined on the tail end of the other Slytherins, who glanced back at him with curious or frowning or annoyed expressions. The class was shared with Gryffindors, whom Harry hadn’t spent a lot of time around yet, so he was surprised to see quite a few of them glaring at him. Parvati was amongst them, though, so he smiled at her and was relieved when she smiled back.

They were seated in rows of long desks, so Harry decided to sit near Parvati, who was sitting with one of the other Gryffindor girls. He pulled out his book and set it on his desk, along with his notebook and pen, waiting for class to start.

Parvati leaned over to him and whispered, “I can’t believe you really got into Slytherin! How is it? Do they really keep snakes in their common room? Did they do a dark ritual to ring in the new school year?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “They don’t have any living snakes there, no. But there are a lot of decorations with snakes on them. It’s like there’s a very green snake theme. And no, there were no dark rituals. Just stuff about rules and being careful around the school and stuff.”

The girl on the other side of her leaned past and stared at him openly. She had very curly hair and brilliant blue eyes that stood out against her darker skin. “Are you really Harry Potter? The real Boy-Who-Lived?”

“Lavender!” Parvati hissed, her face reddening in embarrassment. 

“What? I have to ask! I can’t believe Harry Potter is in class with us and he’s a Slytherin!”

Harry rolled his eyes again, but before he could answer, their teacher had showed up at the center of the room and commanded their attention with a whirl of his wand that produced an array of sparkling, crackling lights like a firework fountain.

“Good morning class!” he piped up, he was small and stood on a stack of books. Harry was surprised at his size. Who knew Hogwarts would have both the tallest man he’d ever seen and the smallest? 

“Welcome to first year charms,” the professor began, “My name is Professor Flitwick. I’m the head of the Ravenclaw house and I’ll be your charms professor for your seven years here at Hogwarts. We’ll go through roll call and then get right into our first lesson, shall we?”

Harry settled back in his chair, eager to learn and practice new spells. He was going to learn magic and it was wonderful.

Chapter Text

Harry had prepared himself for his history class, knowing that it was going to be tedious and taught by a ghost. He had brought a few history books, so he could read on whatever subject their professor spoke about. He wasn’t really looking forward to the class itself, but figured that not every class had to be his favorite.

After Charms, he followed along with the wave of other students, noticing that a prefect was guiding the group of Slythrins he trailed behind. Had they done so before? He hadn’t noticed, but then he hadn’t gone with the group last time.

It turned out that they shared their History class with almost all of the other students, filling out the front rows of the lecture hall quite well. Harry decided to sit near the center front while most of the other Slytherins went to the left side near the wall. He ended up sitting next to one of the Gryffindor girls he hadn’t met yet, but had noticed in his Charms class. 

“Hermione Granger, right?” Harry asked as he turned towards her. 

She turned and blinked at him, brown eyes going wide as she realized who he was. “You’re Harry Potter!”

“That I am,” he said, holding out his hand to her. “It’s nice to meet you.”

She seized his hand and shook it excitedly, “I’ve read about you in books! They say that you single-handedly defeated You-Know-Who when you were only one year and three months old.”

“I don’t know about single-handedly,” Harry said, “I mean, I was only a year old. How could I have possibly done anything?”

Granger blinked again, as if startled at the thought of questioning something she’d read in a book. “Well, there are lots of theories about that,” she said, “They say that you’re such a powerful Light wizard that you turned the Darkest spell there is aside with just a flick of your wrist. Or that your accidental magic protected you with a magic reflective bubble, the way it’ll do for some kids who’ve fallen or had something dropped on them! Or even—”

“That my mother and father performed a protective ritual to save my life at the expense of their own?” Harry asked, cutting off her excited explanation. 

Granger’s mouth shut and her cheeks colored. “Well,” she said more quietly, “I suppose that’s an option too. I suppose we don’t really know—Well, you might, if you recall that night. Do you?”

“No,” Harry said, which was only sort of a lie. He never remembered it when he was awake, never on purpose. It was only in his nightmares he heard a screaming woman or saw a flash of light or heard that mocking laughter. “I was only one.”

From the row behind them, a boy in Ravenclaw blue leaned forward and said, “Do you really think it was a ritual that did it, Potter?”

Harry glanced at the boy. “It’s the only thing that makes sense to me.”

“But rituals are illegal,” the boy said, “They’re Dark for a reason.”

Harry shrugged, “I suppose so. But if the only way to make sure that your family member survived was to use a ritual to do it, would it being illegal really stop you?”

That stumped the boy, but Granger answered emphatically, “Well of course!” she exclaimed. “It’s illegal! What if you get caught? You’ll go to jail.” Then she blinked and asked, “Supposing there is a wizard jail anyway.”

“There is,” Harry said, “And it’s terrible.”

Granger nodded then, “That’s precisely what I’d do, then. I wouldn’t want to go to jail.”

“Even if it was to protect your parents?” Harry asked. “Or your future child?”

Granger hesitated a little bit, but didn’t get a chance to answer since that was when their Professor decided to show up. And perhaps, if Harry were sitting in the back, he would have continued the conversation since he didn’t really expect much of his ghost teacher, but Harry sat in the front row—only about twenty feet from where Professor Binns floated in and came to a stop. He ‘stood’ there in the center of a cleared space, his hands folded behind his back but still visible through his translucent body. His ghostly gaze was turned towards Harry and the others in the front row.

Granger hushed the people around them and then leaned forward in her chair, eyes wide and excited. Harry thumbed the cover of one of his textbooks on his desk, preparing to read from one of them. He watched their teacher, curious. He’d seen the other ghosts, of course, but not up close—not like this.

He’d never realized how still a ghost could be. 

Binns didn’t quite float, as most ghosts probably did. Instead, he seemed to not only walk along the ground but use doorways—though he hadn’t opened the door that he’d emerged from in the back—and a few inches from the ground his feet turned to indiscernible mist. He wore what must have been his professor’s robes from years and years ago, looking a lot like the university professors that Harry had caught glimpses of on the Telly with his long sleeves and vest. Had he once had a suit coat? Harry wondered, or was an over-robe more the style when he was alive?

The man looked older, but not nearly as old as the Headmaster had last night at the head table. He reminded Harry more of this professor who had come to do a physics demonstration for his class in Primary school. Short hair, rectangular glasses, a bit of a beard around his chin—nondescript in that way that only a colorless ghost could be. 

Binns held out his hand and a piece of paper floated over from the desk and settled into it. That was interesting, Harry thought, since he didn’t know if ghosts could really touch physical things or not. 

“I shall begin with roll call,” Binns said clearly, “And then proceed with the syllabus before beginning our introductory lessons. I do expect decorum in my classroom—there will be no eating, no napping, and no extraneous chatting. If you have a question, raise your hand for my attention.

“In the future, classwork will be dropped off at the corner of my desk and returned to you by the end of the week. If you make corrections and want to be regraded for a higher mark, you may do so for five essays per semester. I will keep track.” Binns gestured to his desk as he spoke—it was clear except for a wire tray on the corner. Harry supposed that Binns really must be able to interact with the physical world if he could grade essays.

Into the quiet room, Binns began to recite names. It was oddly like the Sorting all over again, since it was the whole host of first years, and, like with the Sorting, there was a break out of whispers when Harry’s name was called.

“Potter, Harry.”

“Here, sir,” Harry replied.

Binns lowered the page and looked at Harry directly, which Harry didn’t worry about because he’d done that to most of the students when he’d called their names. “Mr. Potter,” he said, “I would speak to you after class for a moment. Do remember to wait.”

He hadn’t said that to anyone else, though. Harry sighed silently, “Yes, sir,” he replied.

What had he done now? 

The rest of roll and the beginning of class proper didn’t have anything particularly special happen—Binns went over their syllabus and the expected reading, only getting somewhat confused when it turned out his list and the one sent out wasn’t exactly the same. After adjusting for that—making the text optional for extra credit—Binns launched into a rather enthusiastic introduction to wizarding history—they would be talking about politics, war, economics, and following the lives of several prominent wizards while studying here at Hogwarts for the next seven years.

Granger excitedly took notes beside Harry, who took some of his own, and he was surprised to discover that all the warnings he’d had about Binns were so incorrect. Their first lesson was interesting, as Binns eased them into it by going over the Founding of Hogwarts, talking about the Founders themselves, their families, their early lives and how they met, came together and Founded Hogwarts as a refuge and educational facility. 

As class ended, Binns teased them for their next lessons—the break up of the Founders and the early days of Merlin—and assigned them reading. The students gathered their things and chattered as they headed out of class.

Harry put his books away, waved to Granger who gave him a worried look, clearly nervous for him with regards to having to Stay And Talk To A Teacher, and then stood by his desk, waiting for Binns.

After the room emptied out, Binns went to the door at the back and said, “In my office, if you please, Mr. Potter.”

He then walked through the door.

Harry went to follow him, but found the door locked. Figuring he probably wouldn’t get in trouble since Binns had invited him in himself, Harry cast an unlocking spell and stepped through. 

Surprisingly, for a ghost’s office, it wasn’t thick with dust. Harry wondered when the last time another living human had been here, since it wasn’t likely any came in to clean. He figured it must be elves who did that, and put that thought aside to investigate later—where there were elves, there was a kitchen, and where there was a kitchen, there were snacks. 

The office itself looked the way he figured a history professor's might: there were several maps on the wall, a globe on a table, bookshelves stuffed full of books and scrolls and what looked like hand-bound stacks of parchment. On his desk was an open book, huge almost to the point of comedy, and with yellowed pages. To one side was a small fireplace near a window and a couple of plush chairs. 

This was where Binns walked, making Harry wonder how much of this was a professor-student conversation, especially when the ghost called out, “Merril, tea for the boy, would you please?”

Unsurprisingly, a tray appeared on the low table between the two chairs. There were two cups, though steam only rose from one of them. Harry walked over and, at Binns’s gesture, sat down. He picked up his teacup, sipped it, added some sugar and then stirred.

“If I recall correctly,” Binns said as he sat down on his own chair and picked up his own cup, though he didn’t pantomime drinking from it, “You should be headed to lunch shortly, so I will not keep you long, Mr. Potter.”

Harry nodded. He’d survive a missed lunch here and there, no matter what Healer Travers said, but he appreciated the consideration. “What did you want to talk about, Professor?”

“Mr. Potter,” Binns asked, “Are you aware of your magical birthright?”

Harry blinked. “My what, sir?”

“Your magical birthright.” At Harry’s uncertain glance down to his Lordship ring, he continued, “Not your title or your responsibility, but your birthright, the power that you hold in your very blood.”

“Oh,” Harry straightened up. What was it that Ralston and Ignatia had said about him? Potter by name, Peverell by nature? “Yes, sir. I’m aware of it. I haven’t, ah, had the opportunity to practice any of it, really, since it’s a bit, um.” He hesitated. 

“Yes, it is a bit unmentionable, isn’t it?” Binns said, “Then perhaps you are unaware of the very influence your magic has on individuals such as myself?”

“I had, uh, noticed that you weren’t quite what I was told you would be,” Harry said, “And some of the other ghosts had acted a bit strange when they saw me before.”

“They would,” Binns said with a slow nod, “Though not nearly as drastically as I have been, they are as separated from their emotions and physical sensations as one must be, to be incorporeal as we are.” Here, he did pantomime drinking his tea, which Harry thought a bit odd but didn’t say anything about. “To put it frankly, Mr. Potter. You make the dead feel alive again.”

Harry blinked. Then he blinked again. He took a sip of his own tea and then set the whole cup down and asked, “Excuse me?”

“Is it truly so surprising? Touched by the Death curse as you are, you woke early into your birthright. Over my years, while alive anyway, I read quite a lot about magical birthrights and bloodlines. There are families who inherit a language, other families that inherit mental magics, and yet other talents that are passed from parent to child. Magic is not entirely unaffected by those who wield it, who carry it, who shape it. Bloodline curses were prominent forms of punishment in ages past, to the point that some families still carry the magical scars they caused.

“You, Mr. Potter, have a birthright that might bring a chill to the living, but it is a bracing wind to the dead. Such a thing can startle anyone out of a mire of fog and confusion.” Binns pantomimed taking another drink. He set his cup down onto the saucer with an audible clink and looked to the side, as if peering into the empty fireplace. “To put it plainly, your magic woke me up. My mind has been revived and things have become clear to me once more.”

“Oh,” Harry whispered. He sat there, with his hands in his lap, staring at his professor, wondering what he should do. He twisted his Lordship ring around on his finger. He felt Apep twisting around on his arm. He felt a warm pulse from his right arm, around his wrist, and his hands went still. 

“What is it that you need me for?” The question burst out of Harry’s mouth before he could think twice about it. It tasted like blood, coppery and sweet, like the words he’d spoken at that summer brunch, carried out of him by magic.

Professor Binns turned to look at him. The wrinkles around his eyes and mouth deepend as he smiled. 

“Why, Mr. Potter,” he said quietly, “I quite think it is time that I retire.”

Harry’s footsteps were heavy as he headed down to the Great Hall for lunch. His mind was a whirl of thoughts—things about Charms, his history class, and his talk with Professor Binns all swirled together. 

He was glad that he’d be able to do nothing for the next hour except eat and then go looking for the library.

Harry approached the Slytherin table, zeroing in on an empty seat near the other first years. He slid into place with a sigh and then looked around to see what was being served for lunch. 

As Harry piled his plate with fruit salad and little sandwiches, Malfoy said snootily, “Oh, now the Great Harry Potter decides to grace us with his presence!”

Without batting an eye, Harry corrected him, “It’s the Great Lord Harry Potter, Malfoy.”

This made the other boy sputter for a moment, but Harry ignored that in favor of eating. He was quite ravenous after all that running around the school and spellcasting. 

“Well, you’re not Lord over me!” Malfoy exclaimed, turning his nose up at Harry. Harry ignored him and continued to eat. 

When he got up from his meal, Zabini did so at the same time, making it look casual as you please. Harry ignored him as they walked out of the Great Hall together and continued to do so as he walked over to a portrait and asked for directions to the library.

As they continued down together, Harry asked, “Are you going to follow me the whole way to the library?”

“Is it really following if I’m walking beside you?” Zabini countered. 

Harry sighed. 

“Besides, snakes aren’t supposed to roam alone, or are you regretting your House choice now?”

“Did you forget?” Harry retorted, “I’m the famous Boy-Who-Lived. The same rules don’t apply to me.”

“You wouldn’t mind if I mooched a little of that disregard here or there, would you?”

Harry glanced at the other boy, who still had that easy smile on his face. It looked about as real as that plastic poinsettia shrub that Petunia pulled out of the attic each Christmas to display in the window. “Fine, if you like.” Harry replied in a mimicry of Malfoy’s snooty tone, “And to answer you, no. I don’t regret being a snake. I like snakes just fine.”

Zabini only continued to smile.

They found the library easily enough, though they split off when they got there as all Harry wanted to do was go up and down the aisles to familiarize himself with them while Zabini scoped out a decent table. When it came time to head to their next class, however, Harry found himself walking with Zabini again as the two of them headed up to the fifth floor—up to Transfiguration—together.

In the end, Harry decided he didn’t mind Zabini’s company at all, even if he came across far too smug for his own good.

Harry walked with Zabini to Transfiguration. The classroom doors were open when they arrived, so they went in like the others. They had this class with the Gryffindors too, and while Harry had sat with them before, he decided he’d sit with Zabini for this class. Not that he minded the Gryffindors, in fact he did go over to say hi to Parvati and Lavender and Granger first, but Harry wasn’t about to let anyone tell him where he was or wasn’t supposed to be sitting.

The desks were set up in pairs, so he and Zabini shared a desk, sitting next to Nott and one of the Slytherin girls. Harry took the chance to introduce himself to her, offering his hand as he said, “Hello, I’m Harry Potter. May I get your name?”

The girl was a golden blonde—unlike Malfoy’s silvery blond—and had dark green eyes. She looked him up and down, glanced past him, and then said, “I heard you were a Lord. Is that true?”

“Yes,” Harry said. 

She looked at him, obviously waiting for some sort of elaboration, but Harry just looked back. He kept his hand up to shake, even though it looked silly just hanging there. The girl sniffed and then delicately put her hand in his. “Daphne Greengrass, heiress-apparent.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Harry said, firmly shaking her hand. She wrinkled her nose at him.

“Why don’t you use your title if you’ve got it?” Greengrass asked. 

“Because I’m not acting like a lord, I’m just a student right now.”

Zabini leaned over and said around his shoulder, “So far he’s only been a lord to put Malfoy in his place.”

Greengrass’s eyebrows rose. “Really? I must have missed that.”

“Nott can tell you later,” Zabini grinned.

Harry rolled his eyes. In the interest of distracting them, he said, “You know, I think there’s a portrait of a Greengrass at my Manor. I think her name was Charlotte. Are you two related?”

“Oh. Perhaps,” Greengrass said, “Why?”

“She was married to one of my ancestors,” Harry said, “Alexander Potter. She wasn’t very talkative as a portrait, though, much more interested in her reading.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a yowling noise. Harry turned with the others to stare at the cat that he’d somehow missed before on the professor’s desk. It stood now, stretching out its back, holding everyone’s attention. 

From the Gryffindor side, Harry heard a whisper about the cat—who did it belong to? The professor? Where was she?—Harry wondered the same, but he and the other Slytherins remained quiet. Just when the boys of Gryffindor were starting to talk each other into going up to pet the cat, it meowed and then jumped off the desk. 

The cat transformed midair into a woman, who landed on her two feet instead of four, and Harry immediately recognized her as the stern woman from the night before and the Sorting. Perhaps she wasn’t so stern, he thought as she cast her gaze over the amazed students. Perhaps she just had to look stern, but wasn’t all the time.

“Good afternoon class,” Professor McGonagall said, “Welcome to Transfiguration.”

Harry flipped open his notebook and wrote on the first line of his Transfiguration notes: people can turn into animals, figure out how to do that! 

If McGonagall had done this in order to get her students excited for Transfiguration, Harry had to admit it sure worked on him. He was even more excited now than he had been before!

Their last class was Herbology, taken with the Ravenclaws and divided into groups of four. Harry and Nott ended up in a pair with Padma and Michael Corner, the boy who Harry had turned out to be talking to in History. They were both curious about what Professor Binns had talked to him about, but Harry didn’t answer any questions they had. Gossiping with other students about both his magical birthright and Professor Binns’s request was the last thing he wanted to do.

Harry found Herbology to be more like gardening with Beryl and less like gardening with Petunia. For one thing, a lot of the plants were dangerous if handled incorrectly. For another, they liked to move and wiggle on their own. 

Professor Sprout was cheerful, and only gave him a beaming smile when he answered for his name during roll call. Despite her demeanor, however, he noticed she was quite firm with her rules—and there were a lot of them.

There were rules about the safety gear they needed to wear, rules about how to handle certain plants and when, rules about when they could chat or not, rules about watering and planting and even what kind of quills were allowed near certain plants—apparently, some plants were tuned to feathers and would react violently in their presence. Harry was glad for his fountain pen then. He took copious notes and even offered to share them with Corner, who had only the unapproved quills. 

He liked his little group and thought they would work okay together. Nott was very quiet, but Corner was chatty. Padma had lots of facts and great penmanship, but didn’t like to get her hands too dirty. Harry was very comfortable with the physical part of gardening and was more than happy to help his group mates get their work done. Nott was good as well, but not as helpful. 

Harry got the feeling that Nott didn’t particularly like the Ravenclaws, or maybe even Harry himself all that much, but considering the alternative Slytherin groups had been Malfoy and his vassals, or the louder of the Slytherin girls or pairing off with Zabini and some Ravenclaws, Harry thought Nott had chosen who he could tolerate the best. Either way, Harry was happy that he was there, even if he gave plenty of eye-rolls when Corner and Padma bickered with each other.

By the time they were done with Herbology, Harry was hungry, tired, and a bit sore. He was looking forward to cleaning up and getting some dinner before settling in at the library. He had yet another letter to write home—asking about what to do with Professor Binns mostly—and reading to start.

Trudging up the hill to the castle amid a group of classmates, Harry thought that, despite all the magic and wands and spells, this really did feel like a boarding school. He had books to read and homework to do and a dorm to sleep in. There was a mundanity that he could appreciate—not every minute was a hectic, magic-filled moment of chaos. Even if he caught people staring at him or whispering as he went past, he could live with that.

After all, it wasn’t like he’d gone completely unnoticed before—people were just as curious and cautious about Harry the Freak as they were about Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived.

So it was with some hope that Harry headed to dinner, plans for his evening laid out in his mind. If every day was like this one, going to school at Hogwarts was going to be just fine.

Chapter Text

The next day carried on much like the first. Harry found he was excellent at Charms practicals, discovering in the process that his mother had been quite good at charms as well and was a favorite of Professor Flitwick’s. He liked his history class a lot more than he’d previously anticipated, delving into the reading and usually spending some time afterwards to talk to Professor Binns one-on-one. 

This got a lot of curious comments from his yearmates, but while he talked about what readings Professor Binns suggested to him—usually things about Lordships and politics, in an effort to help Harry’s lacking education in that department—he never mentioned Binns’s request to him. 

After lunch, however, there was a schedule change: instead of Transfiguration and Herbology, it was Defense and Potions.

Harry was very curious about the former, having heard all about the Defense curse and also the rumor that this year’s teacher was previously a muggle studies professor who had gone abroad for a year sabbatical. However, he was not excited for the latter. After his first introduction to the man at the beginning of the school year, Harry dreaded what having Snape as a professor would mean for him. 

Still, he tried to not think about it as he and his classmates settled into their seats in the Defense classroom. It was decked out in all sorts of tapestries and banners and knicknacks. Some of it looked just like the clutter that one might collect if they travel a lot; other parts looked like they might be educational. Harry was curious to look at them more closely, but cautious to just wander about the classroom. 

This was another class that he shared with Gryffindor—this and Potions later on—which made Harry wonder who had balanced out the classes. At this rate, the only class he had with Hufflepuff was History, which was fine but he was usually too busy paying attention to spend any time with Susan or Hannah. Usually he only got to see them crossing paths too and from Herbology or at breakfast. 

Harry mused over his schedule—hand copied into his notebook and added onto so he could block out his free time for homework and other pursuits—as the other students chattered around him. He’d chosen to sit in the middle between Gryffindor and Slytherin again, with Zabini on one side and Parvati on the other. This had ended up with him with empty seats immediately to his left and right, however, as they didn’t want to sit too close to the others.

The House divide was silly, in Harry’s opinion. He was glad that he didn’t have to pay attention—no one had given assigned seating yet, though Professor Binns insisted they sit in their same seats now that they’d chosen them—and so he could sit generally where he liked. Which was often in the front or middle, as he’d been shoved into the back as the outcast Freak for long enough.

Finally, the noise died down as the far door opened and shut. Harry looked up, curious to see his professor up close. He’d seen Professor Quirrell at the head table, of course, he was quite obvious with his pale complexion and lurid purple turban. He looked much the same now, pale and thin, his skin stretched over his bones like he was recovering from an illness. 

He wore plain robes, the cuffs rolled back to show bare, bony wrists. He greeted the room with a stutter, welcoming them to class. Harry flipped open his notebook, ready to take notes. He’d skimmed through his Defense book on the school list, as well as quite a few related books that he’d gotten at Agarath’s, so he was excited to learn about curses and dark magical creatures.

However, as he turned to gesture towards the board with his wand, Apep suddenly began to wriggle on Harry’s arm. Harry winced at how active he’d suddenly become, but he didn’t move his arm until he heard soft hissing. Quickly, Harry pulled his arm to his lap, pressing it against his abdomen to stifle the sound. He really needed to learn some sort of muffling charm or something.

Professor Quirrell got them right into their books, so while the others were pulling out theirs and flipping them open, Harry ducked his head down and hissed at Apep. “Shh! We’re in class, remember?” 

“Close so close, a sliver, a piece, a fragment, so close,” Apep hissed back, making even less sense than usual.

Harry hugged his arm to his belly, hoping to muffle Apep as the lesson started with Quirrell stuttering through a lecture. It wasn’t great, nor was it easy to listen to, especially when all Harry wanted to do was try and talk to Apep. He could feel the snake still wriggling about on his arm, occasionally hissing at the same time.

Apep eventually calmed down, letting Harry finally relax. He was able to put his arm back on the table, resting on it as he flipped his pages and read ahead of the professor. The man was so nervous sounding, Harry really had to wonder if he had any sort of experience with the things he was teaching. Then again, maybe experience wasn’t exactly necessary since there was a curse on the position and he’d likely only have it for the year.

Near the end of class, Harry was barely focused on Quirrell at all, reading about some banshees with great interest when Apep started to writhe once more, hissing much louder. “A fragment, oh soul of mine, beloved chosen, so close that one can taste it in the air. Heady magic of the Great Lord, can you not sense it, dearest one, chosen soul?” 

Harry jerked his arm closer to himself and blushed in embarrassment when he noticed that not only were a few students looking at him, but Professor Quirrell had turned from the board to look at him as well.

“Is s-something the matter, Mr. Potter?” the Professor asked, one thin eyebrow arching upwards. 

“No, sir,” Harry responded. He silently wished that Apep would remember to be quiet, but it seemed that his wish was not heeded, as Apep hissed wordlessly and writhed around on Harry’s arm. The sensation—which was usually faintly tingly like pins and needles but only on his skin—was sharper now, almost painful. He winced and hugged his arm closer again, pressing it up against his stomach. 

“If you are n-not feeling well, there is n-no shame in admitting so,” Quirrell said, “The f-first week of school can be quite d-difficult after all.” He said. His voice was filled with false concern and there was a mean glint in his eyes.

“I’m fine, sir,” Harry reiterated. “Really, I am. I think I just was resting my arm funny and it got all full of needles or something. It’ll be all right soon.”

