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Chapter Text

When James and Lily Potter first attended couples therapy five years ago, it had been incredibly difficult for James to take it seriously. They were, well, not healing but adjusting. Not to their loss, but to life after their loss. They were not fine (they would never be fine again) but they were learning to try to be fine. And James was doing all that he could to balance the same roles he’d always had: supportive friend, successful business owner, Wizengamot Lord, loving husband, and- and father. He still had the girls to think about. He was still a father, even if the word itself made something in his chest stutter.

So by the time Lily signed them up with a Mind Healer, he’d become an expert in compartmentalization. He knew how to balance all these roles, even if he often felt like he was missing the very breath in his body. About three months into couples therapy, the subject of the Massacre had come up, as it so often did that time of year. The therapist said something that James can’t quite remember. But he’ll never forget how Lily said, “Sometimes, it feels like I’m the only one who truly loves- loved him. James never wants to talk about him. It’s like he never skipped a beat, like he doesn’t need to grieve. It’s as if he doesn’t miss Harry at all.”

It hadn’t been James’s turn to respond, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. He’d never been one to yell when angry, and that hadn’t changed. His hands were clenched so tightly he’d left marks, but he kept his expression carefully blank as he called Lily every name that could possibly hurt her. And Lily, whose anger was much more explosive than James’s, screamed every flaw James had ever had back in his face. The therapist hadn’t said another word the entire session, simply letting the two get worse and worse as her quill scratched on parchment.

At some point, Lily started crying. Oddly enough, he felt nothing at the sight. Not until she spat, “You’re just as much of a bully now as when I’d met you. If you weren’t such a piece of shit, Harry would still be alive.” James had stared at her like she was a stranger. He’d hated very few people in his life – You-Know-Who, Severus Snape, and Walburga Black were on that short list – but he truly, truly hated Lily at that moment. And he didn’t dislike the feeling.

After the session, he didn’t return home. No, he Apparated to Grimmauld Place. He’d drank Sirius’s firewhiskey and told him about the therapy session, about the things he’d said to Lily and the things she’d said in return. His best friend had been uncharacteristically quiet, letting James go on for as long as he needed to. Once James was done venting, Sirius took a deep breath, lowering himself to one of the wing-backed chairs in his office. He said, “Let me preface this with a reminder that I very rarely agree with your wife.” James had started to reply, but Sirius kept going. “I know you miss Harry more than anything. I know that it was different for you, simply because you… You felt it when he died.”

James nodded. Just once. They’d never spoken about that, about that pain worse than a Cruciatus and how it had resonated across the family magic, about that hollow emptiness afterward, the blank nothingness that had replaced the Heir of the House. “She’ll never understand it.”

“No,” Sirius said carefully. “She’s a mudblood so she’ll never understand it, exactly.” James sent him a dirty look at the slur, which was ignored. “You know I felt it, to some degree, because of the godfather bond. But…” Sirius seemed so hesitant, so conscious of his words that James had no choice but to look at him. So sad his Padfoot was, that James immediately looked away again.

Sirius finally said, “When Fleamont and Euphemia died, I remember you- No one would have ever guessed anything had happened. You were quiet for a day and then it was as if you wanted to pretend that nothing was wrong. You kept laughing and joking around, and if I hadn’t known you, I wouldn’t have suspected anything had changed at all, let alone that you were newly orphaned. I remember Moony and Wormy said we had to follow your lead, and that it would hit you at the funeral. The funeral came and went and we kept waiting for you to cry or scream or do anything, really. But that moment never came. Between you and I… have you ever cried for them?”

James did not need to answer. Sirius already knew. He was slightly ashamed to say he never once cried for his parents. He’d never visited their graves, nor had he ever taken a moment of silence for them or prayed to them during Samhain. The closest he ever came to reflecting upon their death was when he and Lily had first moved into the cottage at Godric’s Hollow. 

When he was young, he and his parents had spent summers there. Mother had an entire bookshelf in the kitchen dedicated to her family’s recipes, Father had a greenhouse in the back garden. Lily had briefly and excitedly skimmed through the cookbooks, then she looked out the window and remarked on how much she loved that greenhouse. And James held the bittersweet knowledge that Lily would have loved his parents. And his parents would have loved her. Despite it all, even though his parents would have never allowed the marriage in the first place, he knew that Lily, Euphemia, and Fleamont would have gotten on like a house on fire. It was a knowledge that left him both content and breathless, and he’d been so overwhelmed that he refused to dwell on it further. 

“You have to let yourself grieve for Harry.”

Recoiling, James shook his head even as he said, “I have.”

Sirius also shook his head, setting his glass on the end table before leaning forward, forcing James to meet his eyes. “You haven’t. Let me reiterate that I disagree with Lily. But… I remember crying for your parents because they felt like mine, too. In a way. Because you’re my brother, and your family is mine. But you were acting as though nothing had happened, and that can be… It can be quite isolating, Jamie. I needed to let the wound bleed, so to speak. But… Well, you made it very clear that I couldn’t discuss them.”

James can remember the wisps of shame curling up in the base of his stomach. He never wanted his brother to feel like he couldn’t talk to him. He started to speak, perhaps to apologize, when Sirius continued. “We’ve seen too much death, you and I. Between how we were made to grow up and the war and our statuses and- and the Massacre, it can be too much sometimes. 

“I understand that, to a certain extent, we have to numb ourselves to it or we won’t be able to function. But we can’t do that with our people, Jamie. When the people we love die, it fucking hurts, but you have to feel it.”  

James fought the urge to be stubborn and grit his teeth, which is when Sirius delivered the final blow. 

“Harry deserves to be mourned properly.”

It had been five years since that conversation, almost seven years since Harry died. Since then, he’d started individual therapy. He and Lily recovered from that awful fight, but it wasn’t until Lily felt like she could freely talk about Harry that they truly got back on the right track. Things were better now. Not perfect – they would never be perfect again – but he could now think of his son without forcibly redirecting his thoughts. He could tell his daughters stories of their older brother without drinking beforehand. He could look at Lily, look into her vivid green eyes, without seeing the reflection of Harry’s.

Now, those eyes were narrowed in worry, watching him and not even attempting to hide it. Like James, Lily was quite skilled in the art of impassivity. Yet her eyes gave her away every single time. “You alright, babe?”

“Of course,” he said, pulling a cigarette from a pocket in his robes. He offered Lily one, which she accepted. It was a habit they had tried to kick when Harry was born, yet they never could fully manage it. This probably wasn’t the most appropriate place for it, given they were at Hogwarts (right in the courtyard where James kissed Lily for the first time). As such, they drew a few strange looks. “You alright, Lil?”

“Always am.” If only. She quietly scoffed, slightly tilting her head somewhere behind James’s back, towards the main pathway to the school. “It seems the Contessa’s attending this year.”

“Good.” Contessa Zabini’s son had been Harry’s age and was the product of her fifth marriage. She’d only attended the first two memorials, before retreating to her first husband’s family home in Florence. Despite her blood House holding a seat on the Wizengamot, she tended to stay out of politics, but she was well-respected within light magic circles. “Maybe now’s a good time to ask for her thoughts on that Sponsorship Bill-”

“I swear to God, James. If you call that woman over here-”

“What’s wrong with her?” James asked innocently, snickering when Lily gave him a dirty look. Luckily for him, the Contessa slipped inside before she’d spotted them. Any attendees that had been lingering outside, as James and Lily were, were also heading inside. He sighed. “Suppose it’s time, then?”

She gave him a small smile. “Seems like it. Mind if I finish first?” 

As she kept smoking, James kept his gaze upward. It was a lovely day today. A clear, blue sky with a small scattering of pure white clouds. There was a brisk autumn breeze, but the warmth from the sun stopped it from being unpleasant. A part of James resented the sunshine. His former therapist would have reminded him that such thoughts were egocentric. Grief had no hold on Mother Nature. The world did not start and end with Harry. So instead of letting the resentment fester, he tried to focus on how his daughters were most likely taking advantage of the good weather. Sirius had probably taken Holly and Ivy into the garden at Grimmauld Place and was most definitely encouraging Ivy to attempt a swan dive off her broom. There are good things, still. I’m still a father . He couldn’t forget that.

Lily finished her cigarette, and they began the journey into Hogwarts, making their way to the Great Hall.

Long tables were replaced by smaller, round tables. Hogwarts’ House memorabilia was replaced by names on flags that were floating high above their heads. There were a little over three hundred of them, divided by age and colored according to their House. And at the very front, behind the High Table, were fifty-one names ordered alphabetically. The not-quite first-years who never had the chance to be Sorted. 

Lily and James did not speak as they settled at one of the tables. That was fine, given that they were not the only sources of silence in this room. Despite there being a couple of hundred attendees this year, the mood was subdued. No one was particularly cheery today.

A few moments after they were seated, Professor – Headmistress, now, but he could never quite get used to it – McGonagall, standing at the front of the Great Hall, said, “Before we begin, I will ask for a moment of silence, an acknowledgment of each of the children who tragically lost their lives on this day, seven years ago.” Beside him, Lily’s pinkie brushed against his. He entwined them together, hoping it was enough to draw strength from each other.

  Harry James Potter, written in gold on a black flag, shone like a beacon. It was all James could see, all he could ever hope to see, and as silence reigned, his son’s voice rang through his ears, a phantom child asking, “What if I’m put in Hufflepuff?”

“Oh, those poor Hufflepuffs. Perhaps I should warn Pomona. Won’t know what they’re in for, will they?”

“Stop it, Dad! I’m being serious.”

“Sorry, mate. Sirius is your uncle.”

A dramatic groan, a mop of a head hitting his sternum, a low, muffled voice asking, “What if I get Sorted into Slytherin? Would you be mad at me?”

“Harry. If the Sorting Hat puts you in Slytherin, I’ll be delighted. Know why? ‘Cause you’ll be the sneakiest snake to ever slither. You’ll give ole Slughorn a run for his money, won’t you?”

A scoff, followed by a nearly imperceptible sigh of relief. “‘Course I will. I learned from the very best… Uncle Pads.”

So much laughter as James grabbed his son around the middle, attacking his ribs with dancing fingers, laughing in turn when Harry managed to grab a cushion and started attacking right back. Was that the last time his son ever laughed so hard? He hoped not. He hoped-

There was a sudden shift in the air. Years and years later, James would still be able to describe how every atom in his body was struck with a sudden paralysis. The world seemed to become both darker and more sharply contrasted. He could suddenly feel every breath of every person in the room. And then, those breaths became his. He could feel the languid pulsing of blood, of so many heartbeats coming to a strange, slow, synchronous rhythm. 

Beyond the flesh, he felt their magic, their souls , every piece of themselves seeming to rise in collective attention. Their magical cores melded together like molten metal. Slowly, easily. They wound together as if they’d always meant to be a single entity. Later, he knew, it had to have been a single moment. But it felt like a lifetime. Stretched to eternity that moment was, and yet James did not crave an end. 

There was a white-hot crack that ignited in the base of his stomach, like an accidental Apparition into a lightning strike. He was distantly aware of gasps of pain, of strangled screams around him, yet he was locked in place. Frozen by this feeling he would never know again.

Then, it was gone.

After an unearthly silence, Headmistress McGonagall said, “Be calm, everyone. Please remain in the room.”

James hadn’t realized how tensely he had held himself until he forced his muscles to relax. He turned to his left, to Lily, and she had gone completely white. She had a shaking hand pressed to her heart. That Brummie accent that she’d seemingly grown out of had returned full force as she breathlessly asked, “What in God’s name was that?”

He took her hand from her chest and held it to his own. “You felt it, too?”

She gave light, little nods, but said nothing further. He looked around the Great Hall then, watching the memorial’s attendees comfort each other, seeming just as shell-shocked as he and Lily were. He met Lucius Malfoy’s eyes across the room. He and the older man didn’t always get on, having gotten into philosophical arguments both on the Wizengamot floor and whenever they were forced into social situations together (which they often were, given that James and Padfoot were magically bound as family, and Lucius was married to one of Padfoot’s favorite cousins). Not to mention their opposing sides at the onset of the war. But this day was sacred to them both in a way they were groomed to never articulate. So Lucius didn’t hesitate to rise from his seat and make his way over, cane charmed to be completely soundless even on this stone floor. Narcissa, calm as always, followed closely behind.

Lucius was expressionless, eyes distant in a way that only an Occluded mind could be. “That was not dark magic,” he said lowly, once he reached James’s side. 

He simply said, “I’m not sure what it was.” Though, privately, he was in begrudging agreement with Lucius. Whatever that was, it did not feel dark. Not quite. 

Lucius opened his mouth to argue, perhaps, but James continued. “Which is why McGonagall is probably calling for Aurors to investigate. I’m not inclined to believe it was a deliberate attack. If it was, we would be seeing some ill effects.” And while everyone was startled, none of the attendees appeared to be injured or harmed. He glanced at Narcissa and noticed a particularly odd expression on her face. He couldn’t help but feel concerned for her. Maybe she was more shaken than he’d initially realized.“Are you-” 

He froze. 

There. A twinge in the family’s magic. A hollow space – one he had never quite grown accustomed to – rapidly filling, burgeoning into something wondrous. The family magic was re-distributing itself, rushing to embrace and protect a blood member. It was a feeling he’d known only three times before since he’d become Head of the House of Potter. He’d felt it with Holly and Ivy. But the magic had only been this protective of the Heir, of-

“Draco,” Lucius whispered, eyes red-rimmed in a rare, public show of emotion. His own Heir, whose name was placed not too far ahead of Harry’s. Lucius turned to look at his wife, who seemed equal parts concerned and scandalized. His tone took on a manic energy as he hissed, “He’s back, Narcissa. He’s back, I feel it.”

Harry. Harry. James shook his head, his own family magic thrumming, thrumming, but it couldn’t possibly be-

The smell of ozone overtook his senses. There was a sudden shriek, and their group whirled around. Molly Weasley was sobbing before a young, red-haired man who, for his part, seemed just as shell-shocked and confused as everyone else. “Percy! Oh, my boy, oh-” She pulled the man, Percy, into her arms as she began fussing over him. Arthur Weasley stood there, shaking, rubbing his chest and staring at the young man without blinking, as though seeking to preserve the sight. James blanched at the realization that the Weasleys had lost four children that day. Four sons. His eyes moved to the Gryffindor flags. Ronald hadn’t Sorted. Fred. George. And sure enough, there was a flag for Percy Weasley. 