Quirrell eyed him for a moment more and then nodded. “If you say so, n-now, wh-where was I?” He asked rhetorically as he turned back to the board, ignoring Granger’s hand as it rose in the air to answer him.

Harry stayed hunched over as Apep had begun to twist around again. The feeling of needles had spread down to his hand and as he glanced down, he saw the flicker of Apep’s tongue at the end of his sleeve. Alarmed, Harry hissed in warning and tucked his hand under his robe. He ignored the curious gazes of those around him and pretended to just be taking his notes as Quirrell spoke.

As the bell for the end of class chimed, Harry hurriedly packed up all his things and shoved them into his bag. He had only a few minutes before his next class. If he could find a secluded room or something where no one could see him—

“Mr. Potter,” Quirrell stood in front of his row of desks, hands behind his back and looking somehow more austere than before. 

“Yes, sir?”

“Perhaps you m-might want to review the list of p-permitted p-pets for Hogwarts,” he said with an arched eyebrow. “It wouldn’t b-be proper for you to b-be flouting the rules, even if you are the infamous B-boy-Who-Lived.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry responded, biting his tongue before he announced that he hadn’t brought any pets with him—he didn’t even consider Octavian to be a pet. “I will.”

“See that you d-do. And d-don’t forget your quiz over your r-reading next T-tuesday, everyone!” He raised his voice as the other students streamed out of the room. As Harry rose to do the same, he met Quirrell’s gaze before quickly looking away.

Harry wasn’t quite sure what was worse—the blunt disregard that Snape had for him, or this masked sort that Quirrell used. Either way, Harry seemed to have two teachers that didn’t like him and both of them on the same school day. What joy.

Throwing his satchel bag over his shoulder, Harry hurried out of the room with his left hand stuffed down into his pocket. He was aiming for an empty room, not really paying attention to the others around him, and so almost ran head first into Granger and Parvati, who had lingered in the hallway, waiting for him it seems. 

“Potter! Are you okay?” Granger asked, lurching forward as the door swung shut behind him. “You look sick!” 

“I’m fine,” Harry said. He glanced past her, wondering if there was a door along this hallway that led to a room he could use. He’d need one without a portrait for sure.“Actually, I need to take care of something—”

“Are you sure?” Parvati stepped forward, “You looked pretty rough in class.”

“Then what did the professor mean about feeling sick? Or about a pet?” She looked him over, “You haven’t got an animal with you, have you?”

“No, I don’t,” Harry said, “I meant what I said to him, my arm just fell asleep a little and got all tingly.”

Parvati gave him kind of an odd look, but Granger looked relieved. “That’s good. I know one of the boys in Gryffindor has a pet rat, which I don’t recall being on the permitted pets list, but he hasn’t gotten in trouble about it yet.”

“I heard one of the older girls in Ravenclaw has a dog, too,” Parvati said, “Padma told me. It’s small, though, so maybe that makes it okay.”

Not wanting to get drawn into a conversation about pets, Harry said, “You should hurry down to the dungeons. You don’t want to be late to Professor Snape’s class, do you?”

Granger gasped. “Oh no! You don’t think we’ll really be late, do you? I heard he’s absolutely brutal with points!” She rushed off and Parvati went after her.

Zabini looked him over as he walked nearer. He withdrew a folded handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to Harry.

Harry frowned at it, “What’s this for? I’m not sweaty.”

“The girl’s might’ve missed it, but Professor Snape won’t,” Zabini said as he pointed to his own forehead. 

Confused, Harry took the cloth and dabbed his forehead. He pulled it away and was startled to see blood on the cloth, not a lot, but definitely some. “What—?”

“Your scar,” Zabini said, “It split open.” He looked Harry’s face over, his dark eyes unreadable, “Are you okay?”

Harry stared at the blood. He had no good answer for that. He’d been so occupied with the pain in his arm and with making sure that Apep didn’t get found that he hadn’t even noticed this. He dabbed his head again and was glad to see that it wasn’t much blood at all. Nothing poured out, but just split open. “I.. I’m not sure,” he admitted quietly. “That’s never happened before.”

Zabini looked at him with a serious expression. “Maybe you should go see the nurse.”

Harry shook his head. “I have a personal healer—I’ll write her. If it becomes more serious, I’m sure she’d be fine with visiting.”

Zabini said nothing, just hummed thoughtfully. Harry blushed, realizing how posh that had sounded. Not everyone had a private healer after all.

“I mean—She’s not like only my healer. She’s just a private physician or something. She doesn’t work with the hospital anymore.”

“Of course, of course,” Zabini said seriously, “A private physician for the great Lord Harry Potter. That makes lots of sense.”

“Oh shush,” Harry retorted, “Come on. We may know the way to the dungeons better than the others, but that doesn’t mean we can’t be late either.” He flicked out his wand, cleaned the handkerchief with a quick spell, and then handed it to Zabini.

Taking the handkerchief back, Zabini tucked it away and gestured for Harry to lead the way. Harry shook his head and started off. He’d have to find some time after his next lesson to talk to Apep—hopefully until then the snake would be quiet and still. 

Harry just made it to the hallway before Potions began, slightly out of breath from the last little bit of jogging he’d done to get there. Zabini joined him a few seconds later, choosing not to jog as long so he didn’t get breathless. Moments later, the door opened and they were allowed in. Gryffindors went first, crowding all to one side of the room like usual. Harry sought out Greengrass and went to sit beside her. Some other girl—he hadn’t memorized her name yet—was chatting nearby as Harry came up and said, “May I join you, Greengrass?”

She gave him that long, thoughtful look she had and then nodded once. Harry smiled and settled down beside her. He got his potion book out and set it to the side. His potion kit he put next to it and he withdrew his cauldron to sit on the base in front of himself. 

“A fine cauldron,” Greengrass said with a critical eye, “Is it heirloom?”

“Actually, yes,” Harry said, “I’ve been using it this summer a lot so it’s what I’m most familiar with. Cosette said it was the best we had to do the first year potions with, the pewter is very densely guarded by this rune here, see?” He turned the cauldron and pointed it out to her.

Greengrass’s eyebrows rose. “I do see,” she said. 

A hush fell over them then as Professor Snape swept into the room. He was just as intimidating as before, but Harry wasn’t afraid. It was hard to be when he’d just felt real pain from Quirrell. Anything Snape did couldn’t be worse than that and so far, Apep hadn’t responded to him at all. Harry was mostly tense—he didn’t think Snape was about to prove himself any kinder than before, even if Harry was good at potions. 

Professor Snape made his way to the front of the room and looked them over. When he spoke, it was flat and quiet. The students would have hushed up just to hear him if it hadn’t been for the fact that they were already silent. Whether that was out of fear or respect seemed to depend on the House. 

The professor took roll quickly, snapping out last names in quick succession. Harry was braced, ready to respond to his own name, anticipating it after Parkinson— that was the girl from before, he remembered now—only for Snape to pause after she declared herself present.

“Potter,” Snape said, his gaze pinning Harry to his desk seat. The sound of his voice was so familiar, hateful and heavy. Harry instinctively dropped his gaze as he responded, doing his best not to draw the man’s ire.

“Here, sir.”

“Yes, it seems you are,” Snape continued slowly, “Harry Potter. Our very own celebrity. How fortunate we are to have your presence in our class.”

Harry said nothing. His gut churned. His left arm still ached from the last class period, but Apep was still and, thankfully, quiet.

Snape returned to the roll call shortly after that, though Harry swore he could feel the man’s gaze on him again and again. He refused to look up and stare back, though. He knew how to deal with bullies—and he knew he wouldn’t win anything against an adult, especially a teacher. It would be like if Vernon was his professor—and Harry knew how to deal with Vernon.

Be respectful. Be quiet. Be obedient. Be overly careful. 

Apep stirred slowly, listless on Harry’s arm as Snape launched into some grand speech on potions. Harry might’ve listened, might’ve cared if it wasn’t so clear that Snape hated him—not just that, though, he seemed to dislike all of the students here and disliked teaching entirely. Why was he here then if he hated it so much? Why not quit and move away to do potions on his own? Surely, if Healer Travers was correct and he was the most skilled potion master on the isles, he could make a living just off making potions.

Pondering the reasons why Snape might be a teacher was a mistake, however, as it let Snape catch him off guard. 

“Mr. Potter,” his voice snapped out, sharp like the biting sting of a plastic spoon being whipped across his fingers. Harry jumped and jerked his head up as Snape seemed to loom over him, even from a row of desks away. “What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

Harry blanked for a moment. Wormwood? What was that? He’d heard of asphodel before—what had Cosette told him? 

He tried to recall the portrait’s introduction of the plant, but could only remember part. He hesitated to answer either way, not sure if Snape would appreciate even an attempt. “Uh—”

“An answer, Potter, your fellow students do not have all afternoon to wait.”

“Um, asphodel is a lily flower, sir, with ties to la mort, to death. It isn’t poisonous or toxic like nightshade, but has mystical associations with la reine morte, or the dead queen. I don’t know what wormwood is, but I know asphodel is added to make things slow down or approcher de la mort, or to approach death. So if wormwood is a counterbalance to it, then it would help negate some of that effect. If wormwood is an additive instead, then it would make the effect of asphodel stronger. So either it’ll help you sleep for a night or put you into a coma. Sir.” 

“How clever,” Snape said slowly, “How pretentious. Do you think you can sprinkle in enough parroted French in order to better impress us with your knowledge? Perhaps if you studied in the proper tongue, you might better answer more coherently.” His gaze was sharp, unwavering from Harry as he circled around him like a vulture, moving through the desks instead of the empty trunks of a dead forest. 

Harry sat stiffly, keeping his head turned to the front, too tense to do otherwise. His instincts screamed at him to keep his eye on Snape, to not turn his back on him, but Harry had to hope that the man wouldn’t literally swoop down and attack him in the back in front of all his classmates.

“And if I were to ask you to locate a bezoar for me, Potter? Where would you find it?”

In any well stocked potion’s kit, Harry wanted to spit out—the words were right there on his tongue. But he bit them back and straightened his back. This he recognized much more easily—Cosette never let him taste any of the potions or check their ingredients for freshness without one nearby. “If you’re harvesting one fresh, you’ll find it in the stomach of a bouc, a billy-goat, sir. They develop them because of the variety of their diet. Technically, many animals and even humans can develop them, but only the ones in goats are satisfaisant, or satisfactory.”

Again, Harry used the French he’d learned, parroted and partial as it was. Again he could feel Snape’s disdain at his answer. Again, Snape stalked through the classroom, moving behind Harry and around to his other side. Once he was in view again, Harry had to glance over, but the man’s face was set in a deep scowl. 

“An unfortunately satisfactory answer. And what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?”

Harry had no idea. This, he found, was perhaps the biggest fault with his tutoring with Cosette. She only described things in French, leaving him to learn the names in a different language than most of his texts were in. Gritting his teeth and expecting the worst response yet, Harry asked, “I’m not sure, sir. My tutor is French, as you guessed, sir, and so I’ve learned the French names for most of my potions ingredients. I could probably recognize them, so long as they're not a strictly magical plant or creature part, but otherwise I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you just from the names alone.”

To Harry’s shock, Snape drew his wand and flicked it silently. An image of a purple flower appeared in the air before him. It had an open face with large petals around the center that dipped down and two petals overhead that formed a hood. Harry brightened up and exclaimed, “Oh, that’s aconite, sir. It’s very toxic, especially the roots. You have to wear protective gloves when handling it in preparation for a potion. Which one is that? The monkshood or the wolfsbane?”

“It is both, Mr. Potter,” Snape responded simply, putting his hands behind his back. “Aconite, monkshood, and wolfsbane are all the same plant. I do think that your personal study leaves much to be desired, however…” Snape’s voice trailed off as he paced to the other side of his desk, looming but distant, watchful now and not so much an immediate threat. Harry didn’t relax. Not yet.

He dismissed the image silently and Harry sat back in his chair, tense and watching the man. Had he passed some sort of test? It seemed the professor wasn’t quite as annoyed with him as he had been at the start. 

“You are correct in the placement of a bezoar,” Snape continued, “And as for the compound of asphodel and wormwood, perhaps you would know better were I to call the latter by its French name, armoise. ”

Harry brightened up and nodded. Snape made a silent ‘go ahead’ gesture and so he said, “Yes. Though I learned that one as mugwort first. My aunt would sometimes put it in her tea and so there was a patch in the garden. Since it’s an additive, then combining it with asphodel would create the base of a potion that would cause someone to go into a coma, right?”

“Known as the Draught of Living Death, the potion you describe does indeed put one into a coma that is so close to one’s true end that they might be believed dead and laid to rest before the potion has even had a chance to wear off. How remarkable it is, Mr. Potter, that your knowledge is complex enough even at this stage that you could reason out the resultant brew from the main components of its base.” Snape turned on his heel, putting his side to the class. He cast a dark eye over them all and said, “Why are the lot of you dunderheads sitting there agape and not taking notes? Are you that eager to fail?” He then turned his back on them and began casting at the blackboard, making words form in white chalk across the surface.

There was a sudden flurry of activity while Harry sat there, dumbfounded. 

Had he passed Snape’s test? 

Maybe he wasn’t quite so terrible as Harry had believed?

Or maybe, if Harry showed enough true interest in potions, the man would tolerate him better?

Harry hurriedly flipped to a fresh section of his notebook and wrote down notes, including a rough sketch of the arconite—he’d have to go look up translations soon, he didn’t want to make a mistake with something as toxic as arconite!

Snape turned to his proper lecture then, mostly going over theory behind potion making as well as his expectations for their work before launching into the lesson. The final hour was left for brewing—a boil cure, which Harry had made before so he was a lot more relaxed—and that ended up in a catastrophic cauldron failure on the Gryffindor side. Harry winced in sympathy. He’d overflowed quite a few potions before he’d gotten the hang of it! 

The poor boy in question got sent to the nurse with another Gryffindor. Harry felt bad for them since Snape declared they both failed their brewing. He hoped they could make up the grade somehow, but he didn’t take Snape as the kind of professor that gave out extra credit.

Harry finished his own potion easily enough. He bottled it up with some practiced ease, filling his vial up and corking it. The color and consistency was pretty much perfect.

Proud of his concoction, Harry cleaned up his immediate work station, made sure his cauldron was clear and then carried the bottle to the front. He placed it on the Professor’s desk next to a neat row of other well done potions. He offered a tentative smile to the man and turned away.

“Mr. Potter.”

Harry winced and turned back, “Yes, sir?”

“You will give me the name of your tutor,” he asked, though it didn’t sound much like a question.

“It’s Cosette, sir.”

“Her full name,” Snape said.

“Oh. I don’t know it, sir,” Harry said, “I can find out though. I’ll write home today and tell you next week.”

Snape watched him for a long moment, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly, but then he gave a short nod. “See that you do not forget.” He then turned his attention to the next student coming up with their potion—Nott, in this case—and watched like a hawk as it was deposited. 

Harry went back to his seat and sank down with a sigh. He had another couple of letters out to write, it seemed. Still, that wasn’t so bad. He was happy to hear from the Manor and from the others he’d met before. Hopefully, he’d get some mail that evening as well, he was looking forward to it!

As he cleaned up his station, Greengrass was doing the same beside him. He didn’t expect any idle chitchat from her, so it came as some surprise when she asked, “You speak French?”

Blinking a bit, Harry shook his head. “No. I mean, well sort of, but mostly no. I’m not fluent. I’ve just learned potions in French.”

Her eyebrow lifted.

Harry rushed to explain himself, “You see, my tutor is French. She can understand English but I don’t think she can speak it, only French. It wouldn’t really be an issue, I could have someone else translate, but all the people in the Manor who can speak both English and French either won’t talk to her or she won’t talk to them in turn. I try not to get involved in the drama, honestly.”

Greengrass’s second eyebrow joined the first. “And so your solution was to learn French rather than get a new tutor?”

“Of course,” Harry said, “Cosette’s family and she loves to brew. I’d never take that away from her!”

She gave him a weird little smile, hummed thoughtfully, and then turned and ignored him again. 

What a weird girl. Harry shrugged it off as best as he could—they weren’t really friends, it wasn’t like she had to be polite to him all the time—and gathered up his things. He had a dinner to get through, some questions for his soulmate mark—and then he still had the rest of his homework to finish before the end of the night. 

The weekend was finally coming and Harry had quite a lot to do.

Chapter Text

Harry sat amongst his yearmates at the Slytherin table at dinner. He was having a delicious beef stew with thick chunks of root vegetables. His empty potion vial was next to his plate, ignored now that he’d chugged down the thick concoction. There was an argument going on between Parkinson and Malfoy, one that was highly entertaining to watch even if it was over something stupid, and Harry kept sharing glances with Nott from across the table.

It was fun sitting with others and eating his meals. Harry hadn’t really gotten to experience that before—there had never been any kids that wanted to sit with him in his Primary school—and he was enjoying how it was different at Slytherin table versus Hufflepuff.

Dipping his dinner roll in his soup, Harry looked up at the sudden flurry of motion above and his heart picked up in excitement. Owls descended from hidden windows in the ceiling, fluttering and flying around in circles as they located their person and flew down to deliver mail. Harry caught sight of Octavian amongst the owls, flapping his great wings and angling his body up and then down in a sharp dive.

Octavian swooped to a stop in front of him, pulling up sharply with a wide spread of his wings and meeting Harry’s outstretched arm with one free talon. The other clutched the ribbon of a parcel as well as several rolls of parchment kept bound in twine. Harry freed his mail from Octavian’s grasp and put them beside his plate before searching about for something to feed him.

There was a plate of chicken nearby—roasted of course, but he didn’t think that would matter too much since it wasn’t piping hot. He took a piece of breast and cut it into strips. Feeding them to Octavian, he praised him and thanked him for his hard work.

“You’ve done a great job bringing these to me,” Harry said as he continued to feed him, “I really appreciate your hard work, Octavian.”

The gyrfalcon bobbed his head and churred at Harry, clacking his beak and gently taking another strip of chicken breast.

“Did you have any trouble finding everyone?”

Octavian shrieked and shook his wings, shifting on Harry’s arm.

“That’s good,” Harry said, holding up another strip, “I’ve already got more letters in mind to write, but I’ll want to put them all together first, so I probably won’t have them ready until two sunrises from now, okay?”

Octavian shrieked again and tilted his head at Harry. He snapped up the last piece of meat and then turned his considerable attention to the others at the table.

Malfoy sat with his mouth open, a shining silver package limp in his hands. “That’s not an owl!” he exclaimed.

“This is Octavian,” Harry explained to the table, “I rescued him from a lady who didn’t really want him and was going to sell him to an apothecary this summer.” He wiped his fingers clean on a napkin and then reached up to stroke Octavian’s breast feathers. Octavian turned to look at him, head tilted to the side in consideration. He bent down and preened Harry gingerly, the touch of his beak feather light while his talons dug into Harry’s arm.

Fortunately, reinforcing his clothes for falconry was one of the first spells that he’d looked up in the library once getting Octavian and he was quite good with casting it on his sleeves.

“He’s beautiful,” one of the girls said in a hushed voice. “I’ve never seen a gyrfalcon up close before.”

Harry glanced over and smiled at Tracy Davis. She hadn’t said much to him at all, yet, keeping mostly to the other girls in their year, but now she stared up at Octavian with eyes even wider than Malfoy’s. Harry turned back to Octavian and said, “Do you hear that? You’re being admired, Octavian.”

Octavian fluffed up his feathers and then chirped. He looked to the ceiling and bunched up, a motion Harry recognized. As Octavian opened his wings, Harry threw his arm up, tossing the bird back into the air. Octavian swooped and circled, climbing back up before flowing out of the room along with the other birds. Harry watched him with a faint smile. Maybe he could borrow someone’s broom every now and then and go flying with Octavian? He didn’t want to give that up just yet.

“What did you get?” Malfoy demanded, leaning forward in his seat. “Offerings from a fan?”

Harry shook himself free of his musings of flight and looked at his mail. One scroll was penned in the small and somewhat scratchy hand of Opal, which meant that was a message from the manor. The other scroll was bound with a dark brown ribbon and the golden wax seal of the Potters, which meant it was probably from Graves or Heather. The last was a slim box wrapped in a silky black material that shone green when he tilted it from side to side. This was held shut with a silver ribbon and had a letter tucked under that. The front of the letter was addressed to Lord Potter in a looping handwriting that he’d become somewhat familiar with. His potion regime had been written in that same hand.

Curious, since he knew he wasn’t quite yet due new potions, Harry slid out the card and opened it. “She's not a fan,” he said. He didn’t think Healer Travers would have approved of calling herself Harry’s fan. His physician, certainly, his follower perhaps? She was one of the few who was pretty dedicated in calling him ‘my lord’ rather than anything else.

Skimming the letter—which carried some interesting rumors about Professor Snape that Harry would have to look more closely at later, he found an explanation for the gift. “It’s a welcome present,” Harry said, “From a Slytherin alumnus that I know. Hm. I probably should have figured that one out before,” he added, mostly to himself.

She had had a secret silver snake stitched into her robe collar, after all. That was pretty obvious in hindsight.

Harry tucked the letter into his robe pocket, along with the two scrolls for later, and then pulled the ribbon. He opened the gift right there, curious to see what she’d gotten. She’d said it was an essential item for all Slytherins and she was hopeful to be the first to offer him such a gift.

Prying off the top of the box, he found two fur lined leather slippers inside. They were that same black-green color with brighter green thread in the stitching and thick silver fur. Zabini whistled beside him and Harry ran his fingers through the fur. It felt incredible. He’d never touched anything so soft in his life.

“Oh those are nice,” Nott said, leaning forward across the table to get a better look.

“What do the soles look like?” Greengrass asked.

Harry lifted one out and turned it over, the underside was a thicker leather, and there was a woven pattern in it that he couldn’t quite make out. He lifted it up for Greengrass. Her brows rose in surprise, “Oh my. Very nice indeed.”

Malfoy’s envy shone in his gray eyes as he stared at the slippers. “Who sent those to you? Those are too nice for just anyone.”

Harry put the shoe back down in the box and said, “I told you, from a Slytherin alumnus. I assume you all probably got similar ones?” He glanced around—he hadn’t noticed his housemates wearing slippers like these, but then again he hadn’t really paid much attention to their feet this last week.

“They tend to be more customized than that,” Parkinson said with a scowl. “Not just Slytherin colors but things we would like. But yes, of course we all got some.” She looked from Greengrass to Malfoy with a nod. “All the proper families keep to such tradition.”

Harry noticed Davis ducked her head a little, shoulders tensing, but no one said anything so neither did he. Instead, he closed up his box and slid it into his bag at his feet. “I think it’s nice to keep traditions like this. I wonder if the other houses have something like this.”

“Why would they?” Malfoy asked, “It’s not like they understand how important something like this is. Besides, most of them go to whichever house they please. Only Slytherins are true to their House the same way.”

“True how?” Harry asked.

“Well you know—the traditional families go there,” Malfoy explained. “Parents who are Slytherins have children who go to Slytherin, because they understand the importance of keeping things pure.”

Harry blinked a few times and asked something he hadn’t really thought about before. “Does every adult in Britain all have a House they used to belong to? Were they all sorted?”

“Any of them that went to Hogwarts, yes,” Zabini answered.

“Huh,” Harry leaned back and thought about that. How weird it was to think that all the adults he knew—or at least most of them—had all gone to Hogwarts. They’d eaten at these tables and taken these same classes and walked these same halls. He didn’t even think every adult back in Little Whinging had even gone to the same church, let alone gone to the same school.

Just how many magical people were there? He’d assumed there were millions of them, but maybe not.

Harry shook his head to dispel those strange thoughts. There probably were plenty of people who had gone to school elsewhere or maybe were taught only by tutors, after all, it wasn’t like the educational books were hard to get ahold of. He instead turned his thoughts to something that drew his attention before—House Traditions.

He’d have to ask Hannah and Susan about their house traditions, and maybe Corner and Padma about theirs and Lavender and Parvati theirs. If everyone in the whole magical world of Britain went to Hogwarts then there had to be all sorts of traditions and things they did from year to year!

This reminded Harry of the thought of magical land—not just land that was purposefully imbued with magic through action like carving runes or spells, but the kind that gathered magic over time. He put his gift away in his bag and rummaged through his books there, but of course he didn’t have Raenmaeld’s ritual text with him.

Sighing, Harry got to his feet. “I’m going to get some studying done, I’ll see you all later.” He excused himself quickly and headed from the table on his own, mind filled with the thoughts of ambient magic from generations and what magical traditions there might have developed here.

There was so much to look into, and so little time to do it in!

It was the end of the first week of school, which meant that about an hour after dinner, the first official Staff meeting was held.

Severus made his way up through the winding halls and in to the small section that was set aside for the teachers alone. There were a series of connected rooms; one that was furnished with comfortable chairs in order to relax in, one that had a small table and access to the kitchen by the elves for private meals, and one that was dominated by a large table and, at the time, only a handful of chairs clustered around one end.

Minerva or Albus would typically resize the large table to a more fitting one, but returned it to its original size between meetings. Whenever Severus stepped into the room and saw it again, he had the same thought: When was the last time there was enough staff to fully encircle the table? It certainly wasn’t during his lifetime, neither when he attended nor now.

It wasn’t long after Severus arrived that Minerva followed. She tsk’d and drew her wand, resizing the table immediately and sending the unused chairs to the far side of the room.

“You would think that the chairs would remain put between sessions, but of course not,” Minerva said, repeating an often spoken sentiment.

Severus said nothing. If the house elves wished to expend the energy to return the chairs to their original places, who was he to say otherwise? Perhaps the foolish things thought it was some sort of game.