James turned back to the Weasleys, blinked and- There was another one. Another red-haired man, this one more shocked than the first. 

Suddenly, there were more cries, more and more people seemingly popping into existence. All around them, dead children rising again, not as they died, but as they would have been, should have been. A beautifully horrifying blend of cruelest fantasy and sweetest nightmare-

“Katie!”

“Ollie, my Ollie-” 

“Nev, oh, my darling-”

“Draco,” Lucius said, so quietly that James almost didn’t hear him. He was holding a blond-haired boy, a grown-up Draco, who had become the spitting image of Lucius. Narcissa was on their other side and holding the boy just as fiercely. The boy was shaking, quite severely, yet his expression was one of confused bemusement.

James had no time to dwell on the sight, the twinge of family magic growing stronger. So strong that James was rubbing his chest in an attempt to- to- “Harry.” 

His son had to be here. His boy had come back to life somehow, had- James whirled around, scanning the room for any sign of- Lily was in front of him then, reaching up to cradle his head in her hands. He had nearly forgotten she was there, in the frenzy of it all. Her touch was gentle, even with the frantic glint in her eye. “Please, James, please tell me Harry’s coming, too. You feel him?” James nodded, before stepping away from her. He had to find Harry-

“Harry! HARRY! Where’s Harry?!” One of the Weasleys, one of the eternal children who had somehow grown up, was shouting so loud his voice somehow reverberated through the Great Hall. Why was he calling for James’s son? “I was just with him! What the fuck have you bastards done with him?!”

It was strange, how quickly this particular shift occurred. One moment, these resurrected souls were allowing themselves to be held and cried over. Each seemed to allow this out of confusion or shock or bemusement. Or perhaps a combination of the three. But overall, there seemed to be a general air of surrealism among them, as though they were in some sort of dream-like state (the same state that seemed to overtake their parents). 

Everybody in that room had been irrational until that point, he realized. James included. Swept up in the sheer chaos of the moment, he’d never once considered that something was truly wrong . And neither, it seemed, did any of their children. But the Weasley’s words seemed to pull them from their collective trance. 

James watched as Draco went white as a sheet, his expression morphing into one of poorly concealed terror. “What’s happening?” He looked at Lucius, then began scrambling away. James refused to look at Lucius’s expression, knowing full well that only heartbreak would be found there. “Who are you?”

One girl – it must have been Susan Bones, as she was staring down Richard and Helga – cried, “It’s not possible! You’re dead!”

“It’s a trap! Death Eaters!”

Their children had been pulled from the land of the dead, but they suddenly seemed terrified to be among the living. And more and more children were still appearing, but none of them were-

Harry. Harry stood before him, so tall and perfect and alive. Harry. Harry was the most beautiful sight James had ever seen. 

Even when Harry pointed his wand at James’s chest. 

Chapter Text

It had been three months since the Battle. 

Harry was fine.

So fine, in fact, that he had allowed himself to be convinced to join Game Night.

Dean’s flat was full of Muggle board games that Harry had never had a chance to play. While he’d been hoping they’d settle on Uno or Jenga, he wasn’t unhappy with the alternative his friends had chosen. Playing Twister with this crowd was certainly an experience. 

“Wow, Nev. If you wanted to rub my cock, all you had to do was ask.” Harry almost felt bad laughing at Ron’s idiocy, especially because of how red Neville’s face became, it almost looked a bit hazardous for his health. Wait, he was somehow getting even redder. Ron grinned and asked, “Should I call for a Healer?”

Neville groaned (which made everyone laugh harder), Ron waggled his eyebrows, and Hermione snorted so hard that butterbeer came out of her nose. Luna kept trying to break the concentration of whoever was on the Twister board (she had succeeded with Hermione and Angelina, much to Hermione’s aggravation, and cheered gleefully once they’d tipped over), Dean and Seamus seemed to alternate between taking the piss out of each other and throwing back firewhisky like it was water, and Ginny was very subtly avoiding eye contact with Harry. George had also been convinced to join Game Night, which was Lee and Angelina’s doing, of course. Even he seemed to be doing better lately. He wasn’t the same, wasn’t laughing so much as half-smiling, but everyone was proud of him for trying.

And Harry was fine.

“Are all Muggle games so, erm-” Neville cut himself off as Ron’s arm dangerously moved to a blue spot. He started stammering and Ron started snickering. He squeaked, “Saucy?”

Dean coughed up firewhisky. “Saucy?”

And so the laughter started up again. 

After Neville and Ron’s turn, the night had naturally come to a close. Hermione had refused to stay at the Burrow after the war, despite the Weasleys offering to house her. She claimed that she needed a break from testosterone after a year on the run (truthfully, Harry figured it had more to do with the general air of mourning that saturated the Burrow at the moment; well that and the way Mrs. Weasley seemed to keep a close watch on Ron and Hermione’s every interaction). She’d been staying with Angelina, Katie Bell, and Lavender Brown. From what she’d told Harry, things with Lavender were going about as well as they had at Hogwarts. Which was to say, not very well at all.

So, while Hermione and Angelina began the journey back to their flat, Ron and Harry began their long walk back to the Burrow. It was a warm summer night, and they followed an unpaved, beaten path through Ottery St. Catchpole. It had been one of the many villages that was offering discounted housing to anyone who fought in the Battle of Hogwarts. It was also one of the few that had little involvement in the war and little need to rebuild. While it had certainly had its own fair share of problems during the war – including reports of Muggle hunting – there hadn’t been nearly as much destruction there as there had been in places like Hogsmeade. Hence, so many older Hogwarts students who couldn’t (or wouldn’t) return home had begun renting flats there. Thankfully, the Burrow was just outside the village, else he and Ron would have had to spend the night at Dean’s.

“It was good to see George having fun,” Ron commented, a little too casually. Sure enough, “And it was nice to see you get out of the house.”

Harry sighed.

“Nope. I’m not taking any sass about it. You know you’ve been holing yourself up at the Burrow.” He quickly added, “Which is fine. Mum and Dad are over the moon about it. You know that. But it’s also a bit worrying, innit? You’re always at the Burrow.”

“I’m not always at the Burrow,” Harry said, trying and failing to quail his defensiveness. He shivered as a chill suddenly entered the air, which was a bit odd for July. 

Ron must have felt it too, because he also shivered a bit. He continued as though Harry hadn’t spoken, “Everyone’s worried, mate.” Harry very nearly asked who ‘everyone’ was, but figured he already knew the answer. If Hermione hadn’t put Ron up to this conversation, Harry would eat a hippogriff. 

His best friend hesitated before lightly asking, “You given any more thought to seeing a Mind Healer?”

Harry was very careful to keep his expression blank. He knew Ron meant well, he really did. But Harry would much rather eat glass, walk on fire, or any other number of unpleasant activities. The very idea of talking to anyone about the mess going on in his head gave him hives, let alone a stranger. 

He settled on a safe, diplomatic answer. “I’ve thought about it.” He shivered again, eyeing the sky, only to be confused at the cloudless, night sky. The chill was beginning to settle in his bones, rapidly enough that he would have suspected dementors if he were a bit less emotionally stable. Before Ron could reply, he commented, “Feels like a storm’s coming.”

Ron didn’t seem too impressed with the change in subject, but he allowed it. “I reckon,” Ron said after a moment, his own shivering growing worse. He also looked up at the sky. “Got cold quick. Should we just Apparate the rest of the way?”

Harry shook his head. The cold had become more intense somehow, the chill becoming not-quite-numbing pinpricks up his arms and legs. “Not when we’ve been drinking. ‘Less you feel like getting splinched again.”

Ron shuddered for a different reason, probably thinking of how he’d lost an eyebrow during his Apparition test. Or maybe he was thinking of how he’d gotten splinched when they’d Apparated from the Ministry of Magic. For his part, Harry was trying not to think about it. Truthfully, he tried not to think about the past year very much (and usually failed at that endeavor). No matter how much distance he tried to put between himself and-

Suddenly, there was a sharp, thunderous crack! that seemed to reverberate through the trees. Harry’s wand was in his hand in an instant and he whirled around. In his periphery, he saw Ron had already done the same. “Apparition?” Ron asked lowly, eyes narrowed. 

Something about that didn’t feel right. He’d never heard such a loud, echoing Apparition before. But he had no clue what else it could have been. So he nodded, his own eyes moving to scan his surroundings. There was a strange feeling in the base of his stomach, a combination of instinctual, wartime wariness and something else. His shivering grew worse, though it wasn’t quite cold anymore. He now felt like he always did during a Quidditch match. A rush of adrenaline, nerves doing somersaults as his broom rushed through the air. 

Harry shuddered as an odd feeling overtook him. It wasn’t unlike vertigo but… He felt that his heart was beating too slow, like the blood in his veins was moving in less of a rush and more at a sluggish, uneven rhythm. The air becoming heavier, more difficult to breathe. 

“Something’s not right.” 

Not receiving an answer, Harry turned his head only to stagger. 

Ron wasn’t there. 

“Ron?!” Harry whirled around, nearly losing his balance as he did so. There was nothing around but trees and shadows, distant rolling hills and houses dotted along the darkened countryside. There was no breeze. Even the very air around him had gone still. “RON?!”

Harry took a deep breath. In, then out. Closed his eyes. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Opened them. He was still alone on the unpaved road. “Shit.” He half-hoped it was some sort of episode. He took another deep breath, forcing himself to focus. He’d go to the Burrow first, then panic later. 

And just as that thought entered his head, there was a sudden tug at the base of his stomach, almost like he’d grabbed a Portkey. But it was sharper, beginning at his stomach and then suddenly surrounding his entire body. Harry could not gasp – could not do much of anything, feeling like he’d been hit with a Body-Bind – when he was abruptly tugged downward. 

He blinked.

The world was a wretched blur, yet he did not feel ill. He did not feel much of anything for a moment, and he briefly wondered if he was dying. Or perhaps he was already dead. Some internal thing seemed to try to force him to calm down, to relax, which he promptly ignored.

Then, his senses were arrested, with the smell of ozone, with warmth, with abrupt light and color, with screaming and sobs and so many people talking all at once. If his wand weren’t already in hand, he would’ve grabbed it.

He blinked again, heart pounding. Blood rushing in his ears overtook the roar of a crowd as his eyes scanned his surroundings.  He was in the Great Hall. He was at Hogwarts. How was that possible- And there were so many people. He recognized many of them, oddly enough. Katie Bell, Oliver Wood, a few people he’d seen in passing at school- 

There was a sharp gasp and Harry whirled around. 

It took him less than a moment to realize that James Potter was standing there. James Potter . Much older than in the pictures. Older than the man who died for him, older than Harry had ever seen. And so, so much older than he had been on the day Harry-

“You’ll stay with me?”

“Until the very end.”

Something strange pulled at Harry, a warm feeling seeping into the space between his ribs. Safe and familiar, despite it being a sensation he’d never felt before. And just like that, he mentally recoiled from it. Instinct took over. Harry didn’t think. He just acted. Wand whipped at the imposter’s chest, voice low among the chaos of the room. He stepped forward, eyes narrowed. “Who the fuck are you supposed to be, then?”

The imposter’s mouth opened, perhaps to speak, when Harry felt something poking between his shoulder blades – a wand. The imposter stepped forward and glared. Surprisingly, not at Harry, but at whoever had a wand on him. “You’ll lower your wand,” the imposter said, mouth twisted in anger. “Or I’ll lower it for you, Lucius.”

Harry’s jaw clenched at the name and he couldn’t stop himself from reflexively looking back. Sure enough, Lucius Malfoy was behind him, Narcissa Malfoy standing close behind. Infuriatingly, it looked as though exile from Wizarding Britain had done them all good. Especially Lucius, given how healthy he looked. Harry caught sight of Draco and scowled. “Back to your old tricks, Malfoy?” Draco went very pale. Mr. Malfoy’s expression was darkening like an approaching storm cloud, not that Harry cared. “I shouldn’t have testified for you, you-”

“I haven’t got a single idea what’s going on,” Draco said defensively, loudly. It was then that Harry realized they were gaining some attention in their section of this chaotic mess of people. The imposter was still staring at him, so intensely that it made Harry grit his teeth. “I haven’t seen Father since the trial-” 

A voice breathed, “Harry.” 

Harry stilled, keeping his wand raised. Who else would it be but an imposter of Lily Potter? He should not have looked. His mind recoiled from the sound of her voice. Don’t look. Be incurious for once. Don’t look. But some deeper instinct won out. 

Unwillingly, he turned his head. 

A masquerade of his mother stood there. Not as she died, but as she would have been. Green eyes met ones identical to his own. Harry swallowed hard. Something in his chest twisted, like a wet cloth being wrung out. If seeing the living, breathing face of his father had sent him off-kilter, then seeing his mother had left him reeling. 

Before he could begin to process the sight of her, there was the sudden, booming sound of a throat clearing. Most everyone turned to the Head Table, even Harry. Though he kept his wand at the imposter. Harry was relieved to see Professor McGonagall standing there, looking more frazzled than he’d ever seen her. She had cast a Sonorous, amplifying her voice and successfully calming some of the chaos. “Everyone settle down now,” she said. Distantly, Harry noticed that her Scottish brogue was a bit thicker than normal. 

“Please, settle down. There seems to be, hm–” She faltered for a moment, looking frazzled in a way Harry had never seen before, not even during the Battle of Hogwarts. She almost seemed to be at a loss for words before she cleared her throat again, regaining some composure. “Aurors will be arriving in a few moments. Please remain calm-”

“HOW CAN WE BE CALM?!” a voice cried. All eyes turned to Ernie Macmillian, who was spitting mad, wearing what appeared to be pajamas. He was practically jumping as he cried, “THERE ARE BLOODY DEATH EATERS HERE!”

“Settle down now, ” Professor McGonagall said, giving Ernie a stern look and seeming to regain her full composure. She cleared her throat again, glancing around the very crowded room. “As I said, Aurors will be arriving momentarily. Everyone, lower your wands.” There was quite a bit of scoffing and grumbling until the professor gave another of those looks. Many begrudgingly lowered their wands. Some, it seemed, didn’t have their wands on them at all. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Mr. Malfoy slowly lowered his cane. Harry turned his eyes to the imposter as he lowered his own wand, though he kept it in hand. He didn’t look at his mother’s imposter.

“Thank you,” she said. Her eyes flicked around. Not at these strange imposters and Death Eaters as he would have expected, but at the younger people who had, like Harry, seemingly been brought here. There was something odd about the way she looked at them, he realized. A chill ran down his spine as he realized her eyes seemed… almost haunted. In a way. 

After a moment, she said, “I know that this is an… unusual situation for every soul in this room. But there is no danger here.” 

Harry scoffed, not bothering to turn and see the imposters’ reactions. Just then, the doors to the Great Hall burst open. Red-robed Aurors poured inside. Harry barely had any time to process the odd shock on the Aurors’ faces. Or the way they all froze in place. Like Professor McGonagall, they looked not at the obvious imposters or the Death Eaters but were instead gaping at the younger people who’d been brought there. That’s when the professor said something that made the entire room go silent as a grave.

“You see…” Harry was quite alarmed to see tears fall down Professor McGonagall’s face. “You’re all supposed to be dead.”

Chapter Text

“I’ll give you five Galleons if you make it ten feet,” Sirius said, lit cigarette in hand as he goaded his goddaughter into attempting a Wronski Feint. Not that it took much goading. No, Ivy Euphemia Potter was a thrill-seeker of the highest order. In her first year of Hogwarts, she’d gotten another little idiot to levitate her up to the top of a Quidditch goalpost. Her Head of House had punished her thoroughly – Saturday detentions the rest of the term and so many lines that Ivy was still complaining about her hand cramping when they picked her up from King’s Cross that May – but the Howler Lily sent was much more effective in preventing such behavior in the future. (More like the letter Sirius sent the next day, advising her how to avoid getting caught in the future, but Mrs. Potter certainly didn’t need to know that.) 

Not that the situation had done anything to quell her deviant behavior, given that the thirteen-year-old menace whooped and called, “Five for twenty Galleons?!”

Sirius laughed. “Your negotiating skills leave much to be desired, Viv… Oh, alright. We’ll compromise. Fifteen for ten.” He subtly cast a Softening Charm on the ground. 

Ivy whooped and her broom shot to the ground quicker than anything. Sirius kept a hand on his wand as he watched her broom drop, heart pounding. She was falling. Falling. Falling. Just as he was about to draw his wand, she yanked her broom up. He forced himself to relax. 

“DID YOU SEE THAT, UNCLE SIRI?!”

“Brava!” he called, laughing as she pumped her fist in the air. 

He looked over at Holly, who was picking some of the peonies that Great-Grandmother Hesper planted, way back when, that were still magically maintained to this day. She’d been the one to cultivate this garden, and it was the one area of this house that Sirius hadn’t touched when he moved in. “Those are very pretty, darling.”

He had no favorite godchild (and nothing short of a Cruciatus would make him admit otherwise), but Holly was just too precious. Many people referred to her as Lily’s doppelganger with James’s coloring, which felt as accurate as any other descriptor. She had Lily’s chin and mouth and nose. But dark curls formed a messy halo around her head, brown skin flushed as she ran over, showing off the flowers. “Mummy will like them, you think?” 

“Mhm, I’m sure she will,” Sirius said, leaning back in the garden chair that was a good century older than he was. He was ninety percent sure that old Wally hated this chair, given the iron-wrought lions.

Would Harry have been in Gryffindor?

The thought popped into his head so suddenly he nearly flinched. He hadn’t wanted to attend the memorial for very many reasons. The least of which was someone needed to distract Ivy and Holly, given they were now old enough to understand the concept of memorials and anniversaries. Another reason being that it has been seven years today. Blacks did not do well with the number seven, a fact which had made Lily and Remus roll their eyes to hear. James had simply nodded.

He was dragged from his thoughts as peonies were abruptly shoved in his face. Holly blinked those large hazel eyes at him. “Half are for Mummy because she’s sad today,” she said. “You can have the other half, ‘cause you’re sad, too.”

She gave him a smile that was all James, which Sirius returned, though his was a bit shaky. “You have your mother’s observational skills, Holly,” he joked. “And what about your daddy? He’s quite sad today, too. Will he get any flowers?”

“Daddy’s never sad,” Holly said, matter-of-factly. Before Sirius could respond, she pointedly shoved the flowers under his nose again. He barked out a laugh, taking them. That clumsy sweetness was another thing she’d inherited from her father, though Sirius would never say such a thing out loud, lest James hex him. 

Holly kissed his cheek with a loud, wet smack before she resumed picking flowers. Ivy kept flying. Sirius chain-smoked, determined to focus on the lovely weather. Not that day. Or on the forever-hollow spot in his chest. 

Seven years. 

He shook his head, scarcely able to believe so much, yet so little, time had passed. He was, thankfully, eased from this train of thought when the door to the garden opened. Leo poked his head out the door. If Holly was Lily’s doppelganger, then Leonis was Sirius’s mirror. Not a single feature set him and his son apart. Well, aside from those dreadful Muggle dungarees the boy was wearing, courtesy of Remus. “They’re functional and fucking adorable,” Remus had defended when Sirius threatened to burn them.

“Mother said you shouldn’t smoke anymore,” Leo said, gray eyes narrowed on the cigarette like it was a disgusting insect.

Sirius raised a brow. “Are you planning on telling her?”

Leo tilted his head, considering. After a moment, he sighed before rolling his eyes. “I suppose I’ll let you off easy this time.”

“How gracious of you,” Sirius said drily. 

The boy walked off the stoop and onto the grass, plopping down on the ground beside Sirius’s chair. He watched Ivy fly for a moment, before leaning his head against Sirius’s knee. Sirius used his free hand to run his fingers through the boy’s dark hair, fighting the urge to sigh. Leo was not an affectionate child. Sirius must be more transparent than he’d realized.

“I don’t want to go to Beauxbatons next year,” Leo said, after a moment. Sirius nearly sighed for a different reason, then. Leo had spent the night with the Rosiers. Sirius’s wife, Ophélie, and Ursula Rosier were good friends (Sirus and Evan had a very, very tense acquaintanceship) and they had a son about Leo’s age and a daughter a bit younger than that. Sirius was well aware that Urusula and Ophélie were cooking up a scheme to get Sirius to agree to a betrothal contract between the youngest Rosier and Leo. Which he, of course, would agree to when Muggles grew wings. Still, Anselm Rosier was a cheeky little bastard who Leo considered to be his very best friend, so Sirius took one for the team, so to speak, and pretended he hadn’t caught on. 

But if Sirius had known it’d start up this conversation again, he’d have never agreed for Leo to spend the night there. Not if it meant having this conversation today, of all the fucking days. Leo did not whine – he was far too self-possessed to whine – but he sniffed and said, “No one else is going to Beauxbatons. Everyone else is going to Hogwarts-”

“It is your mother’s alma mater,” Sirius said firmly but kept his hand gentle. He’d worked very, very hard to learn to control his temper, long before he’d become a father. He and James used to joke that Harry had been his practice baby- 

He sharply inhaled, a sudden shudder overtaking his form. There was something not quite right. The wards were fine, he’d feel if they weren’t. He glanced around. Holly was sitting cross-legged on the ground, making a game of pulling up the grass. Ivy was still circling overhead. Leo was leaning against him. The sky was still blue. But something in his chest seemed to stutter. His eyes scanned the area again, and he half-felt he was going mad. He was almost forty, which was about the age Black Madness had set in for old Wally-

He stilled. Oh. Oh.

He gasped. His cigarette fell to the ground.

Distantly, he was aware of Leo whirling around, dark brows furrowed in concern. “Father?”

But Sirius was too busy focusing on that rapidly filling hollow space in his chest. He’d never felt a pain so sharp, so all-consuming, so- so wonderful. Not in all his life. 

Harry. Fuck, it’s Harry. 

He hadn’t realized he’d said it aloud until Leo shouted, “Ivy! Get down here! Father’s having some sort of fit!”

Sirius blinked, that newly-refilled space aching and throbbing. Ivy had quickly landed in the grass and Holly was running over to see what the commotion was all about (that nosiness was certainly not James’s), but he scarcely noticed. He laughed breathlessly, rubbing a fist over his chest. He swallowed hard. James had to have felt it, too. Sirius suddenly grabbed his son’s shoulders, trying hard to be gentle though unsure how well he was succeeding in that endeavor. He said lowly, urgently, “I need to go.”

“What? Go where?” Leo’s eyes were wide and frightened, and Sirius forced himself to calm the fuck down, well aware he was scaring the – as Lily would say – ‘ever-loving hell’ out of his son. He probably seemed mad. Perhaps he was. Perhaps that thrum of Harry was his imagination. But questioning one’s sanity was quite the opposite of madness, Sirius decided. 

“I will be back,” Sirius said quietly, firmly. He cursed as he realized his cigarette was smoking on the grass, and he quickly stepped on it to put it out. Fuck , his hands were trembling. “I need to- Something’s not right.” On the contrary, it was very, very right but he was not about to explain the concept of necromancy to his ten-year-old. “I need to find your Uncle James-”

“Something’s wrong with Dad?!” Ivy interjected, hazel eyes wide as saucers.

“No!” he said quickly. Fucking hell. Sirius fought the urge to grit his teeth. “No. He’s fine. Everyone is fine. But I have a feeling…” He cleared his throat. Met his son’s eyes. “Leonis.”

Leo’s eyes somehow widened even further but he straightened up. “Father?”

“I need you to stay here, and take care of the wards,” Sirius said. “I want the three of you to stay in the house while I’m gone. Your mother is due back within the hour. Tell her that there’s an emergency.”

“I don’t understand-”

“I will explain later,” Sirius said firmly. He was not about to give the girls false hope if… If the Black Madness truly had set in. He Apparated without another word. 

“You’re all supposed to be dead.”

If the room had been chaotic before, it had turned into an absolute madhouse when Professor McGonagall said those words. Harry took the opportunity to get away from the imposters and the Malfoys, quickly cutting through the crowd. He’d caught sight of red hair-

“Harry!”

Harry let out an “Oof” as someone small and familiarly bushy-haired threw themselves at him like a Bludger. Hermione was clinging to him, looking both confused and relieved. While he was so fucking glad to see her, he was also concerned by the fact that she’d managed to get herself into this mess as well. 

“You’re alright?” Harry said, somewhat glad when she released him.

“It’s just so confusing,” Hermione said in a rush, hair seeming to have grown four times its size since an hour ago when they’d separated after game night. “I don’t understand how we can be at Hogwarts. How can there be so many Death Eaters in Hogwarts, when I know for a fact that Professor McGonagall adjusted the wards? And some of these people are in Azkaban but- How can Professor McGonagall have said-” Hermione gasped, looking over his shoulder. Harry scowled, not needing to turn around to know what – rather, who – she was looking at.

Her jaw was practically on the floor. “I-Is that truly-”

“Of course, it isn’t,” Harry snapped. “Fucking imposters-”

“How is that even possible?” Hermione said, eyes filled with alarm and morbid fascination. The world around them was still an absolute mess and no amount of words from Professor McGonagall seemed to be able to calm things down anymore. “It can’t have been Polyjuice, for obvious reasons. Self-transfiguration is such tricky business-”

“No offense, ‘Mione,” Harry said. “But I’m not very interested in the particulars right now.”

“Oh! They’re coming this way-”

Harry grit his teeth, grabbing Hermione’s hand and pulling her behind him. He needed to find Ron. He could’ve sworn he’d seen a multitude of redheads this way. 

There. “Oi! Ron!”

Ron ran over. Saying he looked upset was an understatement. He sent a dark glare over his shoulder. Harry was confused to see George and Percy, though he supposed it wasn’t outside of whatever pattern there was in this madness. But he was especially confused to see Mrs. Weasley fussing over them like she hadn’t seen them in ages. They’d all had dinner two nights ago. When Ron walked away from her, Mrs. Weasley looked so distressed that it made Harry’s brows raise in alarm. Mr. Weasley was quick to follow Ron, which was honestly a relief. Maybe the man knew what was going on.

Ron didn’t stop until he was beside them, Mr. Weasley right on his heels. Even then, he leaned over to hiss in Harry’s ear, “Those aren’t my parents.” Harry jerked, eyes going to Mr. Weasley.

Mr. Weasley gave Harry and Hermione one of those distantly polite smiles reserved for strangers one passed on the pavement. Harry, who had been operating under the idea that this was some sort of failed Death Eater revival, felt like he was having a stroke. There was too much going on. People were screaming and crying and everyone was pressed so closely together and Mr. Weasley didn’t seemt to know him and Professor McGonagall was still using Sonorous, which wasn’t doing a damn thing. Neither were the Aurors. They were standing around like they’d been petrified. 

It was becoming increasingly clear that not a thing would be accomplished until everyone calmed down. So he steeled himself, grit his teeth, and turned on his heel. His friends followed him without hesitation. Distantly, he was aware of Mr. Weasley following them. As did the imposters. A small, small voice wondered: What if-

He forced it down, just kept pushing past people until he made his way to the front of the room, at the High Table. “Professor,” he greeted. There was the smallest flinch and that sinking feeling seemed to grow. The way she was looking at him… Like Mr. Weasley did. Like she barely knew him. 

“You’re all supposed to be dead.”

A chill ran down Harry’s spine, which he promptly ignored. Instead, he opted to face the chaos. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he bellowed, “SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

It took a few moments for the hubbub to die down, silence rippling across the crowd like a wave. When it did, there were the expected, discomforting looks of awe. Someone muttered, “Harry Potter… Bloody hell.” Though, there were very many people who stared at him blankly and without recognition. 

Then he heard a familiar Irish lilt: “Potter, you bastard! What’d you get into this time?!”

“Your mother’s bed,” Harry shot back automatically. 

Silence. Then, there was a disbelieving snort from Ron and startled laughter from the crowd. He heard Seamus’s laughter among the chuckles and the scandalized tittering, though it sounded a touch hysterical. His eyes scanned the crowd, but he didn’t see Dean or Seamus at first glance. He did see Angelina, Lee Jordan- Was that Oliver Wood? (He saw the imposters staring at him, but he refused to allow his eyes to pause on their figures.) He even spotted Justin Finch-Fletchley, who had left the continent during the war. Or so the rumors said. He also spotted Neville, standing with- 

Harry felt his blood run cold. Frank and Alice Longbottom. Clear-eyed and alert, they stood beside an uncomfortable-looking Neville, looking at him with so much longing it felt invasive to witness. They looked healthy, like they hadn’t spent seventeen years locked within their own minds at St. Mungo’s.