Instead, he took his usual seat where he had a clear view of both the window and the door. Minerva sat across from him, in her own usual spot, and drew out her leather bound planner. She had her lips pursed as she reviewed her notes, and for once didn’t make idle talk while the remaining professors and staff arrived.

Over the course of several minutes, they showed up, taking their seats around the table—beside Severus sat Aurora on his left and Filius on his right—until the only empty seat was to Minerva’s left, the one reserved for Albus.

Greetings had bled into chatter and soon the table was alight with gossip. Severus sat back, enjoying a cup of tea that had been served, listening to Septima chat with Aurora about one of their sixth year students. However, he wasn’t so enthralled that he missed the glimmer of misty white out of the corner of his eye. He thought at first it might be Albus sending a patronus to tell them to go on without him—it had happened before when his other duties called for his time—but to his surprise it wasn’t a patronus at all.

It was a ghost.

Specifically, it was Binns.

He came through the door, which rattled a little in place, and drifted over to the table. Conversation died down as he was seen and recognized. Minerva blinked in surprise. “Professor Binns?”

“Now, have we not been colleagues for these many decades, Minnie?” Binns responded with a smile, “You may all call me Bert, if you like. I know the full thing is a bit of a mouthful.”

Filius recovered first with an excitable, “Bert, it is a pleasure to see you here. You didn’t lose your way here, did you?”

“No, no, I think I had the time off by a little, but I’ve had the elves repair the clock in my office since then so I shan’t be late again.” He looked around at the table, which had no empty spots save for Albus’s.

This, of course, was immediately rectified by several professors adjusting their seats and opening up a spot. Filius summoned one of the spare chairs over and Bert thanked him for it as he took a seat. He set down a notebook that, as soon as it touched the surface of the table, became solid. Filius was charmed by this and excitedly asked him about it.

“It does take a bit of effort, true,” Bert said, “But it isn’t so much the effort that’s the hindrance, truly. If this were a fresh book, only in my possession for a short time, I wouldn’t have the bond with it that’s necessary to, well, possess it. As it stands, this has been an unused book on my desk for almost five years. It’s quite certainly mine.”

“My, that is fascinating,” Filius said, “to think that you could possess an item and in doing so transmute your immaterial nature to it! Quite fascinating indeed.”

It was then that Albus arrived, thankfully cutting off Filius's excited questions and drawing attention away from Bert.

Severus couldn’t quite stop looking at him from the corner of his eye, however.

He had never seen the ghost so…animated. So responsive to external, living, stimuli. Even when he was a student, Bert had been a droning ghost with no personality. Not like the other drifting ghosts of Hogwarts—or at least not like some, which seemed alive in spirit even if they were without a body.

Albus greeted them cheerfully and took his seat with a hefty sigh. He brightened with surprise at Bert’s attendance, thanked him for joining them, and joked delightfully about having a ‘full house’ present. He then immediately handed over the control of the meeting to Minerva and sat back, sipping his tea and watching with that damn little smile and twinkle in his eyes.

The meeting carried on as it usually did from that point. Each teacher gave basic reports on expectations and reactions and things of note. This part usually went quickly, as with the first week there often wasn’t much to report on. It was the latter half that got more interesting, when they talked about certain students in particular.

For every year, there were always a few students who stood out amongst their peers. Whether it was because their home life was suspected to be troubling or they were a prodigy in one course or another, every professor had at least two or three students that had caught their eye right at the beginning of the year for some reason. Even Bert had a turn regaling them with his NEWTs level history students—there were only six of them and were quite the mixed bunch, consisting of two Ravenclaws, one Hufflepuff, one Slytherin, and two Gyrffindors.

During it all, Albus said little besides a minor statement here or there. Mostly everyone had worked together long enough that any issues between staff was either old hat or worked through already. With Quirinius as Defense teacher, only Charity Burbage was the newest on staff and she was cheerful. She fit right in with Poppy and Pomona.

After the meeting had been going on for a while, Albus finally posited a question, “And how are our first years settling in? Any stand outs in that crowd?” His gaze flicked to Severus, one brow rising.

Severus didn’t take the invitation to speak. He sipped from his tea instead.

“Well,” Filius said beside him, perhaps thinking Albus’s gaze was for him, “They’re all quite excited to be learning spells. We have the usual crowd with some pre-class training—Malfoy, Macmillan, Goldstein, Nott, Potter, and others from established families. Some of the training they’ve gotten they’ve had to unlearn, which makes things take longer and, ah, some of them don’t take that quite as well.”

Severus could only imagine Draco being told that he’d learned something incorrectly from his parents. He bit back a smile, picturing the boy stomping his foot in petulance. Lucius had spoiled that child too much.

Albus stroked his beard thoughtfully. “There’s little for that, I suppose. We can only tell them so many times that it is better for them to wait to learn to cast spells until they get to Hogwarts. At least they are eager to learn?”

Filius beamed, “That they are, Potter especially. Why, the boy might not have his mother’s innate gift, but he has her curiosity. He always has very excellent questions and quite thoughtful responses. The worst thing that his tutor did was give him a bit of a lisp when he casts. He tends to slur a little, especially on the sibilants.”

This was met with a bit of a murmur around the table and Minerva responding, “I’ve noticed something similar with him. Though he manages the spell progression well, his pronunciation is atrocious. I haven’t noticed any speech impediments when he isn’t casting, however, he might have grown out of those. Not that he would have much assistance in getting it treated properly.” She sent a sharp look to Albus, who did not meet her gaze nor respond to her implication.

“How does Mr. Potter fare in potions, Severus? We’ve hardly heard from you all evening. Have you noticed similarly?”

Severus did not roll his eyes, though he was sorely tempted to. He said, “The boy’s tutoring shines through abundantly clear in his potion-work.” His lip curled into a sneer as he continued, “He barely knows any of the ingredients by their English names, since his French tutor deemed it unnecessary to explain them outside of her mother tongue. More care should have been put into selecting his tutors if they are teaching him to slur his spells and only the French names of potions. The boy even counts in French.”

Albus stroked his beard thoughtfully. Severus wondered if he had had a hand in the selection of such tutors. After all, everyone knew that Albus had been watching over the boy for his entire childhood. Frankly, Severus was surprised the boy wasn’t as big-headed as he’d imagined James’s boy to be. Perhaps Albus’s claims about giving the boy a true childhood was not all smoke and illusion but truth. Perhaps Potter only knew Albus as a kindly old grandfather and not the wizarding giant that he was.

“Mr. Potter’s quite good in Herbology,” Pomona volunteered, “No French, no slurring. He acts as a natural bridge between his housemates and the Ravenclaws he ended up in a team with. No offense, Severus, but some of your snakes could learn a thing or two from him about cooperation.”

Severus did roll his eyes at this. Why teach them cooperation when they’d only be accused of sabotage if anything ever went wrong? When they couldn’t trust that a hand offered in peace would be returned in kind?

“On that note, I have noticed Potter is very familiar with the other houses,” Minerva said, “He’s made some friends in all three of them, hasn’t he?”

Most of whom are girls, Severus thought with a hidden sneer. Of course James’s son would start chasing skirts as soon as possible. Why waste these early years when his soulmate mark hadn’t developed yet and no one knew to whom they belonged?

“He certainly has,” Pomona said, “He’s quite close to Susan and Hannah. He’s spent most breakfasts with my badgers. Some of my prefects have asked if he’s allowed to do so.”

“We are always hopeful that our students can find inter-house friendships,” Albus said with a little smile, “I see no reason to prohibit him from eating at their tables on occasion, why, perhaps it might start a trend and we’ll see a little more mixing at mealtimes. Wouldn’t that be grand?”

There was some murmured agreement—no one wanted to outright forbid anything, even if it was unusual. Severus wondered at what point that irregularity would grate against the main population—the students were too rigidly segregated into their houses for Potter’s mixing mealtimes to go unnoticed and unremarked on. Perhaps the uprising would begin if he ever dared to sit with the Gryffindors instead of a more neutral house like Hufflepuff.

“Mr. Potter is very keen in my class as well,” Bert said suddenly. “I do appreciate his interest in history and his willingness to put in the effort to read beyond what’s necessary for class. I think he’s quite likely to grow into exactly the sort of person he wishes to. I’m somewhat remorseful that I will not be here to teach him for all seven years, however.”

There was a moment of silence and then an aghast, “What?” that came from Charity.

“My dear friend,” Albus leaned forward in his seat, “Whatever do you mean?”

Bert fixed Albus with a stern, unblinking look, “I mean that I am planning to retire by the end of this year. I am already in the process of making arrangements for myself, Albus.”

That got a bigger reaction, even from Severus who sat with his brows lifted in surprise. Retirement? Could a ghost retire? Or was that simply a euphemism for an exorcism?

Albus looked gobsmacked for a second before he schooled his expression into something closer to mild surprise. “I must admit, Cuthbert, that I’m shocked to hear you say such a thing. I thought that teaching was your passion, after all, you’ve been at it for many decades now.”

“And it was my passion, while I was alive that is. I haven’t been myself for many decades, however. I have been going by rote and as such my lessons have severely deteriorated over the years. Why, my NEWTs students, as dedicated as they are to the craft, did not sign up for my class with the expectation that I would teach them anything but that they would self study for the year and pass the test that way.” Bert’s expression fell, “I have severely failed in my duty as their history professor and as such, I will make amends as best I can before I go.”

“You’ll—you’ll go where? You’ll pass on?” Minerva asked, eyes wide and her hand pressed to her chest.

“As I said, I’ll take care of the details,” Bert said, “But rest assured that with the coming of the end of this year, I’ll be retiring. I would be more than willing to speak to any candidates you have for my position, Albus, but come June, I will be departing Hogwarts once and for all.”

There was silence in response to this as they sat in shocked silence. Severus, too, was surprised. He hadn’t seen this coming at all—was Bert’s sudden cognizance just the last death throes of his ghost? When he said make arrangements, did he mean he would find someone to exorcise him? Or would he simply fade away, his last tether to the world fading at last? What was it that tethered Bert in the first place? How did he know it was his time?

“Well,” Minerva looked around the table and then cleared her throat, “I’m sure we can all agree that we’ll miss you, Bert. You’ve been here the longest out of all of us, after all. It won’t feel quite the same without you here.”

“We should throw a retirement party for you,” Charity said abruptly, sitting up and clapping her hands together, “It’s something muggles do for their co-workers—we could do the same! Just a little get together with some cake and balloons.”

Albus smiled at this and Severus wanted to groan. Of course the old man would be interested in such a thing if muggles did it. “Cake you say?”

“Yes! And a banner of some sort. I’ve seen pictures and can look more into it. Maybe I’ll have the students participate—making cards and the like. After all, Professor Binns has been everyone’s history professor! We’ll all be sad to see him go,” Charity said.

“That sounds fine to me,” Albus said, “I’m sure the older years will want to say goodbye and a little celebration won’t be out of place.”

“We’ll set it after OWLS and NEWTs, of course,” Minerva said, “The day before school ends?”

There were agreements around the table and Severus gave a silent sigh. He’d have to attend briefly, but hopefully only briefly. At least it was a long way off—he wouldn’t even have to think about it until right before it happened, either, since he wouldn’t be needed for any decorations.

But if they decided to start throwing retirement parties for every member of staff after this, Severus was simply going to leave one day and simply move out of the country too swiftly for them to throw him a party.

Searching for a private place to study was harder than Harry had imagined. He spent at least an hour after dinner walking the hallways of Hogwarts for the perfect room. He had asked a few portraits for suggestions, but often found that the rooms they had pointed out were private either were locked or looked as though someone had recently been inside. Harry figured that plenty of other students would want a private room to study in or to hang out with their friends, so he avoided the rooms with couches or stacks of school books or other things.

Ultimately, he found a perfect room off of the winding stairway that led to the Divination tower. It was small—almost like an enclosed alcove more than an actual room, but it had a large window with a view of the lake and forest beyond. The ceiling was slanted and the door somewhat shortened—any adult would probably have to duck their head to enter.

It reminded Harry of his cupboard at the Dursleys, but much cleaner and made of stone. The window prevented it from feeling too much like the cupboard, but the cramped room with only one long piece of furniture—a desk wedged up against one wall by the window—came so close that he’d almost decided against it.

But, for all that he’d hated the cupboard growing up, he’d also liked it. It was a private place, a hidden place, somewhere that no one ever went in besides him. It was the first place he’d talked to Apep, the place where Apep first told him about magic and the wizarding world and about his soulmate. He’d been safe there. He thought he might be safe here, too.

So he decided to move in. He found a chair he liked in a nearby room and carried it in. He’d get more furniture later, he figured, but for now this was enough.

Shutting the door and locking it with one of the spells Apep had taught him when he was younger—it was much easier to cast with his wand—Harry sat down at his desk. Tugging open his robes, he pulled it off his shoulder and then rolled up his shirt sleeve. He peeled the cover off his arm, exposing Apep to open air at Hogwarts for the first time outside of a shower.

The snake lay coiled around the skull; its long body was woven in and out of the eyes and nose and jaw, giving it a somewhat grisly appearance. Harry didn’t care, though. He petted Apep gently, running his knuckles along the green scales.

“Ah, my chosen, how tender and sweet you are,” Apep hissed, contorting around so the head faced Harry.

“Thanks,” Harry responded, “We’re at Hogwarts now, obviously. I wanted to talk to you about something that happened earlier today.”

Apep hissed in wordless agreement. So Harry continued on.

“When we were in Professor Quirrell’s class, you started speaking about a fragment, or a piece. You said something about it being a part of the Great Lord, and that you could feel it. What did you mean by that?”

Apep curled in on itself, a long drawn out hiss proceeding its reply, “A piece, my soul, a fragment, my beloved. As I am bound to you, I was but once part of a greater whole. I am in pieces, fractured, torn free and held apart. As I am, so are all fragments, all pieces, all torn asunder and embedded in flesh and metal.”

Harry considered this, idly tracing his fingers along Apep’s coils. “Embedded in flesh and metal,” he repeated softly, “Are you saying…You said my soulmate is still alive, that he’s immortal. Is he…is he somehow possessing different items or something? Like a ghost or a portrait? Parts of him remain and that’s why he’s immortal?” It was distressing to consider, that his soulmate was ‘alive’ the way a ghost or portrait might be, that what Harry was searching for was just an echo of a person and not someone physically real the way he’d always imagined.

“All parts remain, broken and tethered to this plane, all parts remain, asunder but contained. I am power. I am immortal. I am he who walks the earth, unending, a fragment, a wraith, ever able to return to the realm of life. My soul, I shall never perish. I shall never pass on,” Apep hissed. His coils undulated with his declarations until he was wrapped all around the skull, letting only slivers of bone white appear between the green.

“That is somehow more confusing than before,” Harry grumbled unhappily. “A wraith doesn’t have feet. Are you able to walk?”

Apep curled and uncurled, head disappearing into an eye hole, only to reappear and hiss, “Lost, destroyed, vanquished, my soul, my chosen, my flesh is lost, cast off under the influence of powerful magics.”

Now that was a somewhat clear answer. “So, my soulmate is still alive, technically, except his body is destroyed somehow? Is that right?”

“How clever you are, my soul, how brilliant your mind. You shall be able to piece it all together, to bring back what was lost, yes? Return to me my flesh, my beloved, bind my soul back to its true form.”

Harry leaned back in his chair. This was more of an answer than he’d gotten before—only knowing that his soulmate was ‘lost’ and unable to get to him somehow. To discover he’d been torn into pieces? His body destroyed? Harry had no idea how he’d survived that. If the body was gone, what was left? The soul?

“Apep? Are you telling me my soulmate’s soul is in pieces? How many are there?” Harry asked. If he got a positive answer—what would he say? How could a soul be put back together? Was this something he could even do? Could anyone?

“Shattered and torn. Bound to metal, to paper, to flesh. I am eternal. I am immortal. One could be expected. Three would be daring. Seven carries impossible weight. Death brought about such sundering. Death shall never have me,” Apep writhed in place, coils bunching and relaxing almost rhythmically as it spoke.

Harry swallowed. How would he find all these pieces? Could he even start searching now? Would he have to wait even longer for his soulmate? Harry hugged his arm to his chest and whispered, “You said a fragment was close—that Professor Quirrell has one?”

Apep hissed in the affirmative. Harry’s stomach sank. How would he get the fragment from his professor? Could he just ask for it? If he showed the man his soulmate mark, perhaps he’d understand and be willing to hand it over? Or perhaps he could buy it from him? As powerful as the fragment must be, there must be some price that Quirrell would agree to.

But he didn’t even know what it was attached to. Apep had mentioned paper, metal, and flesh. What if the fragment was attached to Quirrell’s body, the way that Apep was attached to Harry? What if it was just a piece of paper he’d had in his pocket that he’d thrown out already, or only had by chance?

He supposed he wouldn’t know until he asked. Though, he thought Quirrell probably wouldn’t help him if he didn’t like Harry and it didn’t seem like the man did right now.

Which meant Harry had to befriend the professor, somehow. How was he going to do that?

Heaving a sigh, Harry dragged his hand through his hair. He had all year to figure that out—he shouldn’t waste all his time trying to figure it out when he had other things to do. He needed to do his reading on rituals, read and write some letters, finish up any homework he had, and look into ways to make a body besides the obvious.

He’d figure out how to collect his soulmate’s soul back together eventually. Harry just had to focus on what he could do right now and start there.

“Baby steps,” Harry muttered to himself as he pulled out the scrolls from his pocket. “First thing’s first.” He cracked open the sealed letter from Opal and began to read.

Chapter Text

Within certain circles it was known that Severus Snape was once a companion to a young Lily Evans during their school years. His relationship deteriorated with her under the pressure of his peers and hers until it reached a point that they were no longer publicly associated with one another. The details of their final confrontation are not known to me, but I might be able to gather such information from some of my associates in the coming weeks.

While it is not impossible for Snape to hold tender feelings for your mother still, I would be most wary against using such knowledge against him. Especially since it is known within these same circles that he considered himself an enemy of James Potter, whom you look so similar to. It is more likely that he sees an echo of the father in the son, rather than the mother.

Be careful when you are within his domain, my lord. I would advise you to not meet his gaze unless you’re forced to.

[Excerpt from a letter from Mary Travers, September 6th, 1991]

Harry’s weekend passed in a blur of studying, meals, and sleep. He spent most of it either in his private study or the Great Hall, enjoying the ability to focus on his reading and homework without having to worry about Dudley chasing him around or hitting him. He was glad he’d taken the time to get new glasses over the summer too, as many of the books had small text or looked like they were handwritten.

By the end of Saturday, Harry was completely caught up with all his reading for school and was spending the last hour or so before dinner searching the library for ways to magically construct a body. He went shelf by shelf, frowning at the spines of books, taking down and flipping through any that caught his eye.

There were some that were very misleading—books that had ‘anatome’ written on the side that turned out to be about preparing animal ingredients for potions and the like (Harry borrowed this one, so he could flip through it for later. Snape seemed to enjoy quizzing him with random knowledge so Harry wanted to be prepared). Then there were other books that looked like they had nothing to do with bodies, but he flipped through anyway—he ended up in the expansive history section flipping through a collection on Lords and Ladies of Magick. He borrowed that one too.

Harry wasn’t even sure what kind of magic something like building a body was. Perhaps it could require a potion and a ritual, or some sort of permanent transfiguration—if such a thing were possible. Maybe he would need to grow it from a seed in a plant or something—how could one make a body that didn’t have a soul in it? How could he put a soul in a body that it didn’t belong to?

Of course, Harry found very little related to rituals on the shelves in general. All references to them seemed to be exclusive to festivals or holidays and were entirely too vague to even base a true ritual off of.

There was, of course, the Restricted Section. Harry passed by it, watching as an older student was let in and while they perused the dangerous tomes. There might be something there, but Harry was hesitant to look. It might be true that some things registered as Dark magic were, in fact, not Dark at all, even Harry could feel that there was something slick and awful about some of those books. He didn’t really want to touch them.

Harry was deep in thought by the time he left the library, a few new books in his bag and one in his arms. He ran into Granger on the way out and picked up his pace so he could join her. “Hello Granger.”

She squeaked in surprise, pulling her nose out of the book she held. “Potter! You startled me.”

“Sorry,” he said, “Did you find something interesting?”

“Oh. Yes! Actually. I’ve been reading up on charms for Professor Flitwick’s class and I’ve discovered that there are so many classifications! There are higher and lower ones and some are based more on emotion and others on will! Some of the charms in here are quite complicated, too. Did you know that some spells have to be cast for over a whole minute? Can you imagine having to repeat the Latin perfectly for that long? I wonder why all these types aren’t taught in class, you know? They’re so interesting!” She said excitedly, talking quite quickly.

“I bet they’re taught in later years,” Harry said, “or otherwise the book wouldn’t be in the library. I mean, it’s a school library so it’s got to have books specific to classes and all that.”

“You think so?” She asked, “Why, when I’ve gone to a library in the muggle world, it has just about anything in it. Last year my parents took me to the British Library and I just about died with how big it is! There’s so much there.”

“And probably duplicates of lots of the books, too,” Harry said, “At least, that’s something I noticed here. The library I have at home is smaller than Hogwarts’, but it doesn’t have two or three copies of the books.”

Granger nodded along and then, having noticed the book in Harry’s arms, asked, “What have you found?”

“This is a book on preparing animal parts for potions,” Harry said, “I figure I should know as much as I can about potions just in case Professor Snape gives me any more pop questions.”

“It was so unfair that he did that,” Granger said, “I looked up all those things later and did you know most of them are in sixth or seventh year textbooks? It was amazing you knew about those at all! How did you learn it?”

“I have a tutor,” Harry explained, “Her name’s Cossette, she’s French.”

Granger gasped and then asked something in French that Harry couldn’t quite catch, it was too fast.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?”

Granger repeated herself slowly. “Parles-tu français? It means, do you speak French?”

“Only a little,” Harry replied, “I only started to learn recently and pretty much everything I know is potions related, sorry.”

“Well, that’s all right, I suppose. You know, I hadn’t even thought about there being French wizards. My parents like to sometimes go to France on holiday so I’ll have to see if they’ll take me to some shops there!”

They reached the Great Hall as she said that. Granger turned slightly to walk to her table and Harry, not really thinking about it at all, followed along to keep chatting.

“I’ve never been to France,” Harry said, “But I’d like to go. I guess I have to actually learn the language. Or maybe there are translation charms. Do you suppose there are?”

“There must be!” Granger said, “I’ll check the library after dinner, I guess. I’m finished with my essays and reading, after all. How about you, Potter? Have you finished your homework yet?”

“I have,” he said, “I’m doing some personal research now.”

They reached the Gryffindor table together. Granger put down her bag at the very end and then hesitated, glancing at Harry and then back down. “Um, you’ll have to tell me about it later I guess,” she said, “Bye, Potter.”

Harry had been thinking he’d just sit with Granger for dinner, but the sudden unease she had threw him a bit. He noticed that a few of the other students at the table were watching them with a few frowns or confused looks. Harry wanted to sigh, but didn’t. Instead he smiled at Granger and then down at Parvati and Lavender a few seats down, “Bye Granger. We’ll have to keep talking later.”

“Oh yes! Of course,” Granger smiled back broadly. “You’ll let me borrow that book when you’re done?”

“Sure,” Harry shrugged. Then he turned and headed towards the Slytherin table. He passed Hufflepuff on the way, saying hello to his other two friends and almost getting stuck there with them. They seemed pretty boisterous tonight, though, so he passed on joining and went on to his table.

Slytherin was decidedly cool to him when he sat down in his usual place beside Zabini. Harry had only just put his bag down and was about to serve himself dinner when Malfoy leaned across the table and said accusingly, “Just what do you think you’re doing associating with that muggleborn, Potter? Do you like her?”

Harry rolled his eyes and ladled a hearty serving of stew into a bowl for himself. He reached for a roll and replied in the same snotty tone as Malfoy, “Just what do you think you’re doing assuming you can determine who I associate with, Malfoy? I thought we established that you are not the boss of me.”

Malfoy scowled at him, “You’re going to get a reputation from talking to all those half-bloods and muggleborns and blood-traitors, you know. No one in Slytherin is going to want to talk to you anymore.”

Harry snorted. He ripped his bread roll in half and dipped it into his soup. “So? Do you think I don’t have a reputation already? If people don’t want to associate with me because of other people I talk to, that’s their problem, not mine. It’s not like blood is contagious, you know. Being a muggleborn isn’t a disease.”

“It might as well be,” Parkinson added with a toss of her hair, “All muggleborns bring into our community is danger.”

“Prove it,” Harry said.

She blinked at him. “What?”

“I said prove it. Show me some proof.”

Parkinson and Malfoy shared a confused and annoyed look.

“Do you even have any proof? Or are you just repeating what other people told you?” Harry asked. He took a bite of his meal and chewed, waiting for them to reply.

Their cheeks had turned pink with emotion. Malfoy half rose out of his seat as he argued, “My father told me that it’s happening. Muggleborns are just taking things from us and putting us in danger with the muggles. Everyone knows it.”

“What are they taking? What kind of danger?” Harry shook his head, “Sorry, I’m not just going to believe something because one adult said so without any proof. That’s how you get whole neighborhoods of people who think one kid is a criminal—just because one adult said so and people trust them. I don’t know your dad. I don’t trust him. I want proof. What are they taking?”

“Our magic!” Parkinson hissed at him, “How else do you think that they’re being born with it, huh? They’re stealing it!”

Harry stared at her, flummoxed. “How?”

“What do you mean ‘how’? Obviously they’ve got it so they’re stealing it!”

“How are they stealing it? And when? As babies? Are you telling me you think babies are stealing magic?” He looked around the group and wondered, “Have any of you even seen a baby before? I don’t think they can do something as complicated as steal magic. I’m pretty sure all they do is sleep, cry, eat, and poop.” Harry said, using his fingers to count the list. “That’s four things they can do, tops.”