Nope. He shuddered before looking away. He wasn’t going to touch that with a ten-foot pole.

“Right,” he said loudly. “So, I’m sure everyone has noticed that something’s a bit off, eh?” Distantly, he was aware of Hermione putting her head in her hands. Ron was silently laughing. “But really, there’s no need to… Do whatever this is. The sooner we cooperate with the Aurors, the sooner we’ll get to go home. So… Stay calm.” 

When he only received blank looks and a deafening silence, he sighed. He pointedly looked at the, frankly, useless Aurors who were hanging around the entrance to the Great Hall. One of them, presumably the leader, seemed to snap out of whatever spell he’d been under and the Aurors began cutting through the crowd. Harry stepped away from the High Table and toward Ron and Hermione. 

Professor McGonagall cleared her throat. “Thank you, young man.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hermione and Ron exchange a loaded look, neither of them missing the way their Head of House just referred to Harry like he was a stranger. “Head Auror Fawcett, I’m sure, will be informing everyone of the next steps.”

“Indeed,” the lead Auror boomed – presumably Head Auror Fawcett – as he briskly approached the High Table, red robes billowing behind him. The fair-haired wizard moved to stand beside Professor McGonagall, his expression no longer slack, but still a bit shaken. “First, if all of the…” The man faltered, seeming to struggle for a moment before settling on, “…newcomers could please take a seat? Aurors will be coming around to take statements from each of you to better assess the- the current situation. As well as, erm, confirm your identities-”

“I don’t think very many of us need confirmation,” one person called.

Seeming to slowly be pulling himself together, Fawcett said, “Be that as it may, we wish to be thorough, Mr. Bones. Once statements are taken and identities confirmed, we’ll discuss the next steps.”

“Mr. Bones,” Ron echoed quietly. Harry turned his head. His best friend’s brows were deeply furrowed. “I thought there weren’t any more Boneses, besides Susan and her aunt.”

“The professor said we’re supposed to be dead,” Hermione said, just as lowly. “But, well, the Boneses, Nev’s parents, and… Have you noticed yet, Ron?”

“Noticed what?”

Harry simply tilted his chin toward the… Well, Harry could no longer ignore the implications that were staring him right in the face. A small voice tentatively said, Those could really be them. Your parents. Despite his unease, Harry didn’t shove that thought away this time.

“You’re all supposed to be dead.”

Harry exhaled slowly. 

Ron simply said, “Fuck.”

Chapter Text

Like many others, Benedict Fawcett joined the Auror department during the war. It was 1975. The war had not quite been at its peak, nor would it be for a long while. But Benedict had been thirty and managing his Head of House, his great-aunt’s, finances, which was about as thrilling as watching flubberworms procreate. Very many people were dying at the time, and even more were disappearing. The House of Fawcett was slowly thinning out. Benedict impulsively joined the Auror training program in an attempt to feel less useless. 

While many quickly burned out – and many more had been unable to complete the long training process to begin with – Benedict had stayed. He’d always had an eye for detail and a good work ethic so he’d risen through the ranks steadily over the past twenty years. He’d been good at training recruits, to the point that the turnover rate of his trainees was nearly negligible. After the war ended, old Moody retired. He recommended Benedict take his place. 

Benedict enjoyed his job as much as anyone, he supposed. Meaning, he did his job and then went home. He hated bureaucracy and politics and incompetence. Unfortunately, being Head Auror meant that his day was rife with all of the above. Truthfully, he’d enjoyed being an Auror much more than managing the department, but he felt he was better at said management than anyone else who had been suggested for promotion. While he had much more paperwork than he’d had before, and his days seemed to be one long, continuous headache, he was well aware that running up and down Knockturn Alley was a young man’s game.

So yes, he did not quite mind his job. In between the investigations of illegal potion rings and cannibalistic covens and sacrificial rituals, there were very many slow days. But hell would freeze over before Benedict complained about slow days. Complaining aloud about slow days was a surefire way to manifest chaos. 

Which is why Benedict was fighting the urge to glare at Auror Ritley. Or wring the kid’s neck. He was tempted by either option.

“Quite boring today, innit?” Ritley had said. Now, three hours later, half of the department was at Hogwarts, interviewing over three hundred resurrected children.

Well, they weren’t quite children anymore, were they?

Benedict was not so arrogant to believe that he had seen it all, nor was he so arrogant to believe that he knew everything about dark or light magic. Quite the opposite, in fact. He learned something new every year. He did not like the word ‘impossible’ and tried to limit its usage within his vernacular. 

But this? This was impossible.

The art of necromancy, despite being as dark as magic could be, was quite simplistic in its principles. First, the dead can never truly come back, not fully, not completely or exactly as it once was. Second, the longer a thing has been dead, the more degraded. The more degraded, the less likely it would come back in any way, physically or otherwise. Third – and most importantly, given the current situation Benedict found himself in – to resurrect a being was not to give it life, but to pull it from death. It would not be alive. It would not grow or change beyond when it had first died. 

There were some nuances to these principles, certainly, depending on the thing resurrected, the length of time said thing had been dead, and the caster’s own power. But the third principle allowed for no exceptions. 

There were currently around three hundred exceptions sitting in the Great Hall at Hogwarts… Despite never dis liking his job, Benedict was seriously considering tendering his resignation.

“What’s your name, for the record?” Benedict asked his first interviewee, quick-quill and parchment on the table in front of him. Every Auror was needed to get through these interviews as efficiently as possible. He was not so arrogant as to think that Head Aurors should be exceptions.

“Pansy,” the young woman said. She should not have been a young woman. According to the detailed list of casualties from the Hogwarts Express Massacre of 1991 (and the banners that had been displayed above their heads until Headmistress McGonagall transfigured them into dust particles), she should have been an eleven-year-old child who hadn’t even Sorted yet. “Pansy Parkinson.” Her surname was spoken in the same way that all Noble House scions gave their names, each and every syllable stressed and emphasized.

“I require no confirmation,” Mr. Edric Parkinson said impassively, trying for all the world to appear as though he did not hold his breath every time his deceased daughter spoke.

“I still don’t understand what’s going on,” Miss Parkinson said to her father. “We were just in your study.” Despite the man’s expressionlessness, Benedict could see a phantom wince around his eyes.  

“We’re trying to understand the situation ourselves,” Benedict said, before getting back on track. “Your age?”

“Eighteen,” she said, with no hesitation. Benedict pressed his lips together but otherwise did not indicate that the answer made no sense. Even if the rules of necromancy – of magic itself – had been broken and these children continued growing and changing, their minds should be in a state of arrested development. There should be a seven-year gap. 

But there was not. A cold feeling crept up the back of his neck. This was the work of necromancy, regardless of how exceptional. 

But.

Shaking himself from his thoughts, he kept his tone level as he asked, “Could you tell me about your day leading up to… this situation?” 

She rolled her eyes, seemingly tired of the questions, even though they’d barely started. “I’ve been with Blaise and Daphne – that’s Blaise Zabini and Daphne Greengrass – most of the day. We’re going to Rome next month, and we were shopping for new robes for the trip…” She continued on, the quick-quill transcribing every word. But Benedict was not paying very much attention to the details of her shopping spree. Instead, he let his attention move to Mr. Parkinson, whose brow was raised. It seemed that, seven years ago, Mr. Parkinson had not been allowing his then eleven-year-old daughter to travel to Italy. So then, what exactly was Miss Parkinson recounting?

And so, the pattern began.

“I’m starting up an apprenticeship in September,” said Penelope Clearwater. She was nineteen, despite having died at twelve, which was too young for any sort of apprenticeship. Her mother sat beside her, holding her hand and seemingly unable to look away. Every so often, Miss Clearwater would glance at her mother, brows furrowed in confusion. “With Madam Malkin. Thankfully, she was able to rebuild rather quickly-”

“Rebuild?” Benedict echoed.

Miss Clearwater gave him an odd look. With each of his interviewees, he was looking for some sign of the usual resurrected undead. Uncharacteristic apathy, intense madness, lack of speech, lack of movement, reduced logic or reasoning skills… But they all seemed like any other person, which Benedict found to be alarming in its strangeness. Occlumency shields did wonders in allowing him to detach himself from his unease. She shifted uncomfortably. “Mhm. You know…” 

Benedict didn’t blink, simply tilting his chin toward the quick-quill. “For the record.”

After another moment of that odd look, she said, “After the Death Eaters made a right mess of Diagon Alley. I think they went after her in particular, since she’s never minded hiring Muggle-borns.”

Benedict’s eyes narrowed. He remembered when Diagon Alley had been (temporarily) closed. 1987. The Riot. He’d been one of the first on the ground then. Muggle-borns and so-deemed blood traitors had been protesting in front of Gringotts when Alliance members arrived. By the time the Auror department learned what was going on, there were twenty-six protestors dead. Eighteen Alliance members. (That was the only way they’d ever found the identities of those terrorists back in those days. Removing those wretched, modified glamours; blood-red, shapeless blurs melting away to reveal the person beneath.) There hadn’t been much collateral damage to the buildings then, though. A few busted windows, a little damage to the pavement surrounding the bank. And so much blood that Benedict could still smell it, a little over a decade later.

After a moment of sorting his own unpleasant thoughts and inconvenient memories behind his Occlumency shields, he simply nodded. The best method for preventing madness from starting up again – aside from the calming charms that the Aurors and Headmistress McGonagall had been subtly casting around the room – was to behave as though they understood what the resurrected children were speaking of. Benedict had no idea what a ‘Death Eater’ was, but enough of the interviewees had mentioned it that a picture began forming in his head. All of them spat the words with a venom usually reserved for Alliance members. He felt that he was starting to understand some things (though he needed more confirmation) but the greater picture was slipping from his hands like water. There was no nearly enough substance to form a coherent conclusion yet. Not at all. But given certain consistencies, well… Resigning was becoming more and more appealing with every moment.

(Part of him kept hoping it was truly necromancy. That would be a far less messy theory.)

“-swear it’s like a Death Eater reunion in here-”

“Death Eater?” Benedict asked his next interviewee.

His next interviewee was eighteen – should have been eleven – year old Seamus Finnegan. His parents – a half-blood witch and a Muggle – were not among the attendees. Though, according to McGonagall, they had attended the first three memorials. (Benedict did not begrudge them for it; he could not imagine how painful it must be to attend such a thing every year, and he hoped he never would.) They, like many families, were currently being notified of the situation by a good chunk of the Aurors that weren’t at Hogwarts. And there were another select few that had been given a very specific and unpleasant assignment. Benedict had never been the type to assign a job he was unwilling to do himself, but that sort of business was something he didn’t have the stomach for.

“Been under a rock, have you?” Finnegan asked. 

“Assume I have been,” Benedict replied drily. “For the record.”

Finnegan snorted but said, “They were You-Know- V-Voldemort’s followers, weren’t they? Don’t need to make record of that, do you? Seems like a waste of parchment.”

After a moment of contemplating the best way to ask without truly asking, Benedict lightly asked, “And you… Have personal experience with Death Eaters?”

A series of complicated emotions played across the boy’s face in a way that only the youth could afford to reveal. Well, the youth and those unattached to Noble Houses. The primary emotion the boy seemed to settle on was pride, though his eyes were a bit too haunted for comfort. “Sure do. I mean, everyone does. But I fought in the Battle of Hogwarts.” The overabundance of calming charms seemed to shudder over his form as his dark eyes trailed across the room. “Was right here for most of it. Everyone’s runnin’ ‘round, dyin’ left and right, and I was here, in this room.” A chill ran down Benedict’s spine. He reflexively strengthened his mental shields. ‘Til the end, when Harry got the bastard.”

Once Benedict was quite sure his mental shields had sufficiently processed the idea of a battle at Hogwarts and children fighting in said battle, he lightly echoed, “Harry?”

“Harry Potter,” Finnegan said, looking at him like it was an obvious conclusion to have drawn. Benedict moved on, though he made a note of the name. As it turned out, he didn’t need to make a mental note. It seemed all of the resurrected not-children were determined to make sure he remembered it.

“Was a bit surprised to see him,” Alicia Spinnet said. The twenty-one-year-old should have been fourteen. She was the daughter of two half-bloods, both of whom were drained of all color and seemed determined to avoid looking at her. “Shouldn’t have been, though.”

“Oh?” Benedict said. “And why’s that?”

“It’s Harry Potter, ” she said, as though no other explanation was needed.

In the next interview, a frazzled Muggle-born named Roger Davies claimed, “He fought off a dragon. He whizzed right over my head and it went zooming like a rocket. It was the coolest thing I’d ever seen.”

An eerily enthusiastic Oliver Wood said, “Caught the Snitch by nearly choking on the thing! That’s pure dedication right there. Been meaning to write the kid. Puddlemere United’s looking for a Seeker.”

“Hagrid carried him into the courtyard,” Neville Longbottom said quietly. He was newly eighteen, yet should be newly eleven. His parents, Frank and Alice Longbottom, sat on either side of him. Mrs. Longbottom had her hand on his shoulder, stars in her eyes as she stared at her son. Mr. Longbottom was pale, clearly not wanting to look at the boy. Yet his gaze kept straying toward him, like he’d been compelled by some strange blood magic that only affected his eyes. “I- We all thought he was dead. But then, he just…” the boy trailed off.

“That must have been frightening,” Benedict said.

Before he could ask more questions, Neville said, “I don’t think it’s hit anyone yet. What’s going on. I’m not sure why I’m not… I don’t think I’m reacting how I’m supposed to.”

That would be the calming charms, hard at work. “It’s an unusual situation,” Benedict said, just as Mrs. Longbottom said, “You’re doing so well, Nev. I’m sure we’ll go home soon.”

Rather than taking comfort in his mother’s words, Neville seemed to shift uncomfortably at the very sound of her voice. He said, “No one’s fully realized it yet. It’s like they’ve completely glazed over what Professor McGonagall said.”

You’re all supposed to be dead.

Neville continued, “But I know we’re not where we’re supposed to be.”

Mr. Longbottom seemed to do a full-body shudder. Benedict pursed his lips, contemplating how to respond, when Mrs. Longbottom earnestly interjected, “You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be, darling.”

Neville did not look at her. The resemblance to his father struck Benedict in that moment, how both father and son seemed to be staring at a random, distant point with haunted eyes. But where Mr. Longbottom’s gaze would flicker back to Neville’s, the boy’s remained firmly fixed on anything but his parents. “I’m not supposed to be here. None of us are.” He glanced at Benedict. “Are we?”

Occlumency shields raised high, Benedict replied, “We’re still gathering information.”

Neville’s jaw ticked. He carefully said, “I never knew my parents.” Mr. and Mrs. Longbottom’s eyes snapped to him. “They weren’t dead but they were very… ill. I was raised by my Gran. Susan Bones is an orphan. So’s Harry. Quite a few more, I expect. I know what Professor McGonagall said but… We’re not the ones who’re supposed to be dead.”

Benedict felt his Occlumency shields rattle, unease curling in his stomach. He allowed himself to run a down his face before his shields were promptly slammed back up again. Mr. and Mrs. Longbottom looked stricken, but Benedict did not look at them. Instead, he looked at Neville and repeated, “We’re still gathering information.”

Before Neville could reply – if he had been planning to – one of his Aurors was (thankfully) waving him over. Benedict excused himself, the hushed whispers of the Longbottoms behind him. 

“Well?” Benedict asked, once he’d approached Auror. Auror Prewett was one of the few he’d assigned an unpleasant, but necessary, task. Prewett was one of the few who’d been personally unaffect by the Massacre in 1991. He was also one of the few that Benedict was sure had the stomach for the task. “Were the graves…”

“Most of the coffins were empty,” Prewett confirmed lowly. Though the younger man wasn’t squeamish, he looked uncharacteristically pale. The man had once described the aftermath of a canibalisitic coven’s renewal ritual as being: “Quite gross, innit?” Benedict supposed that double-checking children’s graves to make sure the bodies were still there was more of a psychological hill for even the most composed of men. “Didn’t see any fresh runework though.”

Benedict nodded, mentally scratching that explanation off his list. Though it left his theory of this event being the result of anything but necromancy a bit shaky. He’d briefly considered– But, well, that particular hypothesis was out the window. The bodies were no longer in their graves, were instead in this room.

That was, until he fully processed one of Prewett’s words. “Most?”

Prewett grimaced. “Not all of the ch-children on the list, um, resurrected.”

Benedict was quite glad he had his Occlumency shields locked tightly. So tightly that he did not pause to contemplate how he would feel if some odd three-hundred children were returned, however unnaturally, and his own was not. He chose to think of such things later. “I’ll need a list of those who were still… present, for lack of a better word.” 

Prewett grimaced but nodded. “Also, the Unspeakables finally showed up. Well, three of them did. Dropped off a note for you, then left right after.” Prewett reached into his pocket and presented Benedict with a tightly folded piece of parchment.

Benedict did not roll his eyes, though he wanted to, even in his Occluded state. He hated the Unspeakables. Truly, he hated the entire Department of Mysteries. Their very existence was designed to cause the entire law enforcement sector migraines. Benedict had lost count of how many times the Unspeakables had swept in and taken over a case. And because the Department of Mysteries required secrecy, they had leeway and priority over just about any other department in the Ministry. The worst part was that they rarely gave any sort of explanation, which made part of his brain – the part that sought out answers for everything – violently itch. 

He took the note and unfolded it, scowling at the familiar, compact scrawl of Unspeakable 334, the usual liaison between the DMLE and the Department of Mysteries. He read the note. He squinted before he read it again. Then again. 

‘CLASS 6B Emergent – Veil compromised.’

“Buggering hell.”

Prewett’s eyes widened. “Sir?”

Benedict, feeling the edge of a headache beginning to form, raised his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. He’d know this wasn’t a standard necromatic ritual, given every sign that pointed otherwise. But… this? It made no sense yet…

“We’re not the ones who’re supposed to be dead.”

He sighed. Yes, early retirement sounded nice.

Chapter Text

Harry had never been so tense in his life as he was during those next couple of hours. Given all that had happened during the war – during the years since he started Hogwarts – that was certainly saying something.

It wasn’t because of the interview itself. Truthfully, his had been quite bland and superficial and, thankfully, over fairly quickly. He’d been one of the first, and Auror Ritley seemed a bit too shell-shocked to go too in-depth. No, the interview didn’t make him tense. It was them . 

It was the ghost of James Potter looming behind Harry. It was Lily Potter, sitting in the chair right beside his. Harry had caught himself fidgeting under her unblinking scrutiny several times now, grimacing whenever their eyes met. He couldn’t quite see them as imposters anymore. He wasn’t sure why, aside from the same gut instinct that propelled every decision he made. But the thought of properly looking at them made him grit his teeth. 

Not even Hermione was able to fully distract him from the oppressive presence of his dead parents. Though she was certainly trying. Once her own interview had concluded, she’d made a beeline to Harry, sitting in the chair to his left and seeming determined to pretend it was just the two of them. But his head was underwater, and her words were swimming right past him.

“-possibly some sort of mass delusion?”

“Hm.” At a fierce elbow to the ribs, he huffed out a laugh. He lowly said, “Sorry, ‘Mione. I’m having trouble focusing.” The Great Hall, which had once been a vision of chaos, was now all hushed whispers and low voices. Harry followed suit– not that he’d have said much around strangers anyway. He didn’t like that his- that they seemed to be hanging onto every word he said. Their silence made them even more unnerving.

Hermione rolled her eyes, but said, “I have a theory about that, too. Calming charms. It’s quite obvious, really. We’re not reacting as we normally would.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “Calming charms?” He didn’t like the sound of that at all. He looked around, feeling stupid he hadn’t noticed before. Without some sort of magic, people would’ve already bolted, regardless of DMLE presence. If anything, Aurors would’ve sped up the process. Nobody really trusted the Ministry anymore, Harry included. The war left just about everyone twitchy, whether they directly fought or not. 

Even Ron was there, just out of the corner of his eye, calm as anything while sitting with the other Weasleys, despite his earlier words.

“Those aren’t my parents.”

“Yes. And, well, there’s something else.” Hermione hesitated, biting her lip nervously as her eyes flicked up to his forehead and back again. “Your, um… your scar-”

Before she could continue, there was a Sonorous-ed call of, “Attention, please.”

Every eye turned toward the High Table. Harry didn’t have to turn his head too far, given this table’s close proximity.

Head Auror Fawcett cleared his throat. Professor McGonagall, who was standing beside him, seemed to have completely recovered from the earlier chaos, though her expression seemed too carefully blank.

“First of all, we would like to thank you all for your cooperation during this situation,” Fawcett said. “With that being said…” There was the briefest moment of hesitation before the Auror continued. “We are currently still investigating how this situation occurred. However, there are certain facts that we are quite sure of.” 

His eyes flicked around the Great Hall. Despite the supposed use of calming charms, Harry couldn’t help but tense up at the way all the Aurors seemed to be watching and waiting. They were on guard for something. Whatever Fawcett was about to say, they weren’t expecting a good reaction. 

Fawcett cleared his throat before saying, “We can confirm that these new arrivals are, in fact, who they appear to be. There’s no question of their identities.” Harry’s eyes flicked to his parents. He met the eyes of James Potter and immediately looked away again. “However…” There was that hesitation again. “From what we have been able to ascertain, these new arrivals are not Inferni, nor are they traditional vessels of necromancy. It seems that these new arrivals have memories of a fabricated reality.”

To his left, Lily Potter sucked in a harsh breath. An outburst of whispers overtook the Great Hall. Harry glanced at Hermione. He leaned over to lowly say, “Fabricated reality? What does that mean?” But Hermione quickly shushed him, her brows furrowed as she listened to the Head Auror. Harry begrudgingly turned his attention back to the High Table. 

“These false memories were all-encompassing and highly convincing,” Fawcett said. “We do not know how they were implanted-”

“Are you saying my daughter never died at all?” one witch called, her voice breaking halfway through. Something in Harry’s chest stuttered. “You’re all supposed to be dead,” Professor McGonagall had said. False memories, fabricated reality-

New arrivals, Fawcett had called them. And Harry had realized, at the time, that he’d been using the phrase to refer to Harry and the others who seemingly Apparated into Hogwarts. But something, perhaps the damned calming charms, prevented him from putting it all together. Until now.

Someone else shouted, “My babies have been alive all this time?! Seven years of-”

Fawcett’s eyes flicked to the left. He swallowed hard before his eyes moved forward once more, his expression never once losing its careful professionalism. Harry squinted. Fawcett was lying. He felt it in his gut, in the marrow of his bones, that Fawcett was lying. (He had to be lying.)

“We do not have all the answers,” Fawcett said carefully (far too carefully). “But that is our prevailing theory. These implanted memories are incredibly detailed, completely rewriting the history of Wizarding Britain and of the war that ended in 1991.” Harry stilled. “We ask that-”

“BULLSHIT!” someone roared. 

It took Harry a moment to realize it had been himself. 

Well, in for a knut, out for a galleon. 

He jumped to his feet, calming charms rolling off of him like rushing water as he stared hard at Fawcett. “You’re lying! False memories?! That’s what you’re going with?! That’s the best you can fucking do?!” 

Hermione grabbed his hand and tried to coax him to sit back down, but he shook her off. “The war ended in 1991?! Are you kidding me?! We all bled in that war! We buried people! We fought Voldemort. ” He scowled at the harsh intakes of breath from the other so-called ‘new arrivals.’ People were still scared of the name, months after watching him die. “We fought him and won! Right here, in this castle! And you want to pretend we’ve been living in some FABRICATED REALITY?!”

Fawcett had an unreadable expression on his face as he simply said, “I know that this is a difficult situation.” 

“DIFFICULT SITUATION?!” Harry roared.

Suddenly, there were firm hands on his shoulders. Harry jerked, going for his wand until he heard a low voice. “You need to calm down, Harry.” 

He stilled. James Potter was murmuring in his ear. His father’s hands were solid and warm– not an apparition but a tangible thing. A real thing. Harry trusted his senses more than he trusted most anything else. But how could it possibly be real? It made Harry’s stomach turn as much as it made that odd warmth buzz in his chest again. He shuddered. If James Potter felt it, too, he didn’t give any indication. 

“I know this is confusing and I understand that you’re angry,” he continued. “But you need to keep your head, or we’re going to have another mess like earlier.” 

Harry’s eyes flicked around the Great Hall. People were looking at him with wide eyes, but they were still in their seats, the calming charms not allowing for any significant alarm. 

“You’re all liars,” Harry hissed lowly. “My parents are dead.”

The hands tightened. Harry steeled himself and glanced over his shoulder, green eyes meeting hazel. James Potter’s jaw ticked, but his expression was otherwise blank. After the longest moment of Harry’s life, he murmured, “As was my son. But making a scene won’t get us any answers.”

“Neither will being quiet,” Harry retorted. 

Oddly enough, the man huffed out a laugh. 

There was a touch on his hand and he jerked, glancing at Hermione to see her once again attempting to get him to sit. Reluctantly, he allowed her to tug him into his chair, and James’s hands left his shoulders.

Fawcett had kept talking while Harry was locked in his stand-off with James. “-full cooperation with this matter. And that is why we ask that all new arrivals remain here at Hogwarts for the time being-”

That time, the outbursts didn’t come from Harry.

“Absolutely not!”

“I will not be kept from my daughter a moment longer!”

Harry’s eyes widened when Lily rose to her feet, silent. Steady. Her voice cut through all other protests as she said, “You listen to me, Benedict Fawcett. My son will not be poked and prodded by your lot. And he will not be answering any more of you people’s questions without our solicitor.” 

Despite how strange it was to hear her speak, how blood-curdling he found their presence to be, his innate, self-sabotaging curiosity wondered: Is this what it would have been like?  

His thoughts did not move to the war, as it often did. No, he imagined being a too-skinny fourth-year, a piece of paper spitting out of the Goblet of Fire and his name reverberating across this very room. If the real Lily Potter had been alive – if she had been witness to it all – would she have used that same stern tone with Dumbledore? 

Lily Potter stared down the Head Auror and firmly said, “My son will not be staying here. My son is coming home.”

Hogwarts students tended to forget that their beloved Hogsmeade, no matter how charming and wondrous (particularly during Yuletide), was simply a village. And, like all villages, gossip spread like a wildfire. A single match, a quiet whisper in a pub, and suddenly, the entire village knew absolutely everything. 

“She suddenly screamed. Half an hour ago, I reckon. Clutched her chest and started crying. Thought the old girl was having a heart attack until she fell into a fit. Shouted that her Heir returned, then Disapparated.”

“Her Heir?”

“Mhm, her granddaughter. Eliza died in the Massacre, bless her. Neera had two sons, but only one of them had a child before they both died in the war. They didn’t have an ounce of family magic– the Selwyns are a maternal line, y’know. So Eliza was the Heir. After Eliza… Well, she was a victim in the Massacre. Poor Neera’s the last of her line, and it’ll die with her. She always comes by for some firewhisky this time of year – her carer won’t let her keep the stuff in the house, she says – but she’s usually in her house in Glasgow.”

Clucked tongues, always clucked tongues and pitying frowns even as heads leaned in closer. 

Villages thrive off of gossip. It is their fuel, their food, their breath of life. 

“Can’t blame her for that, I s’pose… So she’s finally gone round the bend, then? Always thought it would happen.”

“Mhm, mhm. I wish she’d go to the memorial just the once. Might give her some closure.”

“Oh, is that today?” 

Of course, everyone knew the memorial was today. Hogsmeade, despite having few residents, was quite busy, given it was one of the only purely magical villages in Britain. And year after year, since 1991, the first half of this day would be a strange, hushed silence and closed storefronts and empty streets. And then, after the memorial, there would be a small flux of traffic as grieving parents filled up The Three Broomsticks.

“Yes, dear. Real shame, it is. I always get a rush after the memorial. Old Minnie will come ‘round for a pint every year, y’know, and she’d quit drinking ages ago. But it’s been dead silence from that direction today. Something going on, innit?”