Greengrass, a few seats down and quietly listening in like the others, added, “After a while they giggle too.”

Harry nodded to her and then turned to Parkinson and said, “So you’re telling me that giggling babies are stealing your magic? Is that your excuse for why you couldn’t transform your matchstick into a needle in class before Granger? Because a baby stole it?”

“You’re not taking this seriously enough!” Parkinson exclaimed, her face was pink with anger, Harry thought. “You’re being foolish on purpose. Of course the babies aren’t doing it, that’s nonsense. But the adults are doing it and giving it to the babies!”

“Which adults?” Harry asked, “How?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Parkinson said, “Obviously they’re doing it somehow.”

“If we knew how, Potter, did you think we’d let them keep doing it?” Malfoy sneered, “If we could stop them, we would!”

“Maybe you should ask your father to tell you the truth, because it sounds to me like you were told a story, Malfoy,” Harry said after rolling his eyes. “I just don’t believe it.”

Mistress Ignatia says that there are several forms of body construction that she will be able to instruct you on when you return for the Holidays, yes. She warned that such magic would be difficult to do as a child, you will need adults who can help you, that have compatible magic, and whom you trust. Mistress Ignatia instructed Opal to be sending you this book on souls and she said to warn Master to bes careful with it, yes.

Master Ralston be having Beryl put aside special books for Master for the holidays as well. He says they are to help Master with his Most Foolish Soulmate’s Predicament. They are not to leave the library, he says, and Opal is being in agreement. The Manor’s library is a safe place for Master’s books, yes.

[excerpt from a letter from Potter Manor, September 12th 1991]

Standing in front of Professor Snape’s desk, Harry was finally able to answer the man’s question from the week before. “My tutor is Cossette Gaudet,” he said, looking carefully at the man. He didn’t quite understand Healer Travers’s warning about his gaze, but he’d listen to her about it anyway. It wasn’t like he had to make eye contact with him.

Professor Snape sat there, unresponsive save for one climbing eyebrow.

“You said you wanted to know, sir?”

“I did indeed wish to know, Potter. I had hoped you would tell me the truth.”

Harry frowned. “I did, sir. Her name is Cossette Gaudet. Opal asked her for me.”

“And what, exactly, are her qualifications that make her suitable for instructing you in potions?”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked.

Snape leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing. “I mean, Potter, is she a registered Potions Mistress? Where was she instructed? Who was her master? Are you simply learning potions from anyone willing to take your family’s money to teach you?”

“I don’t know about all that,” Harry said. He hadn’t thought to ask what her qualifications were. Cossette was passionate and, for the most part, told him the same as his potion books did. Any changes she gave made plenty of sense. “But I don’t pay her anything, not like with money anyway. Cossette is just really passionate about potions and tutors me on her own.”

“How fortunate of you,” Snape sneered at him. “Perhaps your guardians might inquire as to more of her identity or qualifications, Potter. It would be most unfortunate for you to have a potions accident because you were working from an amateur potioneer’s questionable instruction.”

“Cossette is not an amateur,” Harry disputed immediately. “She’s brilliant. If I knew better French, then we wouldn’t have any issues at all, I’m sure.”

“That will be an issue you’ll have to address with your guardians, I’m afraid,” Snape said dismissively, “As for your behavior in my classroom, if I discover you are following the guidance of this ‘tutor’ over the instructions I have provided, you will be sent to detention. My classes are no place for experimentation, Mr. Potter. Do you understand?”

Harry bit his lip and bobbed his head. It wasn’t the least bit fair, but he did understand. He’d have to write back to the Manor and see if Cossette did have a mastery and all that—he hoped she did. He wanted to prove to Snape that he wasn’t a liar and that Snape didn’t have any idea about what the truth was.

“Aloud, please, so that I know you are not mistaken.”

“Yes, sir, I understand, sir.” Harry replied dutifully. Oh he certainly did understand, too. Snape didn’t know anything about anything.

Leaving the classroom, Harry muttered under his breath, “Perhaps your guardians might inquire—Just who does Snape think my guardian is? Petunia?”

With an amused and disgusted snort, Harry hurried along the corridors alone. Snape would know the truth soon enough.

Looking into what you’ve asked about, I’ve found an interesting thread that I’m chasing down. There isn’t much on record officially past what you’ve already shown me, however, I’ve discovered something about the last son of Gaunt. It appears that he was arraigned and arrested on a few counts of Retribution Murder—an archaic law that only comes into play in cases of egregious line theft.

Hopefully, I should have more to offer within the next month or so—the Archives can be a bit difficult to get into, but once I’m there I should find all the information we’re looking for.

[excerpt from a letter sent by Alexander Yaxley, September 18th, 1991]

“Can you interact with books, Professor Binns?” Harry asked after class, a slim book held tightly in his hand.

Professor Binns regarded him for a long moment, his gaze fixed on said book. He seemed to gather himself slowly and said, “Shall we talk in my office, Mr. Potter?”

Harry nodded and followed the man through the door and into the office. The rest of the class had already left, Harry’s friends growing used to him lingering behind in Binns’s class to talk to him and the rest of them eager to get to lunch.

The same tea set was ready for them when they sat down and Harry happily took a cup to drink.

Binns settled in his chair, little wisps of smoke curling around him. “You asked if I could interact with books,” he said, “Presumably in order to read them, yes?”

“Right,” Harry said, “See, I have a book that I think would be interesting to you and maybe, um, similar to your situation? But I didn’t want to lend it to you if you couldn’t even read it, what would be the point of that?”

“There are some objects that I am able to interact with without too much trouble—things that have been within my domain, shall we say, for an extended period of time. My old belongings and the like,” Binns said, pantomiming drinking from his own empty teacup.

“Like the teacup or the chalkboards and maps in the classroom?”

“Exactly.”

“So you wouldn’t be able to read a book that was from the library or something?” Harry asked.

“In most respects, that is true. I would have to expend quite a bit of energy to interact with it, and it wouldn’t necessarily be useful or well spent.”

Harry frowned. That was troublesome. He wanted to share his book with Binns, but if he couldn’t even read it—

“However,” Binns interrupted his thoughts. He gestured to the book in Harry’s lap, “I believe that I would have no trouble with that one. May I ask if you were sent that book from your Manor, Mr. Potter?”

“Er, yes,” Harry said, “My…” he hesitated. Ignatia was his ancestor, right? But she was a painting. Should he call her that? He didn’t really think of her as one except when he was really forced to. He just talked to her normally. “My great aunt sent it to me,” he ended up saying. That felt right.

Binns smiled as if he completely understood. “How kind of her. May I see it?”

Harry got up and handed it over. “I’ve got to be careful with it,” he said, “But I thought it would help you a little with what you want me to do.”

Binns flipped open the thin book and considered it. He turned a few more pages, his milky gaze moving slowly over the page. “I do believe this might help,” he said, “This is quite a priceless piece. I will keep it safe and return it as soon as I’m able.”

“Thank you,” Harry said.

“May I ask why she sent this to you?” Binns asked, “Is it for some reason or just…required reading for one of your birthright?”

Harry pursed his lips in thought. “A bit of both? Well. See, I have to help you with your soul and um, someone else with theirs. My great aunt does want to teach me about my birthright magic, but she and my uncle tend to always warn me to not do anything yet because I’m too young.” He wrinkled his nose at the thought. Harry might only be eleven, but he felt quite old for it! After all, he was Lord of a manor and of people. Before that, he’d been treated worse than a house elf by the Dursleys. If Harry had ever really been a child before, he didn’t remember it.

“I see,” Binns said, “Well, I shall enjoy reading this and discussing it with you, if you are amenable. It would be a pleasure to discuss the nature of souls with someone who is able to touch them like you are.”

“Not yet,” Harry admitted, “But I’ll have to soon.”

Professor Binns quietly agreed.

You’ll need to be mindful that you don’t align too closely with families of that nature, however. It’ll put Graves under more scrutiny if you are too Dark aligned in your voting habits. I’ve spoken with him some about how to conduct himself in the Wizengamot, but until he steps foot in there, he won’t really understand what a nest of vipers it is.

As for your thoughts on the Artifact law, I do see what you intend—but this is exactly the sort of case that I mean. Defending against the search and seizure of such artifacts will paint you with the same brush as Traditionally Dark families. You’ll need a nuanced take to make sure you sound more neutral—and you’ll need Graves to be able to articulate it well.

[excerpt from letter by Heather Flint, September 22, 1991]

“You get a lot of letters, Harry,” Susan said at the breakfast table, watching Octavian fly off with the rest of the owls.

Harry looked up from the handful of envelopes he was flipping through and shrugged. “Well, I have a lot of responsibilities as Lord. Kind of comes with the territory. Literally.”

One of the Hufflepuff boys, Ernie MacMillian, leaned over from his spot and asked, “What about fanmail? Do you get any letters from them?”

“Fan mail?” Harry repeated, “No, actually. You think people would actually write to me as the Boy-Who-Lived?”

“Oh absolutely,” Ernie said, “I know so. One of my cousins had a whole year where she was obsessed. She wrote you letters every week for a year and even had her parents send you presents for Yule.”

Harry blinked, utterly surprised. “Really? When? I never got any mail.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you had some sort of mail ward put up,” Susan said with a prim bob of her head, “My Aunt says that a lot of public officials tend to have one put up through Gringotts or one of those owl post boxes or some such because they just get too much to deal with on their own. Of course, she doesn’t do that. She says that a lot of important messages can get delayed if they go through that.”

Harry considered this for a while, stirring his honey into his oatmeal. He supposed he’d have to write to Gringotts, to see if they knew anything about that. Barring that, well…

“Perhaps I have a post box I didn’t know about,” Harry said. “Sheesh, the amount of mail that’s stuck in there must be enormous.”

“Have you never gotten any letters at all?” Hannah asked curiously.

“Not one before my Hogwarts letter,” Harry said.

This got a few surprised looks and mutters from the Hufflepuffs around him. Harry shrugged a little and pulled out his notebook to make note to have Heather look into that for him. As a lawyer, she certainly had the sort of pull to, he was sure. “I’ll look into it,” he said.

I would be most honored to assist you, my Lord. If you are amenable, I would ask that I bring my wife along to join in the celebrations. While we have always celebrated in private as a family, we would greatly enjoy being able to partake with you this Harvest season.

Together, may we reap what was sown and receive the blessings of our efforts.

[Excerpt from a letter by Philip Graves, September 26th, 1991]

Luckily, Mabon landed on a weekend, and so Harry didn’t have to rush his preparations. The night before he worked hard on his homework, doing as much as necessary so it wouldn’t matter that his Saturday was busy with other things.

That morning, Harry dressed in casual robes, ate his breakfast with Hannah and Susan in the Great Hall and then went to his little study room. He shut the door and then immediately lifted his hand and chanted aloud Mors, porta nos domum.

A hook of magic caught him by the navel and Harry felt himself yanked through space. He stumbled on arrival to the Master Study, falling down to his knees, slightly nauseated, head spinning. “Ugh,” he muttered, “Not a great way to travel.”

“You should get used to it the more you use it,” Ralston said from behind him, “Like many other forms of magical travel, the body must build up an endurance.”

“I’d rather ride in a car if I had the time,” Harry said. He pushed himself up to his feet, brushed himself off, and said, “Good morning, Uncle Ralston.”

The man in the portrait laughed, “Good morning, young lord. Shall we commence the festivities?”

Harry grinned up at him, “Let’s.”

As we enter the darker months, the steps that call upon the night, the moon, one’s blood, they become richer and more powerful. If you plan to embrace the Soul’s Night and the Long Night, be prepared to embrace magics you have not yet touched, lad.

Take a companion with you when you can. One should not walk through Darkness alone.

[Excerpt from a letter by Raenmaeld Yaxley, September 30, 1991]

The Manor was living once more.

Philip rested his palm against the stone as he waited for his Lord to finish bidding his elves goodbye. He could feel the pulse of it, low, steady, warm beneath his hand.

It had been a long time since the Manor lived. Not in Philip’s time, before this. Not in his father’s nor his father’s father. He supposed Lord Charlus must have been the last, but even he was not said to be much of a Peverell.

The bloodline was almost worn out. The last vestiges of it in dying family lines.

“Mr. Graves?” His lord’s voice, while young and clear, was strong, steady. He turned to Lord Potter and bowed his head slightly.

“I am at your service, my lord.”

Harry smiled at him. “Opal says the best place to apparate from is outside. Let’s go.”

Philip followed him out through the large front doors, down the flagstone path, to the edge of the wards. His Lord carried himself boldly, confidently. Some of that was youthful naivety, some of it was ignorant bravado, but plenty of it was Harry’s courage and own fortitude.

Few children could carry such a lordship on their shoulders, but Harry was of curious, and powerful, stock.

As they reached the boundary, Harry stopped and turned. He looked up at Philip with bright green eyes, as brilliant as spring’s new leaves, as jade in the sunlight. He gave Philip a serious look. “I appreciate your help, Mr. Grave, both in this and with the Wizengamot.”

Philip nodded.

“Are you ready for the autumn session?”

“I am, my lord.”

A sly smile crept across his face. “Good.”

Philip held out his arm, “Shall we?”

Harry nodded and took his arm, gripping it tightly. Philip felt the same steady, deep pulse of magic from his lord’s touch as he did from the Manor. As he prepared to apparate them to the gates of Hogwarts, Philip closed his eyes.

The Manor lived. His Lord was bound to it.

All would be well, all would be greater, under the guidance of his lord.

Chapter Text

If Harry thought September went by in a flash, October was even faster. The days almost blurred together in an endless cycle of classes, meals, letters, and homework. Harry often went to bed with ink-stained fingertips or his hands aching from writing so much. He’d never read so much in his whole life—pouring through the books of the library in order to write essays or to research his own projects.

The most overwhelming part, however, was keeping up with all of his classmates and new friends. He couldn’t let himself get totally absorbed in his reading or else he’d end up ignoring one of them and feel bad later. He couldn’t let himself stay in his makeshift study all the time or else he’d lose track of time entirely—as he had done one or two nights and had to creep back down to the dungeons after curfew.

He got closer with Hannah and Susan at meal times and often spent his Gryffindor-Slytherin classes either sitting with Zabini or the Gryffindor girls. He liked how friendly Lavender and Parvati were with him, even if the Gryffindor boys teased them about it. With Hermione, he mostly spent time with her in the library, though after a week or so she sat with him in classes where available.

His relationship with the Slytherins was still pretty rocky—most of the older years ignored him entirely, which was fine with him. Malfoy and Parkinson tended to snipe him still, but with Greengrass as his potions partner and Zabini choosing to sit with him at meals or in classes, things were fine. The other first-year Slytherins liked to keep close to the whole group, but didn’t seem swayed one way or another—other than Tracy Davis, who turned out to really be interested in birds and had spent one afternoon interrogating him about Octavian.

She tended to smile at him more, now, but they didn’t talk like he did with his other friends. Slytherins, Harry had decided, were kind of odd. But he appreciated them. They left him alone for the most part, which helped him keep up with all the reading he had to do—not just for classes, but the Wizengamot bills and books from the Manor.

The first half of October was filled with reading for the Wizengamot. It seemed like every day he had a letter from Flint or Graves, detailing out the specifics of this bill or the probable consequences of that one. There was one that Harry was staunchly against—one that Flint had warned him would make him look Dark Leaning if he wasn’t careful, but he believed that Graves could walk the line that Harry wanted him to. He had a lot of faith—he had to. There wasn’t any time to change his proxy, nor could he think of anyone else he’d rather sit in his stead.

(Harry did have one nightmare where he dreamed of Petunia sitting in the Wizengamot in those plum purple robes, screaming about how all the Freaks should be locked up in jail and their magic stripped away so that they could all be Normal. He’d woken up and been unable to get back to sleep, sweating through his pajamas because of it.)

During it all, Harry counted down the days to Halloween.

Anticipation thrummed through him the closer and closer it got. More and more decorations filled the school, and there was a swell of excitement for the upcoming feast, but Harry was preparing for the morning of, not the evening.

The Article was coming out this Halloween. The Article that Alexander had spent the last month refining down, polishing to perfection. The Article that would announce Harry Potter’s return to the magical world—not just as the Boy Who Lived, but the Lord of Potter Manor, the youngest Lord in over a century.

Harry’s hands were clammy on the morning of Halloween as he poured himself some tea and waited for the morning mail to arrive. He could barely stomach the idea of food—but managed to get some fruit and eggs into his system by the time the owls—and Octavian—fluttered into the room. There was a tizzy of excitement—many of the owls seemed to be carrying packages from home, and plenty more had the paper clutched in their talons.

Octavian himself swooped low and landed gracefully on Harry’s outstretched arm. He fed him some bits of sausage, careful not to get his fingers caught, and took the latest bundle of letters from his gyrfalcon with whispered thanks. Octavian sidestepped up onto his shoulder and preened him, seemingly content to settle on his shoulder. He tended to do that when one of the letters required a quick response as if his prolonged presence would get Harry to stop what he was doing and write back right away.

As much as he would like to do that, Harry didn’t even open the bundle now. Instead, he tucked them into a protected inner pocket of his robe to read through later and turned to the newspaper that Octavian had brought along.

Right on the front page was his own photograph—it was one of the ones Alexander had taken of him in the Manor in August. Specifically, it was the one where he stood by the window in the room where they’d met, looking out with one hand holding back the heavy curtains. His face was lit from the sun outside and from a flickering fire. That firelight caught on the surface of his Lordship ring, prominently displayed where his hand rested on the windowsill. In the picture, Harry took a deep breath and let it out slowly, his shoulders rising and falling with the motion. He blinked a few times, and then turned to look at the photographer—Alexander, Harry knew—and offer a partial smile.

He looked somber; older than he was, and still little, so little against those huge windows and heavy drapes. The article headline across the top was short but sweet: HARRY POTTER — OUR SAVIOR TURNED LORD.

Harry thought it was a bit ridiculous, but Alexander had chosen it. He certainly liked it better than some of the other suggested titles.

Harry had read the article himself already—Alexander had sent him a rough draft in early September and a finished copy only a week before. Some of it made him squirm with the feeling of exposure—it spoke about how he was raised with his muggle relatives, how he knew nothing about magic for most of his childhood, how even the word itself had been taboo in the household. Harry had never explicitly told Alexander about Apep—never told him that the one who truly introduced him was a fragment of his soulmate attached to his own arm—but what little he had told him had been spun into a story about a magical person meeting Harry while he was still very young and telling him stories about Hogwarts and magical creatures and the world that he truly belonged to.

Harry hadn’t been specific about the way he’d been treated by the Dursleys either, but Alexander was smart, and investigative, and had surprised Harry by going out to the Dursleys himself for at least one interview. There wasn’t much directly from the Dursleys in the article, but there were lines that were specific enough for Harry to know that he’d been in that house and seen where Harry had lived. There were things that were clear enough between the lines—Harry wanted to announce himself, not fully expose himself, but it was there, if one looked hard enough.

Harry’s favorite part of the article was far past that. Their interview had covered everything—from Harry’s past to his potential future. He had high hopes for the Magical world. He wanted it to be the world that he was told about by Apep, powerful and mystical, full of wonderful things and fantastic people and places. Maybe he’d never get everything to be as fair as he’d like, but he’d fight for that right as hard as he could.

His future wasn’t just for himself, but for his future soulmate as well. Here in the article was another picture of Harry, this time sitting on the couch with his right hand resting on his left and his face lit up with a huge smile. Alexander had used ambiguous terms for Harry’s soulmate—even though Harry remembered not doing so at the time—and explained that it was unusual for kids his age to know the gender. Harry wondered if Alexander had figured he must have his mark already—or perhaps he’d asked Petunia about it—but whether he did or not, Alexander left that as a mystery to the reader.

Who will be the fortunate soulmate of Harry Potter? Alexander had written in the article, that remains to be seen, but one thing is for certain, our young hero will do everything in his power to ensure them a long and happy life with plenty of little rascals of their own running around!

Harry blushed as he came across his quote for ‘and sixteen kids, maybe not all at once’. It was stupid, he knew that, but still. He wanted kids. He wanted a big family. He had a huge manor and it was going to be filled, even if it took a lifetime.

Not like I won’t have a lifetime to fill the Manor up, Harry thought to himself as he skimmed back over the article again, smiling a little. Harry hadn’t really brought it up at the time, but he planned to be as immortal as his soulmate. It was the best way to make sure things stayed good for everyone, he thought, if he could be there to keep an eye on it and raise his kids to maybe help do the same.

Harry nodded to himself and flipped through the paper, looking for anything else interesting. There was a small mention of a memorial event for his parents happening in Godric’s Hollow that evening. Harry wondered if he should attend. He could probably get Graves to take him there… though his only plans for Samhain had been to conduct a ritual back at the Manor.

He had to do that as part of his Peverell ancestry, apparently. At least a small offering, now that the Manor was active again. It would be more important as he got older and more educated in his birthright, but every little bit counted now.

If he had time afterward, he supposed, he’d floo Graves and ask if he’d escort him there and then back to Hogwarts.

Harry was thinking through the details of his offering that night when Malfoy demanded from across the table, “Is it true? Potter! Is it?”

Lowering the paper, Harry looked up, “Is what true?”

“The article!” Malfoy said, shaking his copy of the paper at him. “Were you raised by muggles!?”

“Yes,” Harry said simply.

The shock around him was kind of funny. He arched his eyebrow and said, “It’s all true, in fact.”

“So you actually are a Lord,” Nott murmured from the other side of Zabini, who sat next to Harry like usual.

“I thought you all knew that already,” Harry said, “I’m wearing the ring.”

“It’s curious,” Nott gave him a glance out of the corner of his eye, “You should be too young for the ring. I wonder why the Potters allow for young Lords? That’s unusual.”

“Everything about Potter is unusual,” Zabini said, still perusing the article, “Sixteen children, Potter? Really?”

Harry blushed, “Not all at once! I said that in there! Over a lifetime— Look, the Manor’s huge. It should have a large family in it! Or multiple families or something.”

“Your Manor isn’t nearly as large as mine,” Malfoy said, sticking his nose up in the air.

Harry rolled his eyes at this. “So? I don’t want your Manor, I like mine and it likes me too.”

Octavian shrieked from Harry’s shoulder in agreement. Harry cooed at him and fed him more sausage before finally helping the bird take flight, standing in the process. Taking the opportunity, Harry gathered up his bag and slung it on his shoulders, “I’m off to the library to check out a book I need for this weekend, I’ll see you all in class.”

Some of them said goodbye to him, which was an improvement from the silence he used to get at the beginning of the year, and Zabini in particular gave him an annoyed look for leaving so soon since he wasn’t done with his own meal. Harry smirked at him and headed out of the Great Hall.

“Licorice wands,” Severus snarled at the gargoyle, prompting it to leap to the side and reveal the winding steps up to the Headmaster’s office. He walked up them, controlling himself enough to not take them two at a time, and only hesitated when he reached the top and thought he could hear voices through the door.

Normally, he would have paused there to listen, but he knew of Albus’s anti-eavesdropping wards and that the man likely knew someone was there—if not Severus himself. Besides, he could recognize that voice plain enough. Only one of his fellow professors had such a Scottish brogue.

Severus pushed open the door, entering the office in time to hear Minerva declare, “—explicitly! Did I not?”

A quick glance revealed that Fawkes was not present, perhaps a wise decision on the part of the phoenix, and most of the previous Headmasters were awake and tutting amongst themselves. Albus sat at his desk, one hand resting on his beard, the other tucked away. His infernal twinkling had dimmed and he looked dismayed, if not a bit confused.

Whatever it was Minerva demanded, Albus decided to deflect instead and greeted Severus. “Ah, Severus, it’s a pleasure to see you, my boy. Minerva here was just expressing some concerns—”

“Concerns,” she hissed out, practically spitting. It was times like these that her animagus form was really quite noticeable. “Don’t you think you can weasel your way out of this, Albus. I want an answer.”

“I must say that your dedication to Mr. Potter’s care is really quite touching, Minerva, however, regarding the boy’s home situation—now that he’s here and has been sorted, it’s really something that should only be discussed with his Head of House,” Albus said with a disappointed little frown at her.

Severus leaned back slightly, hands clasped behind himself as he watched Minerva puff up, hackles rising. He thought she might actually curse Albus if he kept this up. He certainly wouldn’t stop her if she did so.

“I told you,” Minerva dropped her voice low, her body trembling ever so slightly. “I told you when he was a babe that that was no house for a magical child, let alone this child. And I told you again, after I went to the house and discovered he was missing, that leaving him there had been a terrible mistake. And now look. Look at this.” She stepped forward and slapped her hand on the newspaper on Albus’s desk. “Look at what’s been done to him!”

Albus sighed. He looked aged, peering down at the image of Potter captured and printed on who knew how many copies of the paper. It was the tenth anniversary of that horrible night. It was always going to be a notable edition. The fact that Harry Potter had orchestrated this article to be published today would only bring it more attention.

Severus bit the inside of his cheek as he held back the knee-jerk reaction to blame James’s genes for this. That fool would have never been this calculated. This was all Lily—except, according to the very article that they discussed, Harry Potter hadn’t even known his mother’s name until he was ten and had only seen a picture of them for the first time that very summer.

So much for the spoiled little prince, with private tutors and sycophant guardians and a silver spoon tucked neatly into his mouth. Severus wasn’t sure whether he should burn with shame or fury at the revelation that most of Harry’s magical schooling had come from portraits and incidental conversations with shopkeepers.

What a welcome to a world he had been born into, that he should have been raised in—

“It is a shame,” Albus murmured, “A great and terrible shame. To think that his childhood has been whisked away while still so young. It is troubling indeed for him to wear the burden of a Lordship so early in life.”

Minerva sucked in a sharp breath. “This is not about the lordship and you know it isn’t. This is about the muggles and what they did to him— If you can’t see how terrible they were I—” She broke off as if she couldn’t physically find the words. She looked sharply at Severus and hissed, “You must be able to convince him, Severus. He listens to you.”

Severus wasn’t exactly sure where she’d gotten that impression—perhaps the private meetings he and Albus had held when the war was still freshly ended and his world had been so freshly destroyed. Still, he had come here to ask Albus something and he would ask it knowing that Albus would not answer him. Not now. Not while in this mood. The old man was fixated on something entirely different—and he would remain so for a while, Severus was sure.

“I only wanted to ask one thing,” Severus said, speaking quietly, steadily, despite the fury, the sickness that rose in the back of his throat like bile. He waited until he had Albus looking at him, those dim blue eyes focused on his own.

“You knew Petunia was jealous of her sister’s magic,” Severus said, “You knew that she and Lily did not speak to each other. Yet you left Lily’s son with that woman? When anyone else—when even I would have taken better care of him—Why? Why did you condemn him so? What was the point of leaving him with people who would only ever hate and fear him?”

Albus closed his eyes, shaking his head as if he was disappointed in Severus and not the other way around. “She was his only family—”

“She hated Lily,” Severus snarled. He reeled himself back, gritting his teeth together.

Albus looked at him and said, “She attended her sister’s wedding, did she not? I saw them speaking together pleasantly—”

Severus scoffed. He wanted to curse Albus now. How utterly blind could he be? How could he sit there and pretend that one day of forced politeness—no, one hour’s worth of politeness did not make up for years of vitriol and estrangement?

“Now, Severus,” Albus began, more firmly disappointed, but again Severus cut him off.

“There is no explanation good enough for what was done,” Severus said, “And now we must all face the consequences of your actions, Albus. Potter is nothing like we expect. He is no spoiled child. He knows nothing of his parents. He is a Lord, fully fledged, and from what I have heard and seen, he is not going to let neither his title nor the power that comes with it lie fallow.” He drew himself up even straighter than before. Severus would have to change his own behavior towards Potter—and hopefully amend what possible broken ties he had made already.

Tied as he was to the boy, Potter’s goals for the future would, in many ways, become Severus’s concern. And if the boy had no flesh-and-blood mentor, and indeed if Albus’s position as such was as farcical as Petunia’s love for her nephew, then Severus knew precisely how to ingratiate himself to the little Lordling.

“That is what troubles me most,” Albus admitted quietly, stroking his beard and staring past them both at the far wall. “He is so young to have such power, too young. We must keep an eye out for him, guide him, protect him. He can’t be allowed to be led astray.”

Minerva met Severus’s gaze for a moment and he knew they shared the same thought. Albus might think that he was to be the one to guide the boy, but it remained to be seen whether or not Potter would even allow himself to be led. The touch would have to be so light as to be insubstantial indeed. Potter was already a force of his own nature and would only become more so the older he got.

Severus quickly excused himself from this wasteful discussion. Albus could not change the past any more than they could.

Like Potter, Severus would look to the future and do what he could.

All the while keeping the irony of how Potter’s goals for a better future, a freer future, aligned with the Dark Lord’s, to himself.

All of Harry’s friends had different reactions to the article. Hermione peppered him with questions about his childhood and his ‘daring escape’ as she put it. She asked about the manor and the elves and the portraits and eventually this spiraled into further conversations about rituals and tutors, tailors and proxies and the bills and the legislation done by the Wizengamot. Hermione’s ravenous curiosity only convinced Harry to share those bills with her, discussing them and debating them as they walked to and from the library together.

(He still didn’t sit with her at meal times, though. The other Gryffindors gave him too much of a stink eye to really want to have to suffer through it and besides, Hermione tended to read at meals anyway.)

Hannah and Susan had different sorts of questions, mostly about whether or not he really lived alone and if he was okay with that and what it was like living with Muggles. These questions were repeated by the Patil twins and Lavender, who turned out to have a Muggleborn father and was happy to discuss things she’d picked up from him with Harry.

(Harry, of course, had a wildly different childhood than she did, but he’d heard of some of the superheroes and other stories she’d grown up on. Lavender promised to share some comics with him when she could, as it was something she enjoyed with her father.)

Zabini mostly asked Harry subtle questions about the article. He was particularly good at seeing where Harry had been fuzzy with the details—like how he’d heard about magic in the first place, or where he’d gotten some of his books for school. Harry didn’t answer all his questions, but he did share that it had been while at the tailor that he’d learned the most about his own magical history—about his fame and his parents and everything. He didn’t think there would be any harm in revealing who his tailor was either. If anything, maybe Rowle could get more work—Zabini seemed to have money and Harry had learned after the fact that Rowle’s clothes were quite pricey in comparison to what most people wore.

Some of the older Slytherins were ruder to Harry after this, while other houses were nicer. The Slytherins of Harry’s own year were mixed—with the ones who liked him liking him more, for some reason, and the ones who didn’t like him disliking him more. Harry didn’t mind that too much—honestly, it seemed like too much work to make everyone like him and he was well practiced with the idea that not everyone would, no matter what he did.

His professors didn’t change much—Harry had to share the paper with Professor Binns, who hadn’t been surprised by much of what he read—but a few of them did pull him aside after classes to ask how he was.

Professor Sprout had given him a hug when she’d spoken to him. Professor Flitwick offered to tell him stories of his mother, since he had remembered her in his class as quite a good charms student. Professor McGonagall had been a bit strange, apologizing to him for not coming to get him from Aunt Petunia’s house early enough—Harry hadn’t even realized that he’d gotten a return letter from her that summer and apologized in turn that she had to go all that way when he wasn’t even there.

Professor Quirrell hadn’t questioned him at all about the article—he’d only offered Harry what sounded like a very sarcastic congratulations on his becoming a Lord. Harry accepted it whether it was genuine or not. He still had some difficulty in that class with Apep’s chatter, but he’d started to read ahead in class and was able to keep up that way. He hadn’t had his scar bleed again since that first day.

Professor Snape’s response had been the strangest of all. He approached Harry in the middle of the afternoon, looming over him as he commanded, “Follow me to my office, Mr. Potter.”

Harry opened his mouth to argue—he was just about to go to the library to study since it was his free period and he was meeting with friends so they would worry—but he saw the look on Snape’s face and decided against it. Instead, he followed the man down into the dungeons and to his office, which turned out to be a room adjacent to his classroom.

Professor Snape gestured to the chair placed in front of his desk while he took his own behind it. He sat and folded his hands across the desk, staring at Harry while he walked in and sat down as well. There was a period of silence and then Harry asked, “What was it that you wanted to speak about, sir?”

“When I was asking about your potion tutor,” Professor Snape said, “At what point were you going to tell me that she was a portrait?”

Harry blinked. “Why would that matter?”

“Despite what you think, a portrait is not a person. They are quite lifelike, I am aware, but that does not make them a substitute for a person,” Snape said, his lips pressed into a thin line like he was trying to not say more than that.

“They do have a bit of the person’s memories and soul, though,” Harry said, “That’s part of how they work.”

“That does not make them a suitable instructor for an art as intricate as potions,” Professor Snape said sharply, “Particularly for a new student who is more likely to make mistakes and cause dangerous eruptions. Just what would you have done if your cauldron bubbled over because you misunderstood your tutor?”

“It’s not like I only have Cosette’s instructions, sir. I’m also working with the book for class, the same one that you have us learn out of,” Harry argued, “She just helps me with the timing and sometimes different preparation techniques.” He relaxed a little bit, realizing that Snape was just being worried about his potions work and not anything else.

“If I do recall correctly, it does state in at the beginning of your book, and several places throughout, that those inexperienced with potion brewing should do so under the eye of a master at first, so they do not accidentally maim or kill themselves in the process,” Professor Snape leaned forward now, looking very intent. “My class is sufficient for your education, Mr. Potter, as it is sufficient for all your peers.”

Harry frowned at that, because while he was sure Professor Snape was very good at making potions, he wasn’t nearly as good as teaching about them as Cosette was—and she was a portrait who spoke another language. But he knew better than to say that to the man’s face, so instead he said, “If you say so, sir.”

Snape’s gaze narrowed on him, as if he could tell that Hary wasn’t being very sincere. “You will refrain from taking the words of portraits as proper tutelage if you know what’s best for you, Mr. Potter. It does not matter who they were in their past life or what skills and accolades they had: a portrait is no substitute for a living, breathing human. Am I understood?”

Harry nodded. He thought it was a stupid thing to think—he got quite a lot of information from portraits and it felt silly to discount them just because they were made out of paint and memories.

When Professor Snape’s gaze only turned sharper at his silent response, Harry cleared his throat and responded dutifully, “I understand, sir.”

“See that you keep that in mind,” Snape said dismissively, with a little wave of his hand.

Harry hopped up to his feet and shouldered his bag, “If that’s all then?” He asked. Snape nodded and so Harry turned and hurried for the door, feeling relieved.

Only, as he reached the door, Professor Snape called out to him, “If at any point you find your grades slipping below your standard in my class, Mr. Potter, you will come speak to me about private tutoring lessons. I will not have you relying on a portrait instead.”

Surprised, Harry glanced over his shoulder and said, “Uh, thank you, sir. Goodbye!” He rushed out of the room before Professor Snape could offer any more ‘help’ or get to what Harry was really worried about. He was relieved, in fact, because none of his teachers—not even the Headmaster—seemed particularly concerned about the thing that he’d fretted about the most.

Specifically, no one told Harry that he was not allowed to live in Potter Manor on his own anymore and that he had to go back to the Dursleys that summer. Harry was counting on the fact that because this happened so early on in the year, most people would forget by summertime and no one would ask where he was staying.

He wouldn’t be going back—or at the very least, if he went there he wouldn’t be staying for very long.

All in all, Harry thought the fallout from the article could have been much, much worse and he decided that Alexander had done an excellent job.

A month later, Harry got called up to the Headmaster’s office.

Chapter Text

Long before Harry’s inevitable meeting with the Headmaster, however, it was Halloween Night—All Hallow’s Eve—and Harry was headed out to Hogwarts’s ward boundary. He’d been afraid he wouldn’t be able to slip out, since he’d been planning to go after the feast, but that had been interrupted by the surprise troll in the dungeons. He and the other Slytherins had waited in the Great Hall (along with the Hufflepuffs), until the professors had taken care of the whole ordeal.

While waiting, Harry had gone over his mental list of what he needed for his evening ritual—candles, bones, chalk, an offering, and his blood—and spent the time chatting with Susan and Hannah to keep them calm. Harry didn’t worry at all about the troll, nor about any of his friends, he had walked with Hermione to dinner—still answering the brunt of her questions on the article, greeted his other Gryffindor friends and then ate with his housemates. As far as he could see, everyone was accounted for.

It took almost an hour before Professor Snape returned, sour faced and silent, to escort them down to the common room. Then it was an hour past that before Harry could slip out of the common room without too much notice. Or at least so he hoped.

He’d learned in the last month or so, from his readings about house wards and magical boundaries, that portkey travel could be noticed by a wardkeeper. Since he didn’t want to be bothered when traveling home, he made it a point to leave the school boundary first. There was a chill in the air that made his breath puff with water vapor as Harry walked quickly across the grounds. He knew he could be seen from the castle, even with his cloak hood up, so he moved fast.

Now that he was paying attention, Harry could feel the tingling edge of the wards. He approached them at the Forest’s edge, and about twenty feet into the treeline he passed through the wards. Harry didn’t hesitate for a moment. He lifted his hand as a fist and chanted the code phrase to activate the charm.

After one nauseating, magic squeezing second, Harry landed with a heavy thump in the Master Study at the Manor. He shook off the chill, ignored how his stomach still wanted to swirl, and turned to look up at the portrait behind his desk.

Ignatia leaned back at her potter’s wheel. She smiled at him, her gold tooth gleaming in the candlelight of the room. “Welcome home, Lord Potter.”

He nodded to her and then to Ralston, who bowed deeply at him.

“You have all you need?” Ralston asked.

Harry nodded again. Then he hesitated and said, “Well, not the offering. I was supposed to gather that here.”

“For your first bonding,” Ralston said, “You’ll want something that’s attuned to yourself, something that’s valuable and you keep with you so that it is soaked in your magic.”

Harry frowned slightly, considering what he had. Most of what he wore now was only a few months old—and none of it was very valuable to him, at least not any more than clothing was in general. Perhaps if he had his school bag with him, he could have pulled out something from there…

Habitually, Harry rubbed his left arm. He felt the tingle of magic from Apep and an anticipatory feeling swept over him. There was something he always had with him that was valuable. It would be a little dangerous to go without, but he didn’t suspect he’d have too much trouble—after all, it wasn’t like he didn’t have spares. He’d get it replaced in the morning, once he was finished with his vigil.

“I should hurry,” Harry muttered. He’d lost too much time already. “Excuse me, Aunt Ignatia, Uncle Ralston.”

He smiled a little at their reactions—Ignatia’s snort and Ralston’s pleased “oh?”—as he’d only started thinking of them that way recently, and he turned to leave the Study.

Finding his way down the stairs, Harry hesitated before the door to the hallway. He could go to the ritual room—it would be fitting, of course, to perform this ritual in any part of the Manor—but he knew somehow that it wouldn’t be good enough. He was bound deeper to the Manor than that. Instinctively, he knew that.

Instinctively, Harry returned to that first stairway that he’d ever traversed in the Manor. Down the circular steps until the smooth wall turned rough. He felt Apep quivering on his arm, hissing in trepidation, and he pressed on.

He had not been there since that first visit, having almost completely forgotten about this place in his exploration of the rest of the Manor. Harry found himself shivering, not from the coolness of the basement, but from the strange sensation that rippled over him.

Harry had experienced a lot of different kinds of magic while at Hogwarts. There was so much of it, in the stone of the castle, in his classmates, in the air during classes—he’d become numb to it, overexposed, and now it was like his palate was cleansed as he stepped carefully down this earthen hall. He remembered Apep’s warnings from months ago now—These are runes of great magic, my chosen, and great power. Tread lightly, dearest one, lest you not be able to leave at all.—and picked his way across the stone floor with care.

This time, he recognized some of the runes he saw—notably, the ones for connection, for binding, for knowledge, for Sight. He shivered as he approached what was once the end of the hall; there was no door in place, no etched symbol, no waiting hand print of dried blood.

There was instead a groove in the floor and the walls, imprints of a door that was no longer present, magically removed sometime in the recent past.

There was still the taste of iron in the air, heavy and thick, coating his tongue with each inhale. Blood magic—done recently—his own blood, his own magic—

Harry took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold.

On his left arm, Apep writhed. His hissing became louder, no longer so easily muffled by the cover that Harry wore, that Harry had bound with muffling charms to keep Apep’s chatter from revealing his mark. Like before, his left arm felt cold, cold as stone, as ice, and Harry unconsciously hugged it to his belly to try and keep it warm.

“It’s okay, Apep,” Harry hissed to the snake, that little piece of his soulmate embedded in his arm, “You are in no danger here.”

It did little to soothe the snake, but Harry had to press on anyway. He had come this far, he had a ritual to complete, a vigil to hold.

Harry drew his wand and licked his lips, attempting to gather moisture. He cast a lumos above himself and looked over the room. Beyond the doorway it was smaller than Harry had anticipated. It was probably only seven feet high, maybe eight, and almost as wide and as long as it was tall. Harry, being small still, felt quite at home in the room but thought that he would likely feel cramped if he were an adult.

His light illuminated the stone floors and walls and ceiling. The floor was one single slab, cut into seven sides. The walls had been carved out of the earth whole and curved upwards at the top. The ceiling was more of a dome because of the slope. All over the walls, in swirling patterns linked together, in shapes hooked within shapes, someone had carved runes. The only place that was devoid of runes was the far wall, where there were two columns of regular looking letters.

Harry crossed over the room slowly, feeling his heart beat very hard in his chest, feeling Apep go suddenly very still.

Holding his light up, Harry looked over the columns.

They were names.

He skimmed them. He saw where the Peverell name switched to Potter. He found both Ralston’s name and Ignatia’s, as well as one or two of the others that were portraits upstairs.

He didn’t see his father’s name, nor did he see his grandfather, Fleamont.

He looked at the last name on the second column: Charlus Potter. His great-uncle, then. The last Potter to reach this room, to be in the true heart of the Manor.

This was where he should hold his vigil, then.

Fingers trembling, Harry dug into his pockets for his supplies. He drew the circle in chalk, working quickly once he’d started. There was no telling how much time had passed since he had gone down the stairs and through the doorway. He had lost so much time with that nonsense at Hogwarts—next year he would leave before the dinner feast and convince one of his yearmates to swear he was in bed asleep if something came up.

Next, he laid down the candles at the seven points. He lit the first one and then doused his lumos so that only the smokeless flame was present. He lit all seven candles, illuminating the room in a much duller, wilder light. His shadow danced across the walls as he set out the bones next. They hadn’t been too difficult to gather—the dungeons were rife with little mice and rats and there were plenty of bones in the edges of the forest.

The offering he prepared next. Harry opened his cloak, unbuttoned his shirt cuff, rolled up his sleeve, and then pulled down the cover he had on his arm. It was the one thing he treasured, as a piece of his safety, as a piece of his magic—he used it almost every moment of every day. He had imbued it with his own magic on top of Rowle’s charms. He had been saved by it a few times already when he was dressing and one of his roommates had come to talk to him.

Once revealed, Apep hissed and wriggled across his arm. The snake slid most of its body into the skull on Harry’s arm, coiling up as much out of sight as possible. Harry brushed his fingers over Apep and bent down to press a kiss to a part of the coils that were still visible. “Be patient with me, Apep. This is important for my birthright.”

“Dearest one, beware,” Apep hissed back, his head poking out of the eye of the skull, “Death magic is at work here!”

Harry sighed and pressed another kiss to the snake before he returned to his work.

Taking the cover in one hand, Harry lifted his wand. He cast a cutting spell across the heel of his hand and pressed the resulting wound against the band. Putting his wand aside for now, Harry knelt down in the center of the circle. He clasped his left wrist in his right hand, rubbing his thumb across the veins in order to help blood flow more freely.

Closing his eyes, Harry tilted his head back. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. In the writing he’d read about this binding ritual—a scrawled journal that Ralston had pulled out for him to look at while he was here for Mabon—the account had said the words will come, when the time is right, the words will come.

In Raenmaeld’s book of rituals, most of them had words spoken or sung or chanted in order to complete the ritual, but there were some, in the back of the book, where the complicated, powerful rituals lay, there were some that had that same phrase in them. When the time is right, the words will come.

Harry knelt there, breathing, feeling the band in his hands become sodden with blood, smelling the beeswax from the candles, tasting the iron in the air, and waited for the time to be right.

Harry’s legs became numb. He shifted a little and then settled with his legs to one side, leaning, almost falling over—

A hand brushed Harry’s hair back from his face. He blinked his eyes open, forgetting when exactly he shut them, and saw himself sitting across from a man he’d never seen before. He looked familiar, in the way that many of the portraits looked familiar, with the same sort of curl to his hair that Harry saw in the mirror, and the same chin and nose as he had. The man smiled and Harry, reflexively, smiled back.

The man had one hand out—the one that had brushed Harry’s hair back from his forehead—and now he held out both of them, cupped, in front of Harry. At that touch, Harry had a flash of recognition—this was Charlus Potter, his great uncle, the last lord of Potter Manor.

Harry blinked at them and then slowly lifted up the blood-soaked armband and placed it in the ghostly hands. He hesitated to let go for a second, worried it would fall through and onto the floor. However, as Charlus’s fingers curled around the band, it lost its solid form and slowly turned translucent. The red of Harry’s blood turned silver and it stained Charlus’s fingers as he turned the band over to look at it.

Abruptly, Harry spoke. “It protects me,” he said. He turned his left arm, revealing Apep, “If people could see him here, I’d be in danger.”

Charlus looked down at Apep then. His brows rose high on his face. His mouth moved, but Harry couldn’t make out his words. Frustrated, Harry shook his head.

“I can’t understand you, sorry.”

Charlus shook his head as well and gave Harry an apologetic smile. His eyes twinkled, somehow, and Harry had the suspicion that, eventually, this would not be the case. One day, he would be able to speak with any dead he chose.

Charlus bowed his head over the armband and it evaporated into a fine silver mist. The mist dissipated slowly, though the silver stain of blood remained. Charlus held out his hands again.

Harry, hesitantly, since he hadn’t brought any other offering, simply put his hands in Charlus’s. The ghostly fingers were warm. At least, so it seemed at first. Harry gaped down at their hands, watching as Charlus turned Harry’s palms up and then brushed silver fingers over the open cut.

It sealed shut, knitting together into a thin, pink scar. Then Charlus dragged a finger over Harry’s palm, smudging silver blood into the shape of a triangle. Harry frowned slightly. This was part of the symbol he’d seen before all over the manor—the triangle bisected with a circle—but only a part. Why?

Charlus folded Harry’s fingers over, closing his hand into a fist. He squeezed it. Harry felt a spike of something—was it magic? Was it simply his emotions?—whatever it was, it made his breath catch painfully in his lungs, made his bones ache with loss. He looked up into his ancestor’s eyes, milky white with death, deeply knowledgeable from Death, and breathed out slowly. Somehow, he understood Charlus’s meaning.

The Cloak?

Harry trembled all over, “It’s missing,” he said, “I don’t know where it is. But it will return to me soon.”

Charlus nodded.

Harry closed his eyes. Each breath grew heavier, thicker with blood, thicker with frost. He knew it was the spirit of his ancestor in front of him, but somehow also Knew that it was more than that. Charlus was a Vessel as much as he was actually present. Harry wondered what his great-uncle’s birthright gift had been—he wondered, as well, what his would become, if this was the result of his first ritual done directly with the Potter Manor.

A touch at his brow forced Harry to open his eyes. They felt heavy, weighted down with some unnameable feeling. It was the same that pressed against his chest. It was the same that turned his tongue thick in his mouth.

Charlus’s touch was warm on his forehead—brushing his hair aside, finger tracing over the scar that no one dared touch, but everyone dared to stare at—and then as though Harry had swallowed acid, a bitterness rose up through him—

A cacophony of sound echoed in the chamber—hissing, violent and wild, and Harry blinked sluggishly as he dropped his head down to look at Apep.

“Death comes!” the snake shrieked, flopping over onto its belly as if it could fake its own death and protect itself that way, “Death seeks us! Flee, beloved! Flee!” Where Apep had once bitten Harry in warning, now the snake seemed too overwhelmed to do anything but panic. Harry had the feeling that if it could have coiled up his arm and down his throat in order to hide away, it would.

A touch lifted Harry’s chin, dragging his gaze up from the living soulmate mark on his arm. Where Charlus once sat now knelt an entirely different Being. From within the depths of a black hood, Harry thought he saw two pinpricks of light—green, he thought, though they were so bright and so light in shade he couldn’t be certain. The Being bent before him, looming and yet not terrifying.

Like when Charlus touched him before, Harry Knew the identity of this Being the moment bone fingers touched his skin.

When the time is right—

Harry opened his mouth as he sucked in a deep breath, barely able to fill his lungs, barely enough to speak aloud.

—The words will come.

“Mors, porta nos domum?”

There was a sound, like the rattle of bones, of wind through barren trees—laughter from one who had no lungs, no need for breath—and a soft reply.

“Always, Young Master.”

Harry woke to sunlight pouring over him, his blankets pulled up to his chin, and Opal peering at him from the side of the bed. She wrung her hands over and over, ears trembling, eyes wide and watery.

“Oh Master has awoken, yes!” she cried in relief, “Great and wonderful Master wakes!”

Still sluggish from sleep, Harry just blinked at her. She seemed to be fine with this response, or perhaps expect it, since all she did then was snap her fingers to summon him some food. Harry continued to blink at her blankly as she fixed up tea with a wave of her magic and plumped up the pillows behind him until they held him propped up into a sitting position.

He drank a glass of water, had his breakfast potions, ate half a bowl of porridge with honey and almonds, and put away two sausage links before he managed to mumble, “Wha’ happened?”

Opal tugged excitedly on her ears, bouncing on her heels. She was wide-eyed, still, and effusive with her joy, “Master is growing into his birthright, yes! Master is becoming most powerful and greatest!”

Harry decided he needed some tea to go with all of this and quickly downed a cup. He sipped at a second one, picking at a pastry with it, since he was mostly full now. Opal’s excitement didn’t get any less excited as she busied herself about his room. He didn’t usually get to see the elves clean, so that was curious to watch, and so he didn’t say anything of it while she tidied away invisible dust.

Curiously, he spotted Beryl in his closet, fussing with his clothes, and Coral in the bathroom, peeking around the door. They all seemed—happy. Harry leaned back on his pillows and sipped his tea. Well, if they were happy, then that was good, wasn’t it?

That reminded him of Apep’s panic from…yesterday? It must have been yesterday. He set aside the teacup and looked down at his arm. “Apep?”

The snake uncoiled sluggishly. It poked its head out from one eye cavity, tongue flickering. Harry ran his fingers along the smooth scales.

“It’s okay, Apep,” Harry hissed, “See? We’re just fine. Nothing bad happened to you or to me.”

A little shudder rippled through the snake and it tucked its head back into the skull, hiding away. Harry continued to pet the scales, wishing not for the first time that Apep were a real snake that he could hold and comfort. He sighed. Hopefully, Apep would come around.

Harry eventually made his way out of bed, doing his best to ignore the fluttering attention of his elves. He had a few things he wanted to take care of before he got back to Hogwarts, the first being a proper bath for the first time in weeks without having to worry about Apep being seen or having to rush around to get to class. Once he was clean and dressed, Harry made his way to the Study.

As he stepped in, he turned to the trailing elves behind him and said, “Beryl, would you mind floo-calling Mr. Graves for me? I’d like to borrow him for a quick apparation back to Hogwarts this morning, if he doesn’t mind.”