“Good Lord, Miss Rosmerta, don’t say that. Reminds me of the old days. Fuck, best knock on wood.” Three sharp knocks on the solid wooden bar and rolled eyes as a reply. A hesitant beat before a quiet question. “Don’t s’pose somethin’ really did happen, then?”

A quiet sigh, shoes against the centuries-old floorboards as Rosmerta wrung out a cloth. She wiped down the bar simply to give her hands something to do. “It’s a bad year, dear,” she said to Natalie, the youngest barwench at The Three Broomsticks. Well, second-youngest as of a few months ago.

Natalie leaned forward, elbows on the bartop. “Why’s that?”

“Well, it’s the rule of sevens, I s’pose,” Rosmerta said.

Natalie simply hummed in understanding, but Rosmerta explained, “Seven years since the thing. They say time heals wounds, which is true enough. But seventh anniversaries are something else. ‘Specially for that crowd.”

It was the youngest employee, Anne, that asked, “That crowd?”

Rosmerta gave Anne a significant look. “Y’know, that crowd. Only the ‘best and brightest’ wind up at Hogwarts, dear. People with good names, good connections-”

Natalie interrupted with an eye-roll. “This ‘bout the Sacred however-many and that lot?”

“Mhm, right superstitious folk, they are,” Rosmerta said, dipping the cloth into the soapy bucket on the floor before wringing it out again. “Sevens are strange for Houses. ‘Specially the darker ones, y’know.” She sent a glance to Natalie. “Now, be a dear and go grab some salt from Barty’s.”

Natalie simply tittered before heading out the back door. Anne silently slid into a barstool. At seventeen, she’d just finished her NEWTs in May only to be somewhat stuck, in regard to her career. Living and working in the Muggle world was doable, but so unappealing she disregarded it. 

Living in the Wizarding World felt like coming home, but choosing to grow gills and live her life in the North Sea would be a less insurmountable task. Not only was she a Muggle-born, but she’d been homeschooled, which was a somewhat generous term for her education. Her parents couldn’t afford any of the recommended tutors, so she’d joined a Ministry-sanctioned homeschool group where a good chunk of half-blood and Muggle-borns in England congregated. It had been a magically extended room in an abandoned warehouse, kids aged eleven to seventeen packed like sardines in groups around the room. 

Yes, they’d taught her how to levitate books and light up the end of her wand, but she knew nothing of how this world worked until she’d bit the bullet and moved to Hogsmeade. 

Working at The Three Broomsticks these past few months was an interesting cultural lesson for Anne. And customers were interesting – albeit rude – teachers. But Rosmerta was the most interesting teacher of them all. She seemed to know everything about everything.

So, that is why Anne listened intently when her boss said, “Dark magic is drawn to sevens, light magic to threes, dear. The third memorial was just as odd, make no mistake.”

Before Anne could ask for specifics, the door to the pub opened. The most handsome man Anne had ever seen popped his head in the door. He had long dark hair and a face that Anne’s mum would describe as ‘aristocratic’ and eyes the color of rain clouds. Noticing Anne’s wide eyes, he sent her a wink and she felt her cheeks go red.

“Sirius Black, as I live and breathe,” Rosmerta said, pausing her cleaning. “Been a while.”

“I saw you just last week, Rosie,” Mr. Black said, grinning as he fully stepped inside the pub. 

Rosmerta laughed. “And isn’t that a record for you, love?” Anne fought the urge to scrunch up her nose because she really didn’t want to watch old people flirting. “What can I do you for? I’d have thought you’d be at the memorial today.”

Mr. Black gave her a wry smile. It was then that Anne noticed his smiles rarely seemed to meet his eyes. “Not today, Rosie. I was just wondering if the Potters had been by yet.”

Rosmerta clucked her tongue. “Sorry, dear, haven’t seen them. Haven’t seen much of anyone today, to be honest.”

Mr. Black’s thick brows furrowed. “Truly? I know James and Lily usually only stick around for the reading of the names, but the memorial should be over by now.”

“Usually is,” Rosmerta agreed. 

Mr. Black hummed, almost absently rubbing his chest. “Have you noticed anything odd today?”

Rosmerta drily said, “Besides Neera Selwyn giving me heart palpitations? Not really.”

Mr. Black snorted. “Didn’t realize old Lady Selwyn was still kicking.”

Rosmerta wagged a finger, seeming like she was trying to hide a smile when she said, “I know you do! Doesn’t she still have her Wizengamot seat?”

“She’s given it to the Gaunts,” Mr. Black said, moving to lean against the bar. He waved a dismissive hand. “Can’t particularly blame her. She’d be a hundred and fifty now, wouldn’t she?”

Rosmerta shook her head. “She’s quite insistent she’s ‘only’ a hundred and thirty-one.”

Anne, not quite sure whether they were joking or not, decided not to ask.

Mr. Black snorted. “If she’s truly a hundred and thirty,” he said drily, “I’ll snog old Minnie next time I see her.”

“Sounds like you’re trying to get me worked up,” Rosmerta purred. Anne grimaced before she could stop herself, and Rosmerta started snickering. 

Mr. Black barked out a laugh. Once again, it didn’t seem to reach his eyes. “Glad to see you’re still influencing the youth,” Mr. Black said lightly. Then, he asked, “So you truly haven’t noticed anything odd? Besides old girl Neera being let out the house, I mean?”

Rosmerta shook her head. “Not that I’ve noticed, Sirius.”

After a long moment of a strangely loaded silence, he asked, “Are you a scion of any particular House, Rosie?”

“The Prewetts, once upon a time,” Rosmerta said shortly. Anne’s brows raised. Prewett. One of those sacred surnames that Anne had heard patrons whisper about. Spoken with reverence at the sunlit tables by the front windows, reviled in the dark corners at the back of the pub. Either way, she wouldn’t have associated the name with Rosmerta at all. 

Rosmerta continued, “Mum was a sixth daughter of a fourth son, or some such. Dad was a Muggle. Mum married him anyway. She wasn’t disowned for it ‘til ‘74.” She gave a small shrug. “The war, y’know. Changed the way the Prewetts thought of blood.”

Mr. Black slowly nodded. He opened his mouth to reply before the door opened again. A middle-aged man stepped into the pub. Skin ashen. Eyes red-rimmed and glassy. He moved like someone who didn’t know he was walking at all, like a zombie from one of the films Anne left behind in the Muggle world. He looked around in a sort of distressed bewilderment. It wouldn’t be the first time someone showed up at The Three Broomsticks already drunk, but Rosmerta liked to be the one to handle such things. She was the type that just about everyone deferred to, from Lords to Aurors. Sure enough, she sent the man a pleasant smile. “Hullo, Mr. Macmillan-”

But Mr. Macmillan lunged forward to Mr. Black, gripping the younger man’s shoulders. Anne’s eyes widened in alarm. Surprisingly, Mr. Black allowed himself to be grabbed, though his wand had appeared in his hand, seemingly out of nowhere. “Lord Black,” Mr. Macmillian croaked, gripping Mr. Black’s robes with a white-knuckled grip.

“It’s Mister, when the Wizengamot isn’t in session,” Mr. Black said, a bit too lightly in Anne’s opinion. 

Mr. Macmillan’s tone was urgent when he said, “I feel him. My Ernie. I-I-”

Mr. Black’s hands twitched. Rosmerta clucked her tongue and murmured, “Bless him.”

But Anne’s brows reached her hairline when Mr. Black said, “You feel him?” Oddly, his tone matched in urgency with Mr. Macmillian. Anne glanced at Rosmerta, whose expression was slowly becoming worried as her eyes flicked between the two men. “You have the connection again?”

Mr. Macmillan furiously nodded. “I do. I feel him.” His hand pressed against his own chest as he hissed, “He’s back, I feel him here.”

Suddenly, Mr. Black barked out a noise that was half-sob, half-laughter. Anne had never heard the like before and doubted she ever would again. She flinched at the volume of it and turned her alarmed eyes to Rosmerta, who had gone a bit pale. Mr. Black started laughing, a maniacal sound that echoed around the pub floor. “Sirius-”

“I thought I was going mad,” Mr. Black laughed. He shook Mr. Macmillian’s shoulders. “I feel mine, too. My godson-” His laughter cut off his words. 

Mr. Macmillan began laughing, too, all while tears ran down his cheeks. Anne had seen very many strange things since working at The Three Broomsticks, given that wizards were a strange sort. But she’d never felt so unnerved by the sound of joy before.

Mr. Black seemed to gulp for air before saying, “I need to find- I checked their house-”

Rosmerta cut in, pulling out two glasses. “Perhaps you two need some water-”

“I thought I was mad,” Mr. Black repeated. He shook Mr. Macmillian again who, judging by the wide grin on his face, didn’t seem to mind. “We should- I don’t quite know what to do. I must find James-”

“Potter?”

“Yes, he has to have felt it. He’ll be going spare. They must still be at the memorial. You should- Find the Lord of your House, Macmillan, and I’ll head up to Hogwarts-”

Suddenly, the door to the pub was thrown open with a loud bang . A man and a woman stood there, looking both shaken and determined. “Black,” the woman greeted, her Irish lilt hard as steel even as she trembled. “We’ve been hearing ‘round-”

“Not just ‘round,” the man said grimly. “Da said he felt Seamus.” He shook his head, and the woman closed her eyes, for only a moment. It was then that Anne noticed the strong resemblance between the man and woman. Siblings, perhaps. “Why he’d say such a thing to Maeve-”

“You two are Lord Flint’s, then?” Mr. Macmillan asked, at the precise moment Mr. Black hoarsely said, “It’s true. I- My godson- He died but I feel him now.”

There was a single moment in time where the world was too still for words. Anne knew very little about life and death among wizards, except that death was irreversible, yet somehow, ghosts lingered without explanation. If Mr. Black’s words hadn’t sent a chill down her spine, the sudden wail from the woman would have done the trick. The wail seemed to go on for an eternity, the large clock behind the bar tick, tick, ticking. Each tick a marking of a moment passed. As the moments became hours, each tick marked a new, distressed arrival into the pub.

Gossip is the breath of life in villages like Hogsmeade. Blood, equally important to breath, pumped and pumped from a certain place in villages like this. Its heart. Its vital center, the hub for every central connection within its greater body. And on that strange day, that seventh year past a horrible tragedy that Anne had been, frankly, lucky to miss, the pumping heart for all of Wizarding Britain was The Three Broomsticks.

Rumors flew as the time passed as the pub filled up to the gills. Strangely, almost all the rumors would later prove to be true. Anne made drink after drink, cleaned mess after mess, all the while hearing bits and pieces of this unbelievable rumor mill.

A muttered, “They’ve got Aurors stationed outside the school’s gates.”

A hurried, “Just came from the Ministry, should’ve seen the way Director Bones was scrambling, never seen her so frantic.”

A hushed, “Ghost children returnin’ to their bodies, feckin’ world’s endin’.”

A sobbed, “I can’t get in touch with my sister. What if it’s all true? What if my niece came back? I n-need to-”

“Must be possession.”

“Got to be necromancy.”

“Won’t let me past the fucking gates,” a Lord said, RP a slurred snarl as he drank. “My wife’s there, I feel my- my boy, my boy- I need to tell her. And they won’t let me past the fucking gates. Fucking Aurors.”

“Saw Aurors going into Miranda’s flat. Heard the most awful sobbing-”

“What in God’s name is going on? It can’t be- This can’t be true.”

And finally, a soft, reverent whisper of, “It’s a miracle. ”

Chapter Text

“My son is coming home,” Lily Potter had said. A dam burst as others shouted much of the same. Many had risen and were heading toward the Head Table to speak with Fawcett directly, Lily included. Calming charms were slowly slipping and sliding away from the so-called ‘new arrivals,’ and Harry was relieved to see it.

As parents kept yelling at the Head Aurors, Harry whispered to Hermione, “I’m not going anywhere with them.” His gut instinct wasn’t exactly screaming that they were imposters anymore, but he’d be stupid to trust them. He wasn’t about to walk into a trap.

She sighed. “Harry-”

“I mean it.” 

She huffed. “I’m not disagreeing with you-”

Before the two could say any more, there was a tap on his shoulder. Harry whirled around, only to slump in relief. Ron had managed to extricate himself from his… from the new Weasleys. Harry bit back a grimace. His brain tripped over itself, trying to work out what to call any of these people. He ran a frustrated hand through his unruly hair. Fuck, he was getting a headache.

Ron crouched awkwardly between Harry and Hermione’s chairs, long legs folded. “We’re all in agreement that this is complete bullshit, yeah?”

Hermione bit her lip, but nodded. She didn’t scold Ron for his language, which told Harry she was much more freaked out than she appeared to be. “It has to be. It doesn’t make much sense, regardless. I mean, false memories are certainly possible.” 

There was that familiar flash of guilt in her eyes, and Harry knew she was thinking of her parents. Of how she’d Obliviated them and planted false memories, making them believe that they were Australians, that they were childless. She and Ron had gone to Australia about two months ago, intending to restore the Grangers’ memories, only to return a week later. Hermione had been so upset she’d gotten drunk for the first time. Ron had told Harry not to ask about it, and he hadn’t. 

Hermione cleared her throat. “But it’s not particularly plausible with such a large group, is it? Besides, they said we were d-dead and I… Well, it can’t be true.”

Ron firmly said, “Of course not. Fabricated reality, my arse.” He scoffed darkly. “‘S not like I know what’s going on, but it sure as hell isn’t some sort of weird Obliviation.” 

Hermione nodded, eyes moving to the Head Table where Fawcett was stoically taking the scores of people shouting at him. Her eyes narrowed. “Well, he is obviously lying about something .”

Harry felt relieved that he wasn’t the only one to think so, that it wasn’t just some version of denial. He lowly asked, “Why would they lie and say, erm-” His eyes flicked around. “A couple hundred people, give or take, got amnesia?”

“They could think it’s the truth?” Hermione suggested, though she sounded skeptical. She was still squinting at Fawcett. “Maybe they’re not quite lying, but hiding something?”

Ron snorted. “The Ministry’s always hiding something.” His eyes flicked to James, who was still standing by their table, not even bothering to pretend he wasn’t eavesdropping. His voice went even lower when he said, “You look just like him.”