“Yes, Master!” Beryl exclaimed before popping off. The other two elves scattered at the same time with excited pops, leaving Harry alone at last as he returned to the Study.

Both Ralston and Ignatia awaited him. He greeted them and then hopped up on his seat. Ralston tapped his foot impatiently as Harry got comfortable, but that impatience vanished as Harry described his experience in the ritual. Though he was a painting, his eyes seemed to gleam and he was grinning broadly when Harry was finished with his recounting.

“This is quite exciting news,” Ralston said, “I never thought I’d witness such a birthright in my lifetime.”

“You’re a portrait, Rals,” Ignatia couldn’t help but point out with some amusement.

“Irrelevant,” He replied snappishly, “Besides, aren’t you excited, Ignatia? Have you ever heard of Death deigning to call one of our line Master?”

Eyes half-lidded, Ignatia pursed her lips and shook her head slightly, “It is unusual.”

“It’s unheard of,” Ralston insisted.

Harry let out a silent sigh. If he wasn’t resigned to his fame and his nobility already, he probably would have been upset about being special yet again. He idly stroked Apep—who he had left bare for the time being—and wondered what it was about him that meant he was cursed to an abnormal life.

It would’ve driven Aunt Petunia up the wall, he was sure. The thought made a smile twitch his lips.

“My beloved is more powerful than all but the Great Lord,” Apep hissed softly. His tongue flicked in and out rapidly. Harry glanced down to smile at the snake that slowly emerged from the skull. “My chosen is equal unto the Great Lord, neither one shall bow to any other, neither one weaker than the other. Brilliant and powerful, my chosen, my soul, even Death bows before you.”

“Not yet,” Harry responded quietly. He drew the portraits' attention with his words and said to them, “I was called Young Master. That’s what you call the heir, not the lord.”

“True,” Ignatia murmured, “Like many heirs before you, you have the potential to rise to a greater station, to become the Master. But you are not yet mantled in such power.”

“I’ll need the Cloak first,” Harry said, mostly to himself, looking off at nothing across the room. He shook himself after a dazed minute or two. “But that’s later. I’m not at all interested in becoming Master until I have to be.”

Not long after this, Beryl announced that Mr. Graves was available to apparate Harry back to Hogwarts and so he collected his things, buttoned up his cuff, swirled his cloak over his shoulders and headed for the floo.

Returning to Hogwarts after that had been enough to knock Harry out of his musings about his birthright. He had a conversation with Graves as they walked up from Hogsmeade to the gates of Hogwarts, where the man bowed and left Harry to walk the remaining distance himself.

He’d missed breakfast by the time he returned, but since it was a Saturday, the only one who made any mention of it was Zabini. Even then, it wasn’t as though he’d peppered Harry with questions, he simply gave that knowing little smile of his and asked how his night had been.

Harry had said it was enlightening and then refused to elaborate, no matter how Zabini pleaded with his eyes.

He spent the rest of the weekend buried in his studies and research and soon returned to the regular flow of Hogwarts.

About a week into November, Harry got a surprisingly large box in the mail. It was delivered by an enormous owl, who did not choose to linger after nearly dropping the thing on Harry’s breakfast plate. He had to catch it out of the air with a flick of his wand and an impulsive hiss of a spell, both lightening and levitating the box before it broke something.

Taking hold of it, Harry set it down on the bench beside himself and tucked into his breakfast—he was running a little late already. He ignored the curious looks up and down the Slytherin table—Harry got a lot of packages and letters, but even this box was something unusual.

“What is it?” Malfoy demanded when it became very obvious that Harry had no intention of even looking at the box at breakfast. “Well?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I don’t know,” he said, “I’ll check it later.”

“Who is it from?” Malfoy persisted, “You don’t usually get boxes like that. Did you order something? What did you order? Where did you get it from?”

Harry set down his goblet and stared at Malfoy. Malfoy stared back. He had a stubborn lift to his chin and his bottom lip out a little bit in a pout. Harry couldn’t help but be reminded of Dudley and his tantrum over thirty-six presents instead of thirty-seven. He often was reminded of Dudley when dealing with Malfoy, but it was particularly bad whenever Harry got something that wasn’t just a letter.

Malfoy had even made it a point to try and show Harry how much better his slippers were, gifted to him by his mother and not some Slytherin Alumnus. The reminder of the loss of his parents scraped at Harry’s guts. It was only a week out from the anniversary of their deaths—Harry had been preoccupied with the birthright and hadn’t thought of it, but people had expressed condolences to him in the days since.

It wasn’t fair that Malfoy got his parents and Harry was left with nothing but recorded voices and pictures. What had he done to deserve that? Why couldn’t someone as snobby as Malfoy lose his parents instead?

Apep hissed vitriol softly, just loud enough that Harry could feel the tone of it though he couldn’t hear the words. It was so tempting to do something to Malfoy. Maybe go find his precious slippers and burn them up. Or take his stupid hair products and break the bottles. Maybe even just slap him with a stinging hex so hard he had something real to cry about—

Harry sucked in a sharp breath and pushed himself up from the table. He grabbed the box beside him automatically and shoved it under his arm before he turned and stalked away, heart pounding hard in his chest.

I can’t believe I almost did that, Harry thought to himself, feeling sick. Those words had been Vernon’s. They were the ones he shouted when Harry had been very young and, usually, had hurt himself in some small way and started to tear up. Or, one memorable night, when Harry had been so hungry he’d started to cry uncontrollably. Vernon had been in the other room, shouting at Petunia to shut him up or I’ll give him something to cry about and Harry had been so terrified that he’d shut up.

That had been the last time Harry dared to cry aloud at the Dursleys for years.

Harry went straight from the Great Hall to his private study. He shoved open the door and staggered in, dropping the box on the floor. Turning to shut the door and lock it, Harry jolted to a stop at the sight of the figure standing there.

Professor Quirrell was the last person Harry expected to see standing in the doorway, watching him. He’d thought maybe Zabini would follow him—since he did that often—or perhaps maybe Susan or Hannah had seen him fleeing the Great Hall and wanted to help him. But not Quirrell.

Magic throbbed through Harry’s arm, radiating out from Apep and upwards. Whatever part of Harry’s soulmate that Quirrell kept with him, he must have it on him right now—Could he feel that Harry also had a piece? Did he come to take it from Harry?

Quirrell reached up and touched the edge of the door frame. He gave a pointed look around the small room Harry had taken over and stepped in fully. “This s-seems like the las-st place that one might expect to find the little s-savior hiding away.”

Harry tightened his grip on his wand. Quirrell seemed—unusual. Different. He couldn’t put his finger on why, just that he was sure it was so. “Lots of other students have made old classrooms into their study rooms or places for their friends to hang out,” Harry said, “I don’t see why mine is so different.”

“No?” Quirrell asked. “You can tell a lot from s-someone’s preferences-s if you know how to s-see them, Mr. Potter.” He made a gesture with one hand and the door swung shut behind him. The hair on the back of Harry’s neck rose. The heat on his arm grew stronger, almost painful, and Harry felt Apep moving in sharp little bursts of magic. “Would you like me to tell you what this-s room of yours-s tells-s me?”

"It sounds like you're going to tell me whether or not I would," Harry responded. He didn’t dare take his eyes off of Quirrell, even though the man was still mostly looking at the room. Thus, he saw the stinging hex as it came at him from low, near Quirrell’s hip, where he, too, held out his wand. 

Harry sprang to the side to dodge it and impulsively snapped the same stinging hex back with a hiss.

Quirrell didn’t dodge it but instead raised a simple shield that caught the light of Harry’s spell in a jagged maw and crushed it into a flash of sparks. 

They looked at each other, wands not pointing at each other fully, but eyes locked. Harry’s heart beat like a rabbit’s in his chest.

Quirrell smiled. 

It wasn’t a kind smile. It wasn’t a small one either. It looked kind of demented, almost too big for his face. It was like his skin was peeling back beyond the limits of his mouth, showing so many teeth—

Impulsively, terrified of showing weakness, Harry bared his own teeth back and hissed threateningly at him in Parseltongue, “Back off. I’ll bite!”

Quirrell’s head bent forward, chin almost to his chest as he laughed. It gurgled out of him, making him shudder visibly.

When the laughter cut off, Quirrell took in a deep, deep breath. He rolled his head to one side, slowly shaking it, exhaling out. Harry watched him the whole time, his spine prickling, a cold sweat on his back. There was something so wrong about his professor. He could feel it, but had no idea what the cause could be.

Lifting his chin, Quirrell’s face had resumed a more human expression, though somewhat waxy. “Y-you have s-some d-decent instincts, M-mr. Potter. It is a sh-shame that I will n-not be here to see you g-grow into th-them. Y-you should get d-dueling training if you w-want to b-better yourself.” His eyes gleamed as he leaned forward and whispered, “The future w-will be a d-dangerous one and you w-wouldn’t want to b-be caught d-defenseless, would you? Wh-where would the fun b-be in that?”

As ominous as those words were, they did make some sense. Harry would be facing a lot of danger in the future as a Lord and as the Boy-Who-Lived. He probably should make a point of learning how to properly defend himself in dueling and in other ways. “I appreciate the advice, professor,” Harry responded carefully. “I didn’t know you were going to leave after this school year.”

Quirrell chuckled, a much more human sound than the laugh he’d given just moments ago. “Were you n-not aware, M-mr. Potter? The Defense p-position is cursed.”

Harry bit his lip. He had known about that; he’d just forgotten. “If it is cursed—why hasn’t it been broken yet? There are such things as curse-breakers, after all.”

“Why n-not ind-deed,” Quirrell said. He shook out his arm and made a point of stowing away his wand. It was enough to make Harry relax and lower his own, but not put it away. “Wh-what c-could p-possibly be the reason for allowing the c-curse to remain, hmm?”

"How would I know that?" Harry responded warily.

Quirrell gave him a somewhat irritated look at his silence and half turned. “You should b-be more r-respectful to your b-betters, Mr. P-Potter, lest you f-find yourself in t-trouble you c-cannot handle. N-now, h-hurry t-to your c-class if you d-don’t want to b-be l-late. It’s alm-most eight.” He opened the door and Harry could hear the far distant sound of echoing footsteps and chatter of students in the hallways.

Harry nodded again. He let himself look away from the man long enough to shrink the box he’d been sent and put it into his bag for later. Though he often used this alcove to study, he had never left anything truly personal behind, not trusting the lock on the door to keep it safe. For good reason, it turned out, since he had no idea what he would have done if Quirrell had seen some of the reading he’d been doing on his birthright or his research into bringing back his soulmate.

Quirrell stood there watching him the whole time, and though Harry didn’t trust him a bit, he still squeezed past him through the doorway. Apep hissed on his arm, though the sound was muffled because of the armband, and there was a flare of heat from his soulmate mark, but when Harry glanced up at Quirrell, he didn’t see anything unusual. He had no idea how or where his professor was holding onto a piece of his soulmate—and no idea how to get it back from him.

Frankly, this interaction only made him more wary to even try. Surely, he could collect the other parts first and get this one last. Or maybe the curse would get rid of Quirrell and Harry could collect the item later.

Once in the hallway, Harry hurriedly walked away, bag thumping against his side. He’d deal with the delivery, and his concerns about Quirrell later—he had classes to get to.

As Harry rounded the corner to the main hallway, he glanced back and saw Quirrell still standing there, watching him. His footsteps faltered for a moment as he swore, he swore, that Quirrell’s normally dark eyes—brown or blue, something like that—were a bright crimson red.

Then Harry blinked and Quirrell looked the same as usual—waxy face, dull eyes, a nervous expression.

Harry shook himself and picked up the pace.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t until a few days later that Harry remembered and looked at the box again. As it happened, he was with Hermione in the library when Zabini made an appearance. Usually, the Slytherin left Harry alone when he was with any of the Gryffindors, let alone Hermione, but the mystery of the box must have been too much.

Zabini slid into the seat on Harry’s left, opposite the table of Hermione, and folded his hands together on the wood. Harry slowly looked up from his parchment, where he was in the middle of a Defense essay. Quirrell’s essays had become a little stranger after their interaction. He’d pivoted from magical creatures to various kinds of terrible curses. He probably passed it off as informative, as a lot of the curses were historical for one reason or another, but Harry thought it was mostly to freak out the other students.

Of course, half the fear of the subject was removed from Quirrell’s stuttering, but some of what Harry read in the library while looking up information for his essay wasn’t particularly heartwarming.

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Harry asked, “What’s up, Zabini?”

“Oh, nothing much,” came the reply with a secretive little smile.

“Uh huh,” Harry didn’t buy it. “What do you want?”

“Who says I have to want anything?” Zabini retorted. “What if I just enjoy your company?”

“You never hang out with me when Hermione’s here,” Harry said. He glanced at the girl in question, but she was just watching them with a furrowed brow, “Sorry, Hermione, but it’s true. Zabini doesn’t care for my Gryffindor friends.”

“The feeling’s mutual,” Hermione gave a little sniff of disapproval.

“I don’t know what I’ve done to be so maligned,” Zabini said, “But I feel it's unwarranted.”

Harry frowned at him. “Plus, you don’t have any of your books out or anything. So did you want something or can I go back to my essay?” He tapped his pen on the side of his parchment, leaving a blot of ink he’d have to deal with later.

“I was wondering if you got around to opening that box from breakfast the other day,” Zabini said, “It looked about the size for a clothing box, but you didn’t have anything new this last weekend. So. What is it?”

Harry opened his mouth to ask what box? And then stopped. Oh right. The box. He hissed a curse under his breath and turned to his bag. He dug through it, shuffling through parchment cases and a few broken quills and other odds and ends. The box had settled at the bottom and so he had to really fish for it.

Pulling it out, he set it on the table and then tapped it with his wand, hissing the un-shrinking charm. Even though they hadn’t learned these charms in class yet, Harry found that when he cast them in Parseltongue instead of English, he had better luck with them working even if he didn’t have the motions perfect. The box bulged in size to that of a shoebox, but a little taller and narrower, and Harry noticed then that there was a seal on the top. Under the seal was a ribbon that held the whole thing together, and tucked under the ribbon was a letter.

He pulled that out and examined it—no identifying information except for his own name—and then he opened it. It was a simple letter, informative more than anything.

“It’s from Gringotts,” Harry said after reading it, “This is apparently the first part of an installment of letters that had been held on my behalf in a postbox vault. They didn’t bring it up when I first went to Gringotts because at the time some legal matters were being settled? But apparently Heather—that’s my solicitor—went through and got the mail released to me. There were gifts, as well. The monetary ones entered a separate account, the gifts of monetary value also went there and the perishable items were placed under preservation and billed at the expense of the account.” Harry lowered the letter and then stared at the box.

“I suppose we have the answer to ‘did you ever get fan mail’,” Zabini said mildly.

“Are you going to open it?” Hermione asked, leaning over and definitely not even pretending to work on her homework. “Well?”

“I suppose I should,” Harry said, “What do you think it all says?” As he asked that, he peeled the ribbon free of the seal—which he now recognized as being from Gringotts—and then popped the lid off.

The Goblins must have done some sort of masterful work of magic on the box, because when Harry reached down in and ruffled his way through the envelopes, it felt endless. His hand visibly distorted as he flicked through, picking one up at random. His name had been written in a plain, simple font on the front, and the back was sealed with a bead of wax.

“If it’s fanmail, I can imagine it’s your fans all thanking you for your noble sacrifice in destroying the dark lord,” Zabini said in his usual dry tone. “Do you suppose there’s something from Draco in all those letters? He’d be one to write fan mail, don’t you think?”

Harry wrinkled his nose as he popped open the letter he’d found and opened it. It was a surprisingly long letter from some woman he didn’t recognize, who was expressing her surprise and awe at his ‘mighty magical works’. Harry skimmed through it, since it seemed to mostly be about how powerful he must be, how everyone will appreciate his sacrifice forever, and how the woman would be honored to be named amongst his dearest friends and that if he needed anything at all, he should simply just ask. It ended with an invitation for them to meet at his earliest convenience, and that she ‘had a daughter only a few years older than him, if he would like to meet her’.

“I’m not sure I’m going to like going through all of these,” Harry said. It was a daunting amount of them.

When Zabini reached for it, Harry passed it over. Hermione leaned even closer. “You must go through them,” she said earnestly, “All these people wrote to you! What if they were waiting for replies?”

“Then they’ve been waiting for a while,” Zabini said. He flipped the letter over in his hands and tapped the top corner. “See that? November seventh, 1981.” These letters are ten years old.

Harry blanched. “This is only an installment—that must mean there are more. What if this is only from the first year? What if there are ten more boxes of these?! That’s way too much!”

“You should look at the most recent ones and work your way back,” Zabini said. He tossed the open letter back into the box. “Some might have important information, or at the very least promises from people that you can call on later. If they gave you substantial gifts, it might even be good to thank them for them and encourage more of a relationship. It’s always good to have sponsors.”

“Like I need them,” Harry muttered, but only halfheartedly. He might not need money or things, but promises to support him? Those might turn into votes in the Wizengamot. The bill that he was most worried about getting passed looked like it was going to be a big issue, from what Graves had reported on the preliminary discussions.

“You shouldn’t exploit people for their money,” Hermione said with a scowl. “That’s wrong.”

“Oh I don’t need their money,” Harry said with a shrug, “I have that. What I need are their agreements.” He flipped his fingers over the tops of the parchments. “I’ll have to write to Heather and get that most current box.”

“I’d be happy to search through the letters with you,” Zabini said with a quick smile, “It should make for an interesting afternoon.”

“Me too,” Hermione agreed instantly. Her eyes were bright with curiosity and she looked ready to start reading letters right then. “Imagine, all the people who look up to you, writing to you every year to thank you for saving the world. That’s incredible.”

Harry gave a strained smile. The loss of his parents was a strange wound on his heart—he’d grown used to them being gone, to never getting to meet them, of being the Orphaned Freak while growing up. When he’d finally seen a picture of them, and heard his mother’s voice?, it had opened that wound. He wished it didn’t hurt as much, that he wasn’t reminded of them so viscerally during what was once just another holiday he never got to participate in, but it was what it was.

Harry would never have his parents; he would always wish they didn’t have to sacrifice themselves for him, but while he was alive, he’d try to live in a way to honor them.

He had no idea how they would feel about him wanting to get so involved in politics or law or embracing being a Lord or a birthright of death magic, but it was his life and so he would live it as best as he could.

“I’ll see if Hannah and Susan are interested in helping,” Harry said as he put the lid back on the box, “Maybe Lav and Parvati too.”

Hermione wrinkled her nose—she and Lavender didn’t really get along well—but she said, “It’s your box of letters. If they want to help, they can. But they’ll probably just sit around and gossip about what’s in them.”

“Granger,” Zabini said dryly, “Sitting around and gathering gossip is what this whole endeavor will be about.”

She frowned, “It’s also to thank people for their support!”

“It’s mostly because I’m curious,” Harry said, cutting them both off, “But also because I want to see who was writing. I appreciate you both offering to help. I’ll write to Heather and get the box soon. Hopefully before the end of the week. Shall we plan to sort these on Saturday after lunch?”

“I can do that,” Zabini said.

“That cuts into my studying time,” Hermione fretted, “But I think so.”

“Excellent,” Harry said, “It’s a plan.”

A day after Harry’s letter went out to Heather, the same great owl showed up with another box. Harry got it at breakfast, which he was spending at the Hufflepuff table, and gave him a great opportunity to ask Hannah and Susan about joining them on Saturday. An older year overheard them and asked if he could join, since he often went through such letters for his father’s work in the Ministry, and Harry accepted Diggory’s help.

Later in Transfiguration, Harry extended the offer to Lav and Parvati, who were delighted to join and had even thought of a room they could use that wasn’t far from the Gryffindor tower. Harry appreciated this, since they couldn’t use the library for something like this and his little alcove would be far too crowded for this many.

With the plan made, Harry found himself looking forward to the weekend for a reason unrelated to a ritual or to his private studying time. This might not be something that got him closer to his soulmate, but it could be helpful for his other plans in the future. He hoped that they would find something in the letters he could use—but even if not, at least he had a group of friends that were all going to hang out together.

It was the first time in his whole life that Harry would ever have that happen and he was excited.

He couldn’t wait for Saturday!

“You have to come with me,” Blaise said, draping himself dramatically over the arm of the chair. Daphne glanced up at his antics, watching as Theo stared at the other boy with thinly veiled annoyance. “You simply must.”

“You sound like Draco,” Theo complained, nudging Blaise with his book. “Get off. You’ll damage the arm.”

“You sound like an old woman,” Blaise complained back. “But come on, Theo, you have to come with me.”

“And read through Potter’s fan mail?” Theo’s lips curled back, “I would rather not suffer such insipid contents. You know Draco wrote letters to him when he was eight, don’t you?”

Daphne perked up, “He did?”

“He did,” Theo confirmed. Daphne hid a smile behind her own book. They had the run of Slytherin commons, or at least their corner of it, since Draco and his lot were out watching the Quidditch practice. He’d tried desperately to get onto the team, but first-years weren’t allowed. Still, he went to watch their practices. Clever, he might not be, but certainly devoted to his cause he was.

“These aren’t going to be that far back,” Blaise said, “Only from the last year or so. Come on, Theo, you must join me. Imagine the nonsense that will be in those letters!”

“I’d rather not,” Theo said firmly.

“Who else is going?” Daphne asked.

“Potter’s whole coterie,” Blaise said, “Plus some other Hufflepuff boy he picked up somehow.” He rolled his eyes. “He manages to pick up all sorts of strays.”

“Including yourself,” Theo sniped while trying to go back to his book. Daphne hid another smile as Zabini used his wand and a light wind charm to flip the pages Theo was reading and it got him a dark look in return. “Look,” Theo said as he shut his book with a snap, “You might’ve attached yourself to him and the temperature around Potter might be changing what with that article about his past and all, but you have to realize what a cluster of Light wizards that is. If I go there, they’ll either shun me or shut me out.”

“They won’t—”

“They will—”

“Potter won’t let them,” Blaise insisted. “He won’t. He’s neutral to a fault.”

Daphne bit her cheek, keeping her comment to herself. She rather doubted that he was neutral at all. She had seen him sneak out on Samhain and come in late the next day. He had reeked of blood and stone and smoke—wherever he’d done his vigil, he hadn’t purified himself fully afterward. If Potter was neutral, she’d eat her favorite slippers.

“So he’ll speak with me and you’ll speak with me and no one else,” Theo said, “All while I’m reading the idiotic letters of Light wixen who can’t imagine being arsed enough to save themselves and rely on a baby. No thanks.”

“I’ll go,” Daphne said, sitting up a little.

Both boys blinked at her in surprise, which she frankly thought was undeserved. Did she or did she not share a bench with Potter in potions? They might even be distantly related—she hadn’t cross-checked herself and wasn’t going to write home about that when it was just a hinted-at idea from a portrait.

“What?” she set her book aside and folded her arms, “Is there something wrong with that?”

“I thought you hated being his potion partner,” Theo said, “Pansy’s always saying how you complain about him.”

“Pansy’s always talking about things she doesn’t know any better about,” Daphne said, sticking her nose in the air. “She’s jealous that I won’t switch out to sit with her instead. But we all know that would put Draco at a table with Potter and that’s a recipe for disaster more dramatic than any Longbottom potion.”

Blaise snorted in amusement, “True. So, you’ll come?”

“Yes,” Daphne said.

Tracy, who had yet to speak up or even look up from her scribbling of an essay, nonchalantly looked up and said, “Me too.”

When she got curious looks, she responded with an eye roll and said, “I’m not half as bogged down as any of you with this political nonsense. Besides, I’m in it for the bird. You think he’ll let me hold Octavian if I ask?”

“You can ask,” Blaise said, “But I doubt he’ll say yes. His bird is a biter.”

Tracy grinned. She was an odd one, for sure, but Daphne didn’t mind her company too much. She was fixated on birds, but smart enough to keep up in classes. Besides, not everyone could be as well-rounded as a Greengrass.

“We’ll go,” Daphne said with a smile of her own. “Saturday, right?”

“After lunch,” Blaise said, “We’re meeting up outside the Great Hall.”

Theo opened his book back up and said, “You’re going to cause such a scene, a bunch of snakes and badgers together.”

“Lions too,” Blaise said, “You think the eagles are going to feel left out?”

“Maybe they should have more interesting members,” Daphne said, “Then Potter might’ve paid attention to one of them.”

Saturday afternoon, Harry walked arm in arm with Lav as she chattered with him about some other Gryffindor tower gossip she’d heard. Harry had the box of letters shrunk in his pocket and the rest of his group trailing behind him as they headed up the stairs together. If they’d gotten any looks, Harry hadn’t really noticed since he was talking to Lav.

He idly smiled at some of the portraits as he passed, since he tried to keep up with them too, and garnered a few waves along the way. When they finally reached the room, Lav unhooked her arm from his and dashed ahead to the door. She turned the handle, pulled the door open slightly and then grinned back at the group. “Welcome everyone to Lav’s Lounge!”

She threw the door open wide and proudly displayed the room. It was like many of the abandoned classrooms in that it had the same arched ceiling, the same tall windows, the same discarded shelves and tables and chairs. However, someone had piled large pillows around the room, mostly in shades of red and gold, and some of the tables had been altered to be lower to the floor.

“Wow, Lav,” Harry said in admiration as he stepped in to look around, “This really is nice.”

“Isn’t it?” She grinned, “I found this place when I got lost during our first week here and I thought this was the way to Gryffindor tower. It was so dusty before, but I learned a sweeping charm to clean it up!”

Harry smiled back at her, watching as the others came in and curiously checked out the room. Diggory, the oldest of them, grinned and said, “There’s something similar to this near the Hufflepuff rooms. It’s where we go to hang out with other houses outside of the library or the courtyard.”

“We get snacks down there though,” Hannah offered, “Though I guess we could just ask the elves for something up here if we wanted to!”

“Maybe later,” Harry said. He didn’t really want fingerprints and crumbs all over the letters. “When we’re done reading.”

Zabini picked a long couch to lounge on near one of the tables. Greengrass sat next to him, with Davis on her other side. They looked a little out of place with the others, sitting more stiffly and standing somewhat apart, but Harry really appreciated them coming here. While everyone else found their seats, he used that table to put the box on and un-shrunk it with a quick hissed spell. Greengrass jumped a little as he cast and gave Harry a wide-eyed look.

Harry gave her a placating smile and opened up the box. “Okay everyone,” he said loudly, cutting off the chatter of the others as they got settled. He looked around and felt a warmth blossom in his chest. All the people at Hogwarts that he considered his friends, plus a few new friendly faces, were all sitting around him, expectant and eager. They were here to help him, because he had asked, and not because of his title or because someone made them.

For the first time since leaving the Dursleys, Harry felt normal. He had friends who cared enough to help him with something that was probably going to be boring. He didn’t know how he’d ever be able to show how grateful he was to them, but he’d sure try.

Clearing his throat to work out the emotion that had suddenly clogged it, Harry said, “I gave a quick count of the letters this week and we have about seven hundred and sixty or so. There are eleven of us here, so that gives us each about seventy envelopes to go through.

“Now, when my solicitor got all of these, she said some of them were charmed in some way or had magical tags on them. All of those were stripped off when they were stored in the Gringotts mail vault and so these are all safe to handle. If we do find one that isn’t, we need to set it aside immediately and probably tell a professor and then deal with that later, but we shouldn’t so it’s okay.”

Hermione’s hand shot up like she was in class, and Harry felt himself smile even as he said, “You don’t have to raise your hand, Hermione, but go ahead.”

She dropped her hand with a slight blush. “Why would anyone curse a letter they sent to you as fan mail?”

“Well,” Harry said with a shrug, “While some people were happy about what happened when I was a baby, a lot of people weren’t. More people followed the Dark Lord than were marked by him. I think I was placed with my muggle relatives as a way to protect me—people wouldn’t think of looking for me there—and now that I’ve left them, I have to live in a secure place or else someone might do something stupid.” He pulled out a handful of the letters and carried on.

“I was hoping we could split the letters into a few piles. One for fan mail from children—apparently I got a lot of letters from kids—which I want on its own because I might reply to those. One pile for letters that are just thanking me for what happened or are well wishes for holidays or something. Then I need another pile from people who are either on the Wizengamot or are otherwise important in the Ministry or something. I’ve made a list of those people, in case you’re unsure. Any letters on official-looking paper or with seals or stamps would go into this pile.

“Then, I’ll have a separate pile for threatening letters or things like that. I figure if people are mad at me for what happened to me as a baby, I should know about it. Anything that doesn’t fall into those categories, like spam letters or things addressed to the wrong person somehow, those can go in the last pile,” Harry glanced around and saw people nodding, which was good.

“You’ve got this all planned out already,” Susan chimed in, “That’s good.”

“I’m going to need that list,” Lav said, “Can I have a copy?”

“Sure,” Harry said. He crouched down to rummage through his bag and pulled out the scroll he’d made earlier. He didn’t know the English spell for copying it, but Apep had taught him the Parseltongue one for it when he’d asked and so he cast that a couple of times to duplicate the scroll.

This time, Diggory was the one who reacted to his spellcasting, sucking in a sharp breath and leaning back a little. Harry glanced at him as he handed the scrolls out, “What is it?”

“Did you just—” Diggory hesitated. “I don’t mean to be rude but uh—Was that English?”

Hermione accepted one of the scrolls from Harry as she said, “Harry can speak some French, actually. His potion’s tutor taught him.”

“But wasn't that a spell?” Diggory said, “Sorry, I just—I only just learned the copying spell in charms this year so I was going to offer but uh—I didn’t recognize the one that you used?”

Harry found himself at the center of attention again, with Diggory’s confused expression spreading to the others, who didn’t know what he was on about. However, the Slytherins all shared a look between the three of them that Harry caught out of the corner of his eye.

“You must have misheard him,” Zabini said, “It sounded like English to me.”

“Me as well,” Greengrass supplied. She opened the scroll of names loudly, making the parchment hiss as it slid over itself. “Maybe you heard something else?”

“I— I suppose so,” Diggory said a little reluctantly. Harry gave him a smile, his heart jumping a little in his chest. He’d gotten so used to casting in Parseltongue, in not even thinking about it, since most of the spells he really knew were in that language that he hadn’t had a second thought about it. He usually cast in English for his classes, since he was learning them that way, but all the other spells he cast weren’t usually English.

He just was usually by himself so it didn’t matter either way.

“Here, Cedric,” said Hannah as she handed him a stack of letters. “If we hurry, we can get the elves to bring us some snacks before they have to start making dinner.”

Harry gave Zabini and Greengrass a quick smile as well and made sure everyone had a stack of letters to start with. He sat down between Hermione and Padma, who had taken up with Lav and Parvati, and began to go through the letters as well.

A few hours later, they had stacks of open letters all around the room with a good handful of them from notable individuals. Harry shuffled through this stack. It seemed that there were a few important or well connected families that sent him letters at each holiday or his birthday, with what Greengrass had described as ‘artful insinuations of close ties’. They might not all be willing to bend an ear to him, but Harry would pass along the letters anyway. Whatever help he could give to Graves, he would.

The largest stack, by far, was plain fan mail, both from children or adults, though Harry tended to like the ones from kids more. A lot of them included clumsy stick drawings of him going on various adventures. A lot of them had similar images—him flying on the backs of dragons or in an underwater city. It was through this that he’d learned that there was an adventure book series loosely based off of him that was popular with children.

Harry thought he’d have to get the series and see what they were like.

A surprising chunk of the fan mail included all sorts of bizarre contents—things from offering to host him on various trips or for holidays, to asking to be invited to his alleged private events he must be hosting, to asking him details about the night he became famous, to several people insisting that their soulmate mark was for him.

The last one perturbed Harry the most, he had a separate pile for those ones. While he doubted they’d spout such nonsense to his face, he’d keep well away from them for now. He had no desire to pretend to have another soulmate, even for a little bit.

Hermione helped Harry tidy the letters into larger piles and bundle them together with some ribbon he’d gotten for specifically this thing while Cedric—as he’d insisted Harry call him now—got in touch with a house elf in order to get some snacks.

“Rubber bands would be really useful right about now,” Hermione said as she fiddled with tying the ribbon while also pressing the letters together into a tighter bundle.

“They sure would,” Harry replied. He reached over to hold the papers down for her, ignoring his own ribboned bundle for a moment.

“Thanks,” Hermione said. She pulled the ribbon tight and sighed, “There are so many things that I miss from home, but I never thought rubber bands would be one of them.”

Across the table, Lav nodded her head enthusiastically. She and Parvati were bundling one of the other stacks together. “I totally get it,” she said, “Rubber bands, biros, curly straws—I’ve started a list of things I miss, that way I can remember to get some and bring them with me next year.”

“I don’t know if we’re allowed to use biros,” Hermione said, “But it would be nice.”

Harry let the conversation wash over him with a faint smile. There wasn’t much he missed from the muggle world at all—and if he did, it was those tiny things that were convenient. Mostly small office supplies, he thought humorously, like a spiral-bound book for notes rather than loose parchment. There simply had to be a better way. Perhaps he could get an enchanted notebook that held enough pages for each subject?

And if there weren’t magical rubber bands, well then there had to be something equivalent, right?

He glanced over at Greengrass and Davis, who had finished bundling up their stacks already. The bows of their ribbons were perfectly uniform. They must have been spell cast.

Sidling over to them, he asked in an undertone, “Is that a tying spell you used to make the ribbons look that neat?”

Greengrass gave a slight nod. She’d been the most stiff of the three Slytherins, but had warmed up slowly. Zabini had started to get on with Padma surprisingly well, leaving the two girls to sit mostly alone. Greengrass took out her wand, “Shall I show you?”

“Please,” Harry asked. He offered a bundle with a ribbon and watched.

Taking them, Greengrass tucked the ribbon under the pile and then swished her wand in a series of quick circles. “Nodus papilionis.” The ribbon shimmered and then snaked its way up and around, tying itself into a quick butterfly-shaped bow. “There are some variations you can use, depending on the knot you want to make,” Greengrass explained as Harry picked up the package and examined it, “But this one is fairly common.”

“It looks perfect,” Harry said, “Thank you. Do you mind if I show the others?”

She blinked once, as if surprised by the question for some reason, but then shook her head. “I don’t mind.”

“Thanks again,” he said and got up to do just that. With the spell in hand, soon all the stacks were bound in smaller sets and then all together, with the most important ones separated. Harry packed them all back in the box as Cedric announced that the snacks were ready.

Under the cover of excited chatter, Harry hissed a lock spell on the box and shrank it down. He put it away and then joined the others to eat the tea and biscuits that the elves had provided.

That evening, long after the sorting group had disbanded and Harry had gone off on his own to study and work on his letters, he returned to the Slytherin commons with his bag thumping against his side and fingers stained from so much writing. Harry was plumbed out. He’d been working hard all week with classes and studying and research and writing essays and letters and so on. He was ready for a slow, easy day, and was looking forward to Sunday to do just that.

As he passed the sitting area where the other first years tended to loiter—and Harry too, on the rare occasion—someone called out to him, “Potter, there you are.”

Harry stopped, looked over, and saw that about half of the usual group was there. He wondered briefly where Malfoy and his two shadows were, as he crossed over to speak to them. “Yes? What is it?”

Zabini shared a look with Greengrass, and they both frowned at Nott. He ignored them, merely meeting Harry’s gaze as he asked, “I was sent something in the mail recently that was shrunk. They say that you can un-shrink things, even though we haven’t been taught that spell yet. Would you mind doing so for me?”

He held out a small box in his palm. It looked almost like a ring box. It was small like one, but the shape was wrong. Maybe it was a book? It was hard to tell. Still, Harry nodded, “Sure, I can do that.”

He drew his wand and cast rather quickly, hissing out the spell with a flick of his wrist. The box grew to become about the size and shape of a book—exactly as Harry guessed. He wasn’t surprised, really, Nott always seemed to have a book on him. “Is that all?”

Nott’s eyes gleamed at him as he nodded his head. “It is. Thank you.”

Harry tucked his wand away. “I’m rather tired, or I’d stay up to chat with you all. Perhaps we can meet up tomorrow instead?”

“Can I see Octavian?” Davis asked. Harry laughed.

“I need to see him too, so sure. Come with me in the morning? I usually go before breakfast.”

“Absolutely,” she agreed.

Harry bid goodnight to the rest of the Slytherins, who nodded or waved back at him, and headed up to his bed. He was utterly exhausted. He was going to sleep well tonight.

“So,” Theo said after Potter had walked away, “That was definitely not English. Nor was it any other language I’ve heard before.”

“It’s hard to tell if he’s aware of it,” Daphne said, eyes drifting after Potter, “But he does know it’s not normal. He got caught out by the Hufflepuff boy and had no excuse for it.”

“I don’t see what the big deal is,” Tracy muttered mostly to herself, “So he’s got an animal language. I’d kill for one of those.”

“It wouldn’t matter at all,” Theo said with false lightness, “Except for the fact that the particular language he’s using hasn’t been heard from anyone in ten years and the last known speaker in Britain was exactly who you’d think it was.”

“Who?” Tracy asked with her face scrunching in annoyance. Theo’s tendency to talk around a subject often irritated her.

Daphne, sparing her friends the inevitable argument of clarity versus intent, said meaningfully, “You know who.”

Tracy opened her mouth—likely to disagree that she didn’t know who—and then stopped as the words, and Daphne’s gaze, hit her. “Oh,” she said instead.

Blaise, who had been lounging nearby with a slight pout to his lips, scoffed. “Oh. Oh. As if that isn’t the single most perturbing thing about him. How is it possible?”

Daphne thought there were plenty of strange things about Potter that were bewildering each in their own right, but Blaise had a point. This was the only one that made her worry. That made fear grow in her heart.

If Potter was able to speak to snakes like the Dark Lord had, there had to be a reason why.

She just didn’t know where to even start looking for what it was. Or if she should try.

Chapter Text

It was the middle of November and, as Harry received his usual letters of the day—this one from Alexander, which was exciting, since he hadn’t heard from him in a while—he listened to his housemates rifle through their copies of the Prophet.

“Ha!” cried Malfoy, shaking out his copy and looking quite smug. “Look at that! Just as my father said, that stupid little Light bill didn’t pass!”

Harry tucked his letters away and set about finishing his breakfast. He ignored Malfoy’s boasting, since they only ever fought with each other, but when Nott took his copy of the paper and flipped through it to whatever Malfoy seemed to crow about, he looked over the boy’s shoulder to see.

“What is it?” He asked quietly.

“The results of yesterday’s voting have been posted,” Nott said, “The Wizengamot blocked the passing of an artifact seizure bill.” He glanced at Harry briefly and then looked back at the paper, “Apparently, there was a large portion of the gray party that voted against it, citing that such a bill would be an infraction on their rights to govern their households as they see fit,” Nott quoted.

Harry nodded along. He’d read all about that from Graves’s letter the night before—as the man had written to him promptly after the voting had been carried out. He speared his sausage and asked, “Does it say anything about the Relinquishment Act?”

Nott glanced at him again, brows lifted. He didn’t say anything, though, just skimmed the paper further. After a minute, he said, “Ah, here, yes. It says that the Relinquishment Act passed with that same gray majority led by the proxy for the…” his voice faded off.

Lowering the paper, Nott accused, “You knew about this already.”

Harry gave him a smile. Zabini, across from them both, leaned in to give his two cents, “Why do you think we gathered all those declared favors from his fan mail, Theo?”

“You didn’t call in favors for this,” Nott said, “It’s not worth that.”

“No, it’s not, but it was enough to get people to listen to Graves,” Harry said, “And in turn, listen to me. I’m sure that every magical household has some weird little trinket or whatever that’s part of their family history and isn’t a true nuisance—but it could be considered dangerous. And then there are those who have actual dangerous artifacts, but they can’t do anything about it because just admitting you have them is illegal.” He gestured to the paper with his mug of tea and said, “Now, people can turn over dangerous artifacts to have the magic curses on them or whatever broken and the item returned, if it’s of sentimental value, or they can just keep their strange little things to themselves, whatever they are.”

Malfoy jumped into the conversation then, folding his paper up and shaking it at Harry, “What are you saying? You can’t be happy about this! You Light wizards are all the same, Potter.”

Harry rolled his eyes. Frankly, the distinction between Light and Dark seemed silly to him, but he knew better than to say that to someone like Malfoy. He was as bad a gossip as Parkinson.

“Don’t be daft, Draco,” Nott said as he set his own paper down, “It clearly said that the majority of the gray vote was led by a proxy voice for an underage Lord.” He gestured to Harry next to them, “Who else is a Lord that is too young to sit in the Wizengamot chair himself?”

Malfoy’s brows furrowed in confusion. “What? But—My father said that the proxy vote for the Potters is held by the Headmaster! He’s held them for years!” He wrinkled his nose, “He holds lots of proxy votes for Light houses since so many heirs were lost in the last war and they handed them over to him.” He leaned forward and whispered, “It’s a big conspiracy for Dumbledore to hold all the swing votes, didn’t you know that?”

“Well, this summer I instituted a proxy for myself and my seats,” Harry said, “So House Potter will be voting as I see fit from now on. I don’t see the point of the Ministry coming in and looking at my ancestors' things and declaring them Dark or dangerous and taking them away if they haven’t caused any harm.” He set down his cup and looked around the table, “This isn’t a Dark or Light thing, in my opinion, it’s about not letting the Ministry into our personal business. Sure, there are some things that need to be dealt with publicly, but if the artifact isn’t hurting anyone just by existing, it should be left alone.”

“And if it’s dangerous, you should be able to turn it in without getting arrested,” Zabini added, “A brilliant addition. It allows recourse for those with truly dangerous artifacts and no means to deal with them on their own.”

“Exactly,” Harry said.

There were thoughtful murmurs around them. Nott in particular was looking at Harry with a considering gaze. Harry rolled his eyes again. It was a bit silly that this was the thing that made them like him more, but he supposed it paid to be suspicious of people when you were used to being treated badly. After all, Harry could understand that. He probably should have been more suspicious when he got free of the Dursleys, honestly.

“I’m going to head to class,” Harry said as he got up from the table, “I’ll see the rest of you later.”

“I’ll walk with you,” Nott said suddenly, rising with him. He joined Harry in walking from the Great Hall, saying nothing even as Harry shot him the occasional curious look.

Nott had kept his distance more than Zabini or Greengrass, and he hadn’t been mean to Harry like Malfoy or Parkinson. He still got the sense that Nott was uneasy with him, for whatever reason, but maybe that was changed. Perhaps, with this bill, he had done more than he realized to endear him to the Darker side of the wizarding world.

As they entered the hallway and walked towards the moving staircases, Nott said casually, “You realize that a lot of people are going to pay attention to what you’re doing after that bill passed with your blessing.”

Harry snorted. “As if they weren’t already paying attention because of the Boy-Who-Lived stuff,” he replied dryly.

“This will be different,” Nott explained, “I hate to admit it, but Draco is right. Light wizards will not be happy about this—they think that if you’re innocent, you shouldn’t have anything to hide. They probably were planning on using this bill to execute raids on the households of Dark wizards they distrust or want power over. They’ll feel betrayed by you.”

“That’s stupid,” Harry said, but he realized that didn’t mean Nott was wrong. People did stupid things all the time.

“It is,” Nott said, “Compound that with being sorted into Slytherin, well, don’t be surprised when they start accusing you of going Dark. If you’re lucky, they’ll just accuse you of being manipulated since you’re just a naive little kid.”

Harry wrinkled his nose.

Nott didn’t laugh, but his mouth twisted into a smile and his eyes crinkled in amusement. “Exactly.”

“Wonderful,” Harry said, “Thanks for the warning, I suppose. I’ll just have to deal with it when it comes.”

“Or,” Nott said thoughtfully, “You could head it off with a preemptive strike.”

“What do you suggest?”

Nott’s smile grew.

Later that same week, Harry received an unusual letter with his lunch. There weren’t as many owls during lunches, but Harry was expecting a reply and so he was anticipating Octavian’s visit.

However, when a simple barn owl came swooping down and dropped a single roll of parchment in his soup—or tried to, as he caught it at the last second—Harry was surprised. The parchment was held closed by a little bit of ribbon, without any crests or protective spells. Frowning, Harry cast a few cursory spells on it to check that it was safe.

Since he was sitting at the Hufflepuff table for lunch today, Hannah and Susan were there to watch, curious. “Who is it from?” Hannah asked as Harry stopped casting detection spells. The scroll seemed to be clean.

“No idea,” he said, “It’s not from one of my regular contacts.”

“Is it a fan letter that got through the mail ward?” Susan asked. They’d had another afternoon of sorting through letters since the first one, but that was for older letters. New ones were sent to his Manor these days and he had Opal and the others sorting through them.

“I don’t think so,” Harry said. He unrolled it and, to his surprise, found himself reading a letter from the Headmaster, inviting him to tea during his break that afternoon. There was a strange post script about chocolate frogs at the bottom that made Harry frown.

Hannah leaned over, “Oh! It’s an invitation to the Headmaster’s office! I wonder what he wants to talk to you about?”

Harry frowned. They were nearing the winter break… He knew that he’d been left with the Dursleys on purpose all those years ago, and after finding out that he was supposed to meet Professor McGonagall to go to Diagon Alley, he had a feeling that he was expected to go back there now. Could the Headmaster insist that he went home for the holidays? Harry would just leave again if he was forced to, but he couldn’t think why it would matter.

The Dursleys hated him and he hated them. It would ruin everyone’s holiday if he went there—and besides, Harry didn’t want to celebrate Christmas. He wanted to celebrate Yule. Aunt Petunia would never allow that to happen.

“I suppose I’ll have to meet with him and find out,” Harry said. “Though I don’t know where his office is.”

“Maybe Cedric can show you the way,” Hannah offered, “He must know.”

Harry agreed to ask, and after lunch did so. They agreed to meet near the Great Hall fifteen minutes before the time on the note, just in case.

At the sound of stone grinding out of the way and opening up the stairwell, Albus summoned an elf to ask for a light tea spread. The elf bobbed its head and vanished from sight just as faint footsteps echoed up the stone stairs and a knock announced his guest at the door.

“Come in,” Albus called out.

Harry Potter pushed open the door to his office and looked around. Like many children summoned to his office for the first time, he looked around the room in surprise and interest. Albus’s many shelves were littered with all sorts of enchanted instruments to help him keep track of many various wards and spells and other important things, such as where it was five o’clock in the evening.

Albus used this time to look over the boy. He was small, as many first years tended to be, but he knew from memory that Harry was one of the shortest of his year, even amongst the girls. He was slender, in the way that reminded Albus of a young sapling, strong and flexible but tender and needing protection and care.

“Come, come,” Albus said kindly, “Have a seat, my boy.”

The words snapped Harry’s attention back to Albus, his spine turning rigid, his mouth pressing into a thin line. Albus tucked his surprise at the instant change of expression away and made sure not to change his own expression at all. He gestured to the open seat in front of his desk, resized slightly to be more appropriate for a child Harry’s age and size.

Harry sat down, adjusting his robes around himself in a fussy way that reminded Albus of the many pure-blooded children of Harry’s house. It was disappointing that he’d been sorted thus—it was clear that the house already had an influence on him, from the way he dressed and acted to the things he had claimed in a recent article about the bills in the Wizengamot.

Albus folded his hands together in front of himself. The tea set appeared on his desk, displacing some papers somewhere that Albus didn’t bother worrying about. The House elves never lost anything truly important, after all. “Milk? Sugar?” He asked as he fixed up their drinks.

“Cream please,” Harry replied simply. He watched Albus pour the cream and then float the teacup and saucer over to him.

Harry took both in his hands and lifted the cup to his lips to sip while Albus fixed up his own tea with a heaping teaspoon of sugar.

They enjoyed their drinks in silence for a while. Albus watched as Harry took polite little sips, sitting with perfect posture and his legs held together. If he could reach the floor with his feet, Albus was sure the boy would have rested them flat. It was disheartening, to see the pure-blood stoicism pressed into shape on what was once an active, rambunctious child. Albus had a difficult time equating this proper boy before him to the wild thing that Arabella had described seeing in years past.

After Albus had mostly finished his tea, he asked, “How are you finding Hogwarts, my boy?”

Harry lifted his chin slightly, “It’s nice, sir. I’m learning a lot.”

“Indeed? Which classes are your favorite?”

Harry pursed his lips in thought. “I suppose charms and potions?”

Albus paused in lifting his cup to his mouth. He lowered it. “Potions? What a surprise. It’s not often that I hear potions are a student’s favorite.”

“That’s probably because Professor Snape is a bloody git, sir,” Harry said unhesitatingly, “I probably wouldn’t have said it was my favorite either, but after the article came out about my childhood, Professor Snape has eased up on bullying me specifically. He’s still terrible with the Gryffindors, of course. I think Neville Longbottom’s gone through four cauldrons since the start of school. He’d be better off with private tutoring, sir.”

Albus blinked. “I see you’re very opinionated about Professor Snape, though I’ll have to ask you to mind your language, my boy. It’s disrespectful to speak thus about your professors.”

“Right,” Harry said. He gave Albus a strange, flat look that reminded him more of the elder Slytherins than anything. It was faintly reminiscent of Tom—though he’d always carried more personal hatred than Harry did with that look. “Anyway, I like potions despite Professor Snape’s nonsense.”

“I see, I see,” Albus sipped from his cup. “And charms?”

“I’m good at them,” Harry said. His brows pressed together and he frowned again. “Sir? Did you summon me up here for something specific?”

Albus sighed. Ah, the impatience of youth. How eager they were to jump into things, never taking the time to find their way there naturally. “I did, in fact, have something I wished to discuss with you.”

Harry nodded. He reached forward to place his teacup and saucer on the tray and then returned to his previous position, hands folded in his lap, shoulders back, spine straight. He looked like he was prepared for any verbal blow to land, a disheartening thing for Albus to recognize in the boy. How cruel the other Slytherins must be, if he shielded himself against their words this way.

Setting aside his own cup, Albus folded his hands together on his desk and looked over his glasses at Harry. “I’m uncertain if you are aware of it, my boy, but there is a man who claims to be your proxy issuing votes in your name in the Wizengamot.”

At the sight of Harry’s furrowing brows, Albus added quickly, “Allow me to explain more. The Wizengamot is a body of wizards and witches who are appointed to pass the laws of our society. They’re an arm of the Ministry, much like a legislative branch in the Muggle world, and are in charge of issuing laws and judgments on transgressions of those laws.

“There are a certain number of seats available, and some seats have a higher number of votes attached to them. In the past your father entrusted them to me, as he knew I would use them as he would have.” He paused here, as Harry’s face had darkened considerably, his mouth twisted in a tight scowl. Raising a hand, he said, “Allow me to finish explaining the situation at hand before you lash out, my boy, so that we can direct your anger to those who are taking advantage of you.”

“But sir,” Harry began, but he bit his lip when Albus gave him a stern look. Sitting back with a scowl, chin tilted down and his dark hair falling into his face, he looked both like his father and like Tom, furious and petulant. It broke Albus’s heart. How he wished Harry had landed in any other House but the nest of vipers! Even the purest heart could be tainted by such deep-seated Darkness.