Harry gave him an unimpressed look. “Never heard that one before.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “I mean it, it’s… Well, it’s different out of the pictures, innit? You two… I dunno, you move the same, I reckon. You hold yourselves the same way.” Harry shifted uncomfortably, Ron deflated before saying, “Your, er…” He cringed a bit. “I dunno whether to call her your mum or- Anyway, whoever you want to call her seems pretty determined to get you alone.”

Harry quickly shook his head. “Fuck that.”

Ron gave a firm nod, something in his eyes seeming to relax. “The three of us sticking together then?”

“Obviously, Ron,” Hermione said, though she looked equally relieved. Harry had long since noticed that Hermione’s family wasn’t here – none of the Muggle-borns seemed to, from what Harry could tell – but she hadn’t mentioned it and neither would he. “Besides, who else is going to figure this out but us?”

The Aurors certainly wouldn’t, Harry thought. Despite having been in this situation for several hours now, they were still absolutely clueless. Every word they said seemed to incite more chaos and it made Harry want to go up there and fix things himself, as embarrassing as doing so had been earlier. Honestly, if he wasn’t worried that he and the other ‘new arrivals’ wouldn’t get dissected, he’d much rather stay at Hogwarts.

He said as much to Ron and Hermione, and Ron tilted his chin toward the Aurors stationed around the edge of the Great Hall. “Don’t think they’ll let us just waltz out of here, mate.”

Hermione huffed. “Once the calming charms fully wear off, I don’t think they’ll have much choice.”

Ron’s eyes scanned around the room. “‘M just looking for Nev. If we get him a sword he’ll have us out of here in ten seconds flat.”

Hermione swatted his arm. “You better hope he didn’t hear you! You’ll embarrass him.”

Ron shrugged unapologetically, but kept scanning the crowd. Harry followed suit. A few people were still shouting at Fawcett, but they were slowly making their way back to their seats. He realized the Aurors were casting even more calming charms and grit his teeth.

“I’m James Potter,” said a voice beside him. Harry flinched. Ron tensed up beside him. He’d half-forgotten the man was even there, which was disturbing in and of itself (because, according to every secondary source, James Potter had never been the type to fade into the background). And here Harry thought he was having a harder time getting the drop on, these days. He hadn’t even noticed James had moved into Lily’s vacated seat. 

Oddly enough, James extended a hand to Ron. Ron’s eyes flicked to Harry before he shook James’s hand, pumping it once before quickly dropping it again. If Harry hadn’t already known that Ron was rattled, that sudden unease in his eyes would have been a strong indicator. 

“Ron Weasley.”

James slowly nodded, eyes flicking between them before he extended his hand to Hermione, who seemed much more overtly hesitant as she gingerly shook his hand. She’d gone a bit pale and Harry couldn’t blame her. Despite the strange warmth he’d felt when James touched him earlier, he imagined that, to anyone else, it also felt like a surreal, mental horror to do so. Like forcing yourself to shake hands with a sentient Inferni. 

“Hermione Granger,” she said, voice a sort of squeak Harry hadn’t heard since first year.

James’s eyes moved to Harry. His expression was unreadable – as were his eyes – when he extended his hand. The corner of his mouth quirked up. “And I believe you and I have met before.” Ron snorted.

Harry eyed him warily, but shook his hand before quickly releasing it again. There was something incredibly discomforting about feeling his father’s solid warmth. Not only because it was wholly unfamiliar, but also because some part of it wasn’t. There was some warm, aching place between his ribs that hummed pleasantly. He hated it. Yet…

And beyond that conflicting thought, there was the strange knowledge that James felt real. And if that was true- Well, he wouldn’t entertain that thought. How could it possibly be true? Fawcett had been lying. Best case scenario, he and the Ministry were hiding something. 

But… Looking at James made the tiniest inkling of doubt rise up. Because his dead parents were here. Nev’s parents were well. There were enough Aurors and, well, parents he supposed, that they would have attempted to overtake Harry and the ‘new arrivals’ a long time ago. Yet, something insane had clearly happened. And false memories were as wildly plausible and implausible as any other theory.

(But what did that mean, really? If that was true, what had the war been for? What had the past seven years- no, seventeen years been for?)

“You three seem to be very good friends,” James said lightly, eyes flicking between them before lingering on Harry. 

Harry was saved from responding when Lily sat down on James’s other side. It took Harry a moment to gain the ability to look at her. Once he did, his brow quirked at the irritation on her face. He felt a distant horror as he realized that expression strongly resembled Aunt Petunia when a neighbor’s garden was better than hers. Those narrowed eyes and the way her mouth pursed and twisted at the corner was so familiar that he felt an abrupt urge to duck from an oncoming frying pan. 

He wasn’t sure what expression was on his own face, but he heard Hermione breathe, “Oh, Harry. ” 

Ron patted Harry’s hand and he allowed it for just a moment before pulling away. He quickly looked away from his mother- From Lily. And didn’t turn her way again, even when she said to James, “Benedict’s calling for Healers.”

Harry peeked over. James’s hazel eyes were narrowed, though his face didn’t otherwise change. “All Ministry-certified, I’m sure.”

Having apparently decided that two conversations would be better as one, Hermione leaned forward and said, “There’s no way any of us would sit still for a medical exam right now.”

“Calming charms,” Ron reminded.

Hermione waved a dismissive hand. “They won’t last forever. I imagine they’re already wearing thin.” She sent Harry a strong side-eye. “Some people have already broken them, you see.”

Harry twitched when his parents’ eyes turned to him. James simply said, “Calming charms never did work well on our son.”

Lily’s face suddenly crumbled and she put her head in her hands. Harry’s eyes widened, his chest twisting uneasily at the sight. James immediately turned to her, murmuring something in her ear that Harry, in a rare show of incuriousness, was glad he couldn’t make out. 

There was a quiet moment of awkwardness as Harry and his friends exchanged looks while Lily seemed to visibly pull herself together. She sniffed, face becoming impassive in a way that once again was an uncomfortable reminder of his aunt. James moved away from her and casually leaned back in his chair. 

“Right,” Lily said, sniffing again before saying, “Well, it goes without saying that you will not be examined by any sort of Ministry official. Healer or otherwise. When we go home, we’ll-”

“Who says I’m going home with you?”

The words weren’t exactly thought out, nor were they intentionally harsh. But they seemed to slip out of Harry’s mouth quicker than anything, and he wasn’t particularly inclined to take them back. Even when James went very still and Lily’s eyes shuttered and Hermione sucked in a harsh breath. Hidden by the table, Ron simply patted Harry’s knee.

After a long moment, James quietly, carefully said, “I understand if you don’t feel inclined to trust us, given the situation. But staying here is not an option. The Ministry will be quite eager to-”

“I’m not leaving my friends,” Harry said, working hard to make his tone firm and not angry. “Besides, I’m not leaving everyone else to fend for themselves.” 

Ron patted Harry’s knee again before removing his hand. He nodded. “No way in hell. Still too many Death Eaters around, weird magic or not.”

“Death Eaters?” James’s tone was no longer careful, but was now something altogether unreadable. “You mentioned that earlier.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed. She seemed to carefully consider her words before asking, “Is that not the term you would use to describe Volemort’s followers?”

James and Lily shared a glance. Whatever silent conversation they communicated was completely indecipherable to Harry, the two simply stared into each other’s eyes for a few moments before James turned back to Hermione and said, “Voldemort’s coven was referred to as the Alliance.”

Hermione blinked. She echoed, “Coven,” just as Ron said, “Like Grindelwald’s followers?”

“Voldemort drew inspiration from Grindelwald in many ways,” James said, tone a touch too light. He looked as though he was about to say more when Healers began entering the Great Hall. 

Harry grimaced. Despite what James and Lily said, he doubted anyone would be let out of here without some sort of basic exam (not that Harry was entirely sure he wanted out of here in the first place). His head was still pounding from the absolute mind-fuck of it all, and the last thing he wanted was to have to sit at this table for another however-long, waiting for a Healer to come around.

Ron groaned. “Merlin, we’re going to be here another few hours, aren’t we?”

It was another three before the Healers arrived and all the medical exams were completed. Ron had been cajoled to join the new Weasleys during the medical exams, though he was quick to scurry back over when it was done. Harry’s own exam was quite bland, with the Healer asking basic questions of whether he was experiencing dizziness, brain fog, or, oddly enough, a sudden craving for human flesh. (No, yes but not enough to admit it, and no.) 

As Healers came around, so did Aurors. Apparently, the DMLE was offering the ‘new arrivals’ three options. Those who had family present could leave, provided they remain in the care of a blood relative. They could choose to remain at Hogwarts indefinitely (or until their families could be contacted). Or they could be transported to a Ministry-sanctioned care home until further notice. These options were temporary, Fawcett had assured them, unaffected by the some three hundred odd people glaring at him.

Someone at the table to their left muttered, “Fuck this noise. I’m booking it as soon as I can.” Harry’s eyes flicked over and he saw it was someone he only vaguely recognized. Perhaps someone who had been an upper-year when Harry started Hogwarts. “Worst case, I wind up on the run again.”

Harry was in full agreement with the sentiment. The only thing worse than being forced to stay at Hogwarts – indefinitely walking these halls where the Battle happened – was the threat of being in Ministry custody. (He refused to allow himself to entertain the thought of leaving with James and Lily. Not only because he refused to leave his friends, but also because the thought of being alone with them threatened to send his body into fight or flight.) But Hermione, who must have also heard the stranger, seemed to read Harry’s mind because her elbow wound up in his ribs.

Wincing, he murmured, “Merlin, it’s not like I said it.” 

She gave him an unimpressed look before reluctantly saying, “I suppose staying here would be the best option…” Though, the deep furrow in her brows showed she was unconvinced. In his periphery, he saw James and Lily share another of those unreadable looks. “Certainly not staying with the Ministry.”

“I dunno if I can stay here,” Ron admitted quietly, waving away Hermione’s low noise of concern. “Maybe we oughta take a page out of an old book, eh?”

Harry lightly said, “Thought you hated camping?” 

Ron rolled his eyes. “Well, yeah. But I’m not keen to play house with- with those unsettling people, am I? You should’ve heard M- her earlier. She was being so- so patronizing about it all. Smiling and talking like we’ve just bumped our heads or summat. And she’s just… it’s so off, mate. It’s dead creepy.”

Harry’s eyes flicked over Ron’s shoulder, across the Great Hall where Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were sitting- well, not Mr. and Mrs. Weasley… Harry supposed he’d call them Molly and Arthur. Otherwise, his head would start pounding even more. “George alright?”

“Not really,” Ron said. “He tried to leave to find Angela or Lee, and she started crying something awful.” He looked equally disturbed and vindictive at the prospect of his not-quite mother being upset, and Harry didn’t quite know what to do with that. It was bad enough, he thought, to be forced to look at dead parents. He wasn’t sure how he’d manage if he’d known them, then was put in this situation where they weren’t quite right. 

Harry spotted an Auror heading toward Molly and Arthur and tilted his chin toward them. “Looks like they’re about to make plans.”

Ron was quick to get to his feet and head for them. Harry followed automatically, Hermione on their heels. Distantly, he was aware of James following. Harry didn’t turn to acknowledge him. 

They reached the table just as Mrs. Weasley said, “-they’ll be returning home with us-”

 “I won’t be,” Ron interjected. After glancing over his shoulder at Harry and Hermione, he firmly added, “I’ll be staying here.”

George looked oddly relieved as he quickly said, “I will be, too.”

Molly made a wounded sort of noise. It made Harry’s chest twist up. 

It had a similar effect on Ron, if that sudden guilty look was anything to go by. Regardless, his jaw simply tightened and he didn’t take the words back.

Arthur’s voice was low, but more urgent than Harry had ever heard it before. “Let’s talk about this for a moment-”

“There’s nothing much to talk about,” Ron said flatly.

Suddenly, Harry felt a hand on his shoulder and he jerked. He turned to see James give him a vaguely apologetic look before quietly asking, “Could I speak with you?”

A primal itch crawled beneath his skin. He quickly shook his head, stole Ron’s words. “Nothing much to talk about.”

There was another touch on his wrist and he jerked again, feeling like pacing, caged animal when he loudly snapped, “Can everyone stop fucking touching me?” His eyes flicked down just as a small hand pulled away. Fighting a sigh, he glanced up to see Hermione looking stricken. Several tables had turned to look at him. The Auror raised a brow. Harry’s head pounded harder. He dared a glance at James, who had an unreadable expression on his face. 

Harry rolled his eyes heavenward when another Auror – of course it was the Head Auror – started toward them. “Is everything alright?”

(What a stupid question. No, everything was not alright. Mr. and Mrs- Molly and Arthur were looking at him like he was a strange, venomous snake. Hermione looked like she might cry and Ron looked like he might punch Harry if Hermione so much as sniffled. Percy was eyeing him like he was unstable and George was looking far too understanding. And Harry wanted nothing more than to find a Time-Turner and go back to when he was playing fucking Twister.)

“Everything’s fine,” he said through his teeth, just as James said, tone clipped, “We’re fine, Fawcett.”

Fawcett slowly nodded, eyes flicking around this mess of a group before they settled on Harry again. “You must be Harry Potter.” Harry simply nodded. “I’ve heard a lot about you today.”

“Only good things, I’m sure,” Harry said, voice bone-dry.

Fawcett didn’t reply, glancing at James before his eyes moved back again. He started to speak before James said, tone less firm and more like a steel knife, “That’s enough, Fawcett.”

He opened his mouth to reply when a voice to their left – how had Harry not realized that Lily had followed them at some point – said, “Thank you for your concern, Benedict. But this is a family matter.” Harry stiffened, though he didn’t comment.

Fawcett continued eyeing Harry for a moment, before looking at James and Lily. “I’ll be visiting you later this week.”

“How wonderful,” James said, tone scathing. Lily sent him an unimpressed look and James just shrugged before giving her a sheepish smile. It was so odd how, at that moment, Harry recognized more of them from the photographs than he had all day.

Fawcett nodded again, before leaving. There was now a thick, awkward quiet. Even the Auror shifted uncomfortably, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. Harry was unsuprised when the Auror quickly excused himself.