“I’m aware that you left your Aunt’s home early this past summer and that you received help from several adults in settling to your position as Lord,” Albus sighed softly, “Never mind that a child should in no way be appointed to such a position, of course, but what is done is done and we can only move forward. What I’m concerned with is that these allegedly helpful individuals have been taking advantage of you in order to push their own agendas. You are not aware of the divided nature of the Wizengamot, my boy, and they clearly are, as they’ve used your family’s votes in order to push a Dark agenda.”

“Sir,” Harry pressed, leaning forward this time, “If you would let me explain—”

Albus frowned at him. “This is concerning for many reasons, my boy, but mainly because it seems as though this proxy has managed to gain access to your signature and family stamp— He claims that he is fully legitimate, within both Wizarding Laws and Goblin Law. Because of that, it will make disproving his claims all the more difficult.”

“Sir!” Harry exclaimed. He sat forward, his hands as fists on the arms of the chair, “Mr. Graves isn’t taking advantage of anyone. He is my proxy and I did give him my approval to vote as he did. I am well aware of all the bills that are crossing the Wizengamot. Mr. Graves sends me a copy with any notes that I need in order to understand them and I tell him what I would like him to do.”

Albus stifled a heavy sigh. He knew from experience how convoluted the phrasing could be on the bills presented to the Wizengamot. The more the author of said bill wished to mislead, the more inflated the papers tended to be. Simple matters were blown completely out of proportion because of hidden agendas from the Dark contingent. Leaning forward, he spoke more gently to Harry, who clearly had been deeply deceived by those around him. “I am sure that they have made you believe they are dumbing down the information properly, but I warn you against believing these individuals wholeheartedly. There are forces in the world that do not care for naught but their own agendas, my dear boy, and they would use you without hesitation if that would pave their way forward faster. You must be frugal with your trust of strangers, Harry.”

Harry gave him a strange look, confusion drawing his brows together. He squinted for a moment and then said bluntly, “You mean like with you?”

For a moment, Albus sat and blinked.

Harry pressed on in the moment of silence, leaning forward, his gaze sharp and narrowed. “I don’t mean to be rude, sir, but I don’t know you very well. You’re the Headmaster, so I’m sure you’re worried about everyone at the school, but what I do with my Lordship is my business, not yours.

“Mr. Graves works for me. He does what I tell him to. He’s one of my people.” There was a flash of something in the boy’s face, something that made Albus’s breath catch. That possessiveness over other people was one of Tom’s worst habits. Albus had seen him act on that impulse plenty of times when he’d been Head Boy, always protecting the Slytherins from their consequences.

“He wouldn’t lie to me,” Harry continued firmly, “And if any of the others did, Mr. Graves would be one of the first who would tell me so. I’m his lord, that’s how that works, sir.”

Albus did let his sigh out now, feeling regret seep into his bones. He should have acted sooner, it was clear now. He hadn’t anticipated Harry gaining his Lordship at all—he had no idea how the boy had even discovered it in the first place, considering his father’s early passing and how little James had acted as a Lord even though he’d also inherited the position shortly before Harry’s birth. James had almost immediately passed the seats to Albus to deal with, as James had been busy as an Auror, a new husband, and front-line fighter for the Order at the time.

That control of those votes had slipped so easily from Albus’s fingers was distressing beyond belief. The minor missteps of illegitimate proxies from before was nothing in comparison to this. Albus was in a difficult position if he wanted to remove the current proxy, considering Harry would not refute the claim on him.

It was alarming how one month had changed so much for Harry. By Arabella’s account, he’d been a happy, rambunctious child in late June, and now he was an angry, stiff pseudo-lord. Had Tom’s tainted magic finally risen to the surface, once stifled by muggles and his non-magical surroundings, only to resurface with the presence of magic once more? Or had one of the various adults—notably from Dark or Gray-dark families—influenced him on a deeper mental level? Perhaps not through the Imperius, but other compulsions?

There wasn’t much he could do now but feel out the boy’s temper and gather more information on those he’d been surrounded by. Heather Flint and Alexander Yaxley were worrying enough, considering their extended families, but Albus knew nothing of Philip Graves. It would be good as well to dig more into those who Harry had met, even briefly, including the tailor who had supposedly been the one to tell Harry about his parents in the first place—according to the Halloween article.

For now, Albus gave the boy platitudes in order to appease his irritation. Harry still looked at him with annoyance when he got up to leave, but it was a far cry from Tom’s distrust.

It would have to do.

When Harry had left, Albus refilled his tea and set about making some plans. If he couldn’t get the boy to recant his support of his proxy, then he would have to move against him more effectively in the Wizengamot in the future. The Dark could not be allowed to push their agenda through on the weight of Harry Potter’s name alone.

Snow fell heavily outside, keeping Harry, like many of the other students, locked indoors for the weekend. He didn’t mind it so much—he’d never enjoyed being out in the snow before. The Dursleys didn’t exactly care if he had mittens or a decent enough coat or anything. Now that he had well fitting and warm clothes, he still didn’t like to trudge through the snow.

Harry kept to the interior of the castle as much as he could, basking in the warmth of places like the Great Hall or the kitchens, having sussed out the location after a few conversations with the elves. However, one of his favorite places to be was one where almost no one thought to look for him—Professor Binns’s office.

The ghost was a fount of knowledge. Binns had been very well read when he was alive, and remembered quite a lot of information even after his death. Harry enjoyed discussing his history text with his professor, as well as more theoretical aspects of magic. Though Binns couldn’t help him with practical potions or spellcasting, he did understand the theory behind it all and so helped Harry find the right books to read and the information that would help him flesh out his essays.

However, on this particular weekend, Harry had a more substantial reason to visit with Professor Binns than to chat about magical theory. He was here to conduct a ritual.

With soul book in one hand and wand in the other, Harry cleared a large space in Binns’s office. He sent the furniture off to one side with a couple of quick spells and rolled up the rug to stand on end. Binns floated nearby, watching him with delight.

“It has been a long time since I bore witness to such magic,” Professor Binns said as Harry spread the circle of ash. “And never have I ever seen a ritual done for one’s soul before. Why do you use ash, not salt?”

“Ash is more permeable than salt,” Harry said, glancing up for a moment before returning to his drawing. He had several runes to put down and he wanted to get them perfect. He had only dipped his toes into learning about runes, as much as he needed to understand here or there in his rituals. He was looking forward to taking his Ancient Runes class, since it would help him so much with this kind of thing. After placing the last rune, he said, “Since we’re looking for whatever you’re bound to, I need my magic to be able to slip out of the circle, so, ash.”

“Interesting,” Binns murmured. He floated around the circle, one hand rubbing his chin. “I see.”

Overall, the ritual was simple. It only required to be written in ash and cast during the height of the day—so noon. Once it was all prepared, Harry slid his book into his pocket and went to stand in the circle. Lifting his wand, he murmured the incantation. As he cast, he pointed his wand in the four cardinal directions, clockwise from the north. He repeated the motion and the incantation three times, pushing a little more magic into his words each time.

At the end of the third round, Harry drew his wand back sharply, yanking it back. He felt some resistance, and saw the faintest glimmer of light from the end of his wand attached to something in the room. Harry turned, trying to follow the glimmer, and pulled again.

One of the chairs skidded across the stone towards him. Harry could just see the tether of his magic to the back of it. He pulled one more time, just to be sure. The chair skidded again.

“Bingo,” he said with a grin. Harry lowered his wand slowly and then flicked his wrist to break the tether. Brushing the ash with one foot, he broke the circle as well. He spelled away the ash while Professor Binns floated over to the chair.

“I never would have guessed it would be my chair of all things,” Binns said as Harry walked over to join him. “But I suppose it makes sense. I spent many nights in this chair reading by the firelight. It’s a wonder I didn’t die in it.”

Harry looked up, “Where did you die?”

Binns pointed over to the desk, “At my desk. They replaced that chair after I returned as a ghost. It was over winter break, as well, so Headmaster Dippet hadn’t yet appointed a replacement by the time I manifested.”

Thoughtfully, Harry said, “And then he never did?”

“No, he left that task to his replacement, but Albus never did so. I believe he thought that it was unnecessary at the time. Of course, my lessons hadn’t begun to deteriorate yet,” Binns rubbed his chin again and murmured, “I do not recall when that began to happen.”

“Well,” Harry said, “Now you’ll be able to retire. Since I know what your soul is attached to, getting you out of the castle will be much simpler.”

“That is a relief.”

Harry grinned at the ghost and then turned to set the room to rights. He was glad something was so simple as helping Professor Binns. Lately, everything he wanted to accomplish seemed to be a multipart process.

But it would be worth it, Harry knew, when he had his soulmate and they were able to build their family together.

Chapter Text

Like many other students at Hogwarts, Harry departed with the Hogwarts Express back to King’s Cross for the winter holidays. He spent most of the ride sitting with Susan and Hannah, as he had the first time, chatting about their plans for the holidays. Harry had little clue what he’d be returning home to himself, since he’d given Opal and the others free reign to decorate for Yule. He never had been able to participate in Christmas before, so this was going to be his first time ever. Harry was absolutely thrilled. The girls were all excited to see family members that they had missed for the last four months of school.

Unlike many other students at Hogwarts, when Harry got off the train, he did not walk up to any family members. No, the person that came to see him was Alexander Yaxley, his journalist friend.

“You’re looking well, Mr. Potter,” Alexander said with a wink as Harry walked up to him on the platform. Other students were returning to their parents and younger siblings. The room was filled with excited chatter and laughter.

“So are you, Mr. Yaxley,” Harry replied, “I appreciate you coming to pick me up.”

“Well, we have a little trip to make, don’t we?”

Harry tried not to feel too excited—Alexander had warned him in his letters that this might not go well—but still he nodded eagerly. When Alexander put out his arm, Harry grabbed onto it and stepped closer, preparing for apparation.

They arrived with a crack of magic to an empty, silent street. It was already twilight outside, casting the world in a blue light as the snow reflected back the distant street lamps and the even more distant moon.

It was deafening, the silence. Harry stood there for a moment, shivering, digging his fingers into the strap of his bag, listening to it. He couldn’t even hear the sound of birds.

“It’s this way,” Alexander said. He led Harry off of the plowed street and onto a narrow walkway where the snow had been crushed down by foot traffic, not by any magic or machine. Harry trailed behind him, looking over the snow covered landscape and the bare, dark trees. As they walked, Alexander explained where they were.

“Back in 1946, our fellow here was arrested for murdering a handful of muggles near his family home. At first it was pretty cut and dry—bigoted pureblood wizard who had no wealth was jealous of successful muggles. Except in his defense he pled that the muggles had committed line theft against him and his family. He had a younger sister, it turned out, who had run off with the muggle’s son and gotten pregnant. She went missing and the son returned, leading our wizard here to presume that the muggle had murdered her in turn. He claimed he killed them in Familial Retribution, which wasn’t exactly illegal at the time.” Alexander paused and Harry came to a stand beside him.

They stood in front of a quaint little cottage, the front of which had a sloping porch and shuttered windows. Smoke rose from a chimney stack. In the blue light of twilight, it was a cozy home. Not very big, but intact and kept clean enough. The snow had been brushed off the front porch and there was a sign on the door that said Herbs Tinctures Supplies. Knock before entry.

“The proper way to claim line theft, however, was to go through the ministry and have it proven before you got retribution. If he’d done that, he'd have gotten permission to commit the murders, most likely,” Alexander glanced down at Harry and shrugged, “Things changed after the war, but not that fast.”

“Did they ever find his sister?” Harry asked.

“Yes and no,” Alexander said, “She had died nearly twenty years earlier in London. They tracked her death down to an orphanage by the name of Wool’s. She gave birth to a son just before she died.”

Harry’s breath caught. “And she’s—”

“She was named Merope Gaunt,” Alexander said, “She doesn’t show up on many records. The ministry itself only has one mention of her in the Gaunt records. At the end, her family line was less branched and more…well.” Alexander winced, “Her brother was also her uncle. If you understand what I mean.”

Harry wrinkled his nose. Still, he couldn’t help but yearn to know who she was. “And her son? Did they find him?”

“By the time the ministry got through all the bureaucratic red tape, he was in his twenties. The last record of him they have is his name and occupation before he left the country in the early fifties.”

Harry looked up at Alexander, eyes wide. “Well? What is it?”

“Tom Marvolo Riddle, former employee of Borgin and Burkes, a shady little consignment shop in Knockturn. It’s still there, too,” Alexander said, “It’s likely he’s the father of your soulmate, wherever and whoever they are.”

Apep writhed on Harry’s arm, as he often did when Harry was talking about his soulmate. His heart thumped in his chest heavily. He had a name. Not just the family name Gaunt, but the name of his soulmate’s father or grandfather, depending on how old they were now.

“Anyway, in there is the last male Gaunt in Britain,” Alexander said with a gesture to the front door. “Morfin Gaunt. He was in Azkaban for six years, two years per muggle for unlawful Familial Retribution, and afterwards was put into a probationary situation. There was this push in the sixties to reform released inmates and he got swept up into that. He was in a program that got him a job, in this case as a greenhouse attendant, and that grew into an apprenticeship with an apothecary supplier.”

Alexander gave Harry a quick wink and said, “Someone has to grow all those plants for the apothecaries in Diagon, after all. Gaunt here has now passed his apprenticeship and runs his business out of his home. Mostly mail order—he can read and write in English, but doesn’t speak it I hear.”

“He’s a Gaunt,” Harry murmured, “He’s probably a parseltongue and proud of it.”

Alexander hummed thoughtfully to that.

They stood in silence for a while, staring at the door. Then Alexander patted Harry on the shoulder and said, “Shall we?”

Silently, Harry nodded.

Together they stepped up onto the porch. Alexander knocked on the door and then leaned back, waiting.

Harry heard some shuffling around inside, the bang of some other door being opened or shut, and then the heavy turn of the lock. The door opened one inch.

Hesitantly, Harry stepped forward and pushed open the door. He anticipated seeing a person—an elderly one, considering when Morfin was born—but there was no one there. Instead, he stepped into a room that was very much like a little shop. The walls were covered in shelves and the center of the room had a long table on it. It was filled to the brim with large jars and bundles and packages, all carefully, neatly labeled.

The most remarkable thing, however, was at the desk at the far end of the room. A large snake rested on a stone, its wedge shaped head turned towards them, unblinking eyes watching them. It was a beautiful snake, Harry thought, with white, black and gold markings. Its tongue flicked in and out, tasting the air, and them.

Next to the snake was a sign that read: Prices on the packages. Place money in the box. Thieves will be bitten.

Harry stepped forward and hissed to the snake, “Hello.”

The snake reared up. “The young one speaks? Hello Speaker.”

“Hello,” Harry repeated, “I’ve come to speak to the human who lives here. Do you mind telling me where he is?”

“Master is in the warm food room,” the snake replied, lowering its head back down, “You may go through, but the other human must stay and purchase something. Humans must leave coins in exchange for Master’s bundles.”

“Okay,” Harry said. He turned to Alexander and explained, “The snake said that I can go through to the kitchen to talk to Morfin, but you have to stay and buy something.”

Alexander arched an eyebrow. “I can do that. But we should talk later about your ability, Mr. Potter.”

“Alright,” Harry said. Perhaps he could have found another way to talk to Morfin, but he wasn’t afraid of Alexander knowing he was a parselmouth. He only worried about him discovering Apep before Harry was technically old enough to have a fully formed mark.

Harry walked to the door that led deeper into the house. It opened with a touch and he stepped through. He immediately found himself in the kitchen area which was twice as cluttered as the shop portion of the cottage. There was a large table in the center of the room, at which there were only two chairs, and the table was piled high with various bottles and containers, empty and ready for filling.

The cupboards were covered with dishes and spices and various other containers and things one might find in a kitchen. There was a big metal stove, at which an elderly man stood, hissing under his breath as he stirred something.

Harry cleared his throat. The man didn’t so much as twitch.

Picturing a snake in his head, Harry asked loudly, “Hello?”

“What did they get, Sabrina? It was the dogwood, wasn’t it? Every bloody fool wants dogwood right now. Trying to make their winter more tolerable with potions, aren’t they?—”

“Excuse me!” Harry said louder, “My name is Harry.”

Morfin Gaunt stopped stirring his pot and turned to stare at him. He was just as old as Harry had thought. His face was lined and aged, pocked with the brown spots Harry remembered from the little old ladies at the end of Privet Drive. His eyes, however, were incredibly clear. They were a dark color, maybe a touch red in the light, and he stared, wide-eyed, at Harry. “Eh?”

“I said, my name is Harry, sir.”

“You’re not my son!” Morfin exclaimed, “I got no sprog, see! If you’ve come here for money—”

“No, no, I’m not here for money I— I think my soulmate is your grand nephew?” Harry stammered out, uncertain with the proper term. “Your sister’s son’s son, I mean. Him. I think he is, anyway.”

“And why do you think that, boy?” Morfin asked, eyeing him skeptically.

“Because my soulmate mark can talk to me and told me so.”

Morfin had met every kind of person there is on this wretched earth.

He’d met sleaze balls and tramps, he’d met thieves and dodgers and varmints and greedy buggers. He’d met foolish dandies and whores, he’d met scoundrels and morons and cowards and starved fools.

He’d met every kind of rich pompous twit and all their little underlings. He’d met impatient youths and slothful elders. He’d met every kind of businessman that ever could be imagined from the slick con artist to the gold-encrusted Lord.

People of all sorts came into his shop, for his were the things that all folks needed at some point in their life. Herbs for cookery. Plants for potioneering. Salves for health. Tinctures and oils and what have you. Morfin had learned how to make it all with a thumb greener than a garter snake and the care that only a plant would reciprocate.

Morfin worked his garden dutifully, almost obsessively, for it and Sabrina were the only things that mattered to him now that his family was whittled down to his aging bones.

He didn’t have the ancestral land anymore. He didn’t have the Gaunt ring. He didn’t even have his wand. Thirty years of probation and he still hadn’t earned it. Or maybe he had, but the letter was lost amongst the many other orders he received weekly and he couldn’t get down to the Alley without assistance. Morfin would be damned to Death and back if he asked any bloody wizard to take him blindly anywhere.

So it was a surprise that December morning when he turned around in his kitchen and saw a little lordling standing there. There were very few who dared step past Sabrina and bothered him directly, and even fewer who had permission to enter further into his home. At first glance, Morfin wasn’t surprised some spoiled brat thought himself permitted—the little lords never knew the word ‘no’ and Morfin was never afraid to teach it to them. No matter how pureblooded they were, they weren’t a Gaunt. The purest of them all.

Only this little brat had spoken to him in his Father’s tongue, the language of the Gaunts, of Great Lord Slytherin himself, his mouth forming the susurrus of Parseltongue with experience and ease. It was nervousness that made him stumble, not disuse.

And Morfin, who had only spoken so easily with Sabrina and others of her kind for these last forty years, had found himself forgiving the brashness of this foolish little child.

Instead, Morfin shuffled the boy to his chair and fixed them up with some tea. He had the best leaves—he grew them himself—and so he brewed a fine cup, strong and slightly sweetened with the candied rinds of oranges and limes. The boy took his cup and sipped it slowly. He sat with imperfect posture and sipped a little too noisily—not a proper lordling then, was he? Just an imitator. A scarlet kingsnake him, not the venomous coral by birth.

Morfin could tell, of course. He had seen it all. He could tell just as easily.

“My name is Harry Potter,” the little lordling told him, brushing back his dark hair from a portion of his face. There, clear as day, was the jagged lightning bolt of the infamous boy. Morfin grinned to himself. Of course the Gaunts would be bound to such a powerful line—the Potters were old family blood, that he knew well enough. At least, they had been until recently. Morfin’s grin turned to a scowl.

“Your mother was a filthy mudblood,” Morfin told him, “Your father betrayed our kind by marrying her.”

“My mother is the reason the Dark Lord perished,” Potter said firmly. He met and held Morfin’s gaze. No fear in this little sprog, oh no. “Her magic bested him.”

“Rumor has it pinned on you, boy,” Morfin insisted, “Not some no-name mudblood wench.”

“And how exactly could a one-year-old baby do any magic powerful enough to stop the Dark Lord? I could barely walk. Whatever trap was laid for the Dark Lord, it was laid by my mother and her magic.” Potter leaned forward, his brilliant eyes flashed, gleaming with unspoken threat, “My mother is more than her blood.”

Morfin grumbled to himself. These young ones thought they knew it all. He knew better, though. Of course he did. Morfin had been around long enough to have seen it all. “You’re not here to argue blood with me,” he brushed aside the boy’s annoyance like a gnat, “Why are you here?”

“You’re my soulmate’s family,” Potter told him with the certainty that only a child could carry, “I haven’t found him yet, but while I was looking I found you. I came hoping you might be able to lead me to him.”

Morfin nodded, for this was sensible enough. Sensible didn’t mean successful, however. “There isn’t anyone but me left,” he told the boy. “I’m the last Gaunt after my miserable sister died in that muggle hovel.”

“She had a son, though,” Potter insisted, “It’s on record. She had a son, Tom Marvolo Riddle.”

Morfin sipped his tea. This name rang a distant, hollow bell in his mind. Part of it was obvious enough, and so he said, “Marvolo was our father’s name. Tom…Tom Riddle is a muggle name.” He grimaced, disgusted and spat to the side, “Curse her for naming her son for a muggle. His blood is tainted and his magic lost.”

“He is not tainted nor is he lost,” Potter fixed him with a glare, “He left Britain, but that doesn’t mean he’s lost. He must have met someone and had a son. A powerful one as well. Apep said my soulmate became a Great Lord and so he is out there somewhere.”

Morfin sneered at this foolish boy. “You are too sympathetic to muggles for my taste. He left his homeland and became great, you say? If he was truly a Gaunt, truly of Slytherin’s line, he would have returned that greatness to his homeland. He would not waste his efforts on those undeserving.”

Potter rubbed at his left arm and Morfin heard a distant, muffled hissing. His hearing was too far gone to pick it up clearly, but his interest was piqued. “This is your speaking mark? Show it to me.”

The boy looked annoyed at the demand, but he still unbuttoned his sleeve and rolled it up. He pulled up a black patch on his arm that was bloody difficult for Morfin to look at, and revealed the head of a snake on his inner wrist. It wriggled across his skin, far more active than even the most enchanted tattoo Morfin had seen before. He got up and came over to see the boy’s arm more clearly.

Taking hold of his wrist, he turned his arm this way and that, staring at the snake’s head. “This is your mark?”

“Obviously,” Potter retorted, “I call him Apep.”

Morfin barked with laughter. “A fitting name. Would that Sabrina had let me give her a more proper one, but alas, she is temperamental enough. Apep, what say you of yourself?”

Apep curled closer. Its tongue flicked in and out, almost as if it was tasting Morfin’s skin where he held onto Potter. “Close but not yet the one. Of the right stock but of differing seed. This one is not it, my chosen, my soul, this one is not it.”

Morfin allowed Potter to pull his hand free. He gave the boy a thoughtful look as he ran his finger over the head of the snake and hissed to him. Making his way back to his seat, he slumped down into it and drank more of his tea. “What is it that you want from an old ophidian such as myself, little snakelet?”

Potter pressed his lips into a thin line, his expression unreadable as he stared at Morfin over his cluttered table. Morfin held no doubt that he was not exactly what the boy had been expecting, but he was who he was and he wasn’t likely to change anytime soon.

Finally, the boy glanced to the side and said quietly, “Ever since I was little, all I wanted was a family. A proper family. I might never get my parents back, but once I discovered I had a soulmate I knew that I could build a new family. You are part of my soulmate’s family, even if you’re distant to him. I was hoping… I wanted to… I wanted to see if you would become part of our family, even though I haven’t found him yet.

“I will,” Potter said fiercely, and now he looked at Morfin, green eyes blazing like jade in the sunlight, “I will find him and we will be together forever. He’s a Great Lord already and I’ll become one. I’m going to have the big family I want— And if you would like, you could be part of that. If you want.”

Morfin chuckled softly. He looked at this intense little boy, the son of a mudblood, a little lord with a ferocity that many grown men couldn’t compare to. He spoke the serpent’s tongue like it came naturally to him. He had the ambition that would have made Slytherin proud.

The world had changed since Morfin was himself such a child. His own ambitions had been curtailed by his father’s pride and his own foolishness. He’d turned away from the institutions that taught magic to those who were impure, but had never striven to learn enough on his own to be a great wizard in his own right. He’d cast his own sister from their home, when she’d held within her a mudblooded babe who had, beyond all odds, survived her passing and the despicable world of muggles.

From his foolish sister there was a new branch of Gaunts and from that branch there would be yet more, if this little lordling had his way.

Morfin’s face spit into a wide, toothy grin. He’d never imagined himself a grandfather or grand-uncle to a handful of little snakelets, but he, too, could learn a thing or two in his old age. Perhaps he was more likely to change than he thought, molting off the old skin of the hermit and growing into the patriarch.

His father would have been so jealous. Morfin would gleefully spit in the man’s face if he could.

“You’ll need a hand with your future little snakelets if you want any hope in returning the Gaunt line to prosperity, little lord,” Morfin said with his grin, “Luckily for you, Uncle Morfin will be there to help.”

Potter returned his grin with a dubious sort of smile, but that was good enough. “Then you’ll come visit for Yule? I’m hosting a feast and an offering this year for my people.”

“I’ll come,” Morfin agreed, “I’ll need a hand getting there, of course, but I’ll come. We’re family now.”

Potter—no, Harry—brightened up at that and relaxed into his smile. “I can arrange for you to get there, I have a few methods. Do you not have access to a wand?”

“The Ministry took mine when I got arrested,” Morfin said, “Can’t recall if they returned it or not.” Not that he’d ever properly learned to apparate either way.

“I’ll look into that for you too,” Harry said with a nod. “That way you can travel from here to the Manor easily.”

Morfin continued to grin.