James was the one to break the silence when he looked at Harry. His hands twitched at his sides and Harry’s eyes narrowed. After a long moment, he quietly, carefully said, “I would like for you to consider coming home with your mother and I.” Harry was already shaking his head but James continued. “We-” His eyes flicked to the Weasleys and he cleared his throat before saying, “We’ve missed you very much. Your sisters-”

Harry’s jaw dropped. “My what? ”

James paused. Blinked. He slowly said, “Your sisters. Ivy’s missed you. Holly, she never got to meet you but she would be… They would both be inexplicably happy to see you.”

Hermione breathed, “Oh, Harry.” He turned to look at Ron and Hermione. Ron was gaping, and Hermione’s eyes looked suspiciously bright.

Harry had always wanted family. Parents, obviously. But also grandparents and (good) aunts and uncles and cousins. And when he’d met the Weasleys, he’d wanted siblings, too. It had crossed his mind more than once, that his parents – his real parents – might have had more children if they hadn’t died so young. This was… Too much. Too big. Too cruel, honestly. Like looking into the Mirror of Erised, only to be abruptly shoved inside. It was wrong, he thought, to have this wish he’d never dared voice aloud. Harry had no idea what to think. For the first time since the Battle, since the war, it was white noise running through his brain instead of an exit strategy. Sisters. 

He shook his head, not in refusal, but in denial. “It’s not real ,” he said, hating how his voice was less accusing than he’d intended. Instead, he sounded like a pathetic child. “I don’t care what the- what the Aurors say. I’m not your son. I don’t know you.”

James swallowed hard, an expression of agony crossing his face before he collected himself again. “I know,” he said finally. “I understand you feel that way. But I would like it if…” He repeated, “We have missed you very much, Hazza.”

Harry’s brows raised. As common as the nickname was, no one had ever called him that before. But it tugged at that foreign warmth he’d been feeling all day, only adding to this strange surrealism. 

Ron quietly said, “Mate?”

Harry glanced at Ron, then Hermione. They wouldn’t blame him if he decided to go with James and Lily. But they also recognized that the very thought made Harry feel like his lungs had been transfigured into lead balloons, he knew they did.

So they looked equal parts unsurprised and a little sad when Harry shook his head again. “I’m not leaving my friends.” 

James and Lily shared another of those unreadable glances. They all turned when Arthur slowly rose from the table. He gave them a distant, genial smile, though there was an odd tension around his mouth as he nodded to James. “Potter.”

James tilted his head in acknowledgement. “Weasley.”

Everyone in their group glanced between the two men, and Harry couldn’t help but notice the way Molly’s eyes narrowed and Lily’s mouth pursed slightly. 

Arthur sniffed, seeming to steel himself before he said, “It is my understanding that my son and your son are quite attached to one another.”

Harry’s brows raised so high he was pretty sure they touched his hairline. He met Ron’s eyes, silently trying to communicate: ‘What the fuck?’ Ron shrugged, but his eyes were sharp as they flicked between Arthur and James. Dislike was practically pouring off the both of them in waves, despite their impassivity, and it made Harry’s wand hand twitch.

James’s jaw ticked as he slowly nodded. “So it would seem.”

Arthur carefully said, “Perhaps we can come to some sort of… compromise?”

Ron muttered, “Or we could just stay at Hogwarts?”

James was eyeing Arthur like one would eye an insect who suddenly began speaking, and it made Harry bristle a bit. Logically, he knew Arthur and Molly weren’t the real Weasleys. However, he couldn’t help but want to fight anyone who looked at them like that. Like they were less than. 

It was Lily who stepped forward and asked, “What are you proposing exactly?”

Arthur cleared his throat before lifting his chin and saying, “It’s clear that the children want to stay together. Perhaps, a neutral, temporary location-”

George snorted. “Like Switzerland?”

“Azkaban, maybe?” Ron muttered.

The older men ignored them. Arthur continued. “They could stay at the Burrow-”

“Absolutely not,” James snapped, before his eyes flicked to Harry and he seemed to literally bite his tongue. After a moment, he said, “Our home has more space.”

“I’m sure,” Arthur said, tone a bit too calm. “But I oppose you housing my youngest son for several reasons. As I’m sure you well know.”

“Hm.” James and Arthur continued staring each other down.

Given the general absurdity of the current situation (the supposed fucking false reality of it all), this was the most unbelievable thing, in his brain-fogged opinion. Were Arthur and James seriously trying to organize some sort of joint-custody arrangement? Sure, his first thought revolved around his resentment at the way these people were trying to corral and control their lives. But the second was definitely about how Arthur and James seemed like newly-divorced dads, passive-aggressive civility and all. 

Oddly enough, it was Percy that cleared his throat – like he was at a meeting at the Ministry rather than some weird in-between place where everything they knew was turned on its head – and suggested, “Alternating days?” 

Suddenly, Hermione burst into laughter. All eyes in their pocket of the Great Hall turned to her. She covered her mouth with one hand, still laughing as she dismissively waved the other. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just…” After a few moments, she shook her head and apologized again.

The corner of Arthur’s mouth twitched, blue eyes light in amusement. “Alright, Miss…”

“Hermione Granger,” she said, clearing her throat, cheeks red with embarrassment. “Sorry. Really. Carry on.”

But some of the tension had been broken, and James looked a little more relaxed when he said, “I suppose… alternating days are an apt compromise.”

“Or,” Ron said, a bit too loudly, “we could just stay at Hogwarts.” He sent Arthur and Molly a dark glare. “You’re not my parents.”

Arthur winced, but not as hard as Ron did when Hermione elbowed his ribs and sent him a significant look. “I think we all need to get to know each other,” she said pointedly. 

Ron blinked, before his eyes flicked to Harry and he sighed. “Right.”

Harry stepped a bit closer to his friends, ignoring the others as he quietly told Ron, “We can stay at Hogwarts if-”

Ron shook his head. “No, mate. No offense, but the thought of sleeping here again after- Well, after everything… I don’t think I can do it.”

Harry slowly nodded. “Alright.” He glanced at George. “Alright?”

George’s eyes flicked between his parents before he slowly nodded. “Yeah.”

“We’ll stay with the, um, Potters first,” Hermione said.

Molly rose from her seat. She hadn’t once stopped eyeing James and Lily suspiciously, a look which was now turned on Hermione. “I’m sorry, dear, but who are you exactly?”

Harry had flashbacks of Mrs. Weasley casting alarm charms on bedroom doors and loudly assigning jobs whenever she saw Ron and Hermione alone together. Mrs. Weasley only allowed Hermione to stay with them after the Battle because she’d known Hermione for years. This version of Mrs. Weasley had not. She’d refuse to allow Hermione to stay with them and the argument would start up all over again.

Harry panicked. 

“They’re engaged.”

It was like all the blood had been rushed from Ron’s face and transferred to Hermione’s. Ron’s head whipped around to Harry, looking at him like he’d been betrayed. Terrifyingly, Hermione’s head turned quite slowly, looking for all the world like she wanted to throttle Harry. 

“Engaged,” Molly echoed. George was blinking rapidly, fist pressed to his mouth.

Ron swallowed hard, glaring at Harry before turning to Hermione. They shared a look before Hermione gave an imperceptible nod. Ron turned to his not-quite mother and simply said, “Yeah.”

George turned away, shoulders shaking. Percy seemed to be biting the inside of his cheek. Harry was a bit impressed that he didn’t call them out immediately but, then again, this wasn’t exactly a normal Saturday.

Molly sputtered, sending a wild-eyed look to her husband, who shrugged helplessly. After a moment, Molly gave Hermione a tight smile. “Well alright then,” she said. “The more the merrier.”

Lily snorted, muttering something under her breath that made James nudge her shoulder. Harry was glad he hadn’t heard it. 

Chapter Text

There were very few things that Remus and Sirius refrained from discussing. Remus knew Sirius as well as he knew himself, which left little room for things unsaid. But there were certain subjects that were off-limits in either a figurative or literal sense. Sometimes both. 

The short list included such subjects as (in no particular order): the Beatles, November 1976, October 2nd of 1985 (or the Guernsey Incident, as James called it), and fire slugs, which were Sirius’s Great Irrational Fear. Harry was also on that list, on occasion. Depending on the day. As was the Massacre. But of all things on that list, the one topic that both Remus and Sirius were completely in agreement to avoid was the twelve-year-long elephant in the room known as Ophélie Black née Vaillancourt. Sirius’s wife, in case Remus had forgotten. In case the glossy black band – volcanic glass embedded with rubies – wasn’t enough of a reminder. 

The ring sat on the ring finger of Sirius’s left hand, right above a thin jade band for Leonis. On his ring finger on his right hand was James’s thick gold band, featuring a Telugu inscription on one side and a Greek one on the other, just above a dainty, silver ring for Lily. 

A thick layer of scar tissue was wrapped around his left index finger, a bastardized imitation of the ring he’d once donned for Peter. (Or as Sirius called it, a necessary lesson.) 

On his left thumb were two thin bands, the bronze for Ivy and the rose gold for Holly. And on his right thumb was a gold and silver band for Harry. There were others, too, crowding his hands. One for the Malfoys, one for the Lestranges, another for his Uncle Alphard, and another for his brother. 

And there, on the smallest finger on his right hand, Sirius kept the cheap paperclip that Remus had fashioned into a ring when they were fifteen. 

The first time they’d woken up together, Remus had been endlessly fascinated by the way Sirius put them on, one after the other. Methodically. Carefully. Sirius was rarely so careful with anything – especially before Harry was born – that Remus felt it sacrilegious to tear into the moment and ask about them. Later, he’d asked James. 

“It’s a House thing,” James had informed him. “There’s a few different odds and ends about it, certain rules about what ring goes where and things like that. But the general rule is that you keep a ring for anyone you’d die to avenge.”

Remus had raised a brow. “Where’s your rings, then?” Because he knew without asking that James would happily throw himself on a sword for any of his friends. Especially back then, when they were young enough that their worlds began and ended with their friends.

James had given him a mysterious smile. “Us Potters have our own traditions.” (Remus had asked and asked, because James and mystery were not well suited, but he’d never gotten a proper answer. Nor had he ever forgotten the conversation.)

Regardless, Remus quite liked looking at Sirius’s hands. Always had. At his rings certainly, but he loved when his hands were bare. He especially loved when Lady Black’s ring was gone.

“Knut for your thoughts?” Sirius said that morning, rings clinking in the bowl on Remus’s nightstand. The golden light peeking through the window made cigarette smoke into soft, white coils. The scent made him boneless in bed. Cigarettes, cedarwood, sex, and the piles of old books scattered across his bedroom.

Remus sighed, not wanting to move from this comfortable place. He murmured, “The memorial’s today.”

Sirius inhaled sharply. The only response was the gentle sound of metals against crystal. He’d just slid on Alphard’s, meaning his brother’s was next. Then, Harry’s. After a very long moment, Sirius said, “I’m watching the children today.”

Remus blinked. His eyes narrowed. “You’re not attending?”

There was another long pause as Regulus’s ivory ring slid into place. “It’s been seven years.”

His brow furrowed. Then, he realized and rolled his eyes. “Superstitious,” he accused softly. 

Sirius snorted. “I inherited more than my dashing good looks from Old Orion.” Harry’s ring found its familiar spot on his thumb. “Sevens are to be treated like lightning storms,” Sirius said, cadence becoming an intoning recitation. It wasn’t unlike the tone he used when reading to the children, when he gave voice to a particularly nasty villain. “Dangerous. Unpredictable. Lock your doors and shelter in place. When sevens arrive, friends become enemies and enemies, victims of your hand or attackers of your blood. The choice is yours, for traitors live and die by sevens.”

Remus simply raised a brow. Sirius’s gray eyes flicked over, and he grinned. It didn’t meet his eyes. He added, “Dark rituals like sevens.”

“Hm.” Remus let himself sink further into the mattress, head tilting up to the ceiling. “Dark rituals, sevens…” he mused, mind searching for a story. His mouth twitched. “Setkhem-Ra the Dream-Eater was an Egyptian رب الظلال, which roughly translates to Lord of Shadows. It’s comparable to the leader of a dark coven, though on a much grander scale. Setkhem-Ra, piece of work that he was, would gorge himself on Muggle flesh every seventh day. It allowed him to control his people’s dreams, twisting them into warnings disguised as nightmares. They were so horrific that his people were too afraid to stand against him.”

“Ah, good old flesh magic,” Sirius said, a teasing smile at the corner of his mouth as he moved to put on his boots. Still, the gloom had vanished, Remus had done his job. “Reminds me of Grandfather Pollux.” Once they were on, he rose to his feet and grinned. “Any more fun facts for me, Moony? You know I love it when you get all swotty.” Sirius claimed to like hearing about his research. Remus suspected he just liked listening. 

Remus hummed. “Nothing more to report, Pads.”

Sirius’s grin turned softer as he leaned over the bed and pressed a kiss to Remus’s mouth. “I’ll see you.”

“See you,” Remus murmured. His eyes followed Sirius’s departure. It only took him another minute or two to fall asleep again.

When he woke, it was past noon. Sirius’s scent was still lingering and he sighed. Steeling himself, he rose from bed on unsteady feet, wincing at the dull, bone-deep ache. It sharpened as he stretched his arms over his head. Grew worse when his trembling legs made their way to the bathroom. The full moon had been a week ago. When he was young, he would’ve bounced back within a couple of days but the older he got, the more his body seemed to turn against him. 

Well, more than it already had, given what he was. 

After taking that thought, crumbling it up, then throwing it into a mental wastebasket, Remus got ready for the day. Once he was clean and dressed, he went to his tiny kitchen, just off the entrance of his cupboard of a flat. Despite its size, he didn’t mind it much. It required little maintenance, his neighbors were decent enough, and it was close enough to Diagon Alley that he didn’t even need to Apparate. 

He usually enjoyed his walk to work, even on days when he felt more like a slowly-healing wound than a person. Especially on days like today. The sky was bright, and he half-regretted his choice to wear a sweater under his outer-robes. By the time he got to Knockturn Alley, his skin was overly warm from the sun, beads of sweat forming at his hairline. The streets were practically empty today. He’d expected it, because of the memorial. 

He was quick to duck into Moribund’s, a bookshop at the very edge of Knockturn Alley, specializing in books that, if Aurors were present, were as legitimate and legal as they could possibly be. It was a dim, gothic, cluttered place with a cramped front room and a disillusioned back room. It always smelled of ginger and cat piss, no matter how many times Remus scrubbed the place. The moment he opened the door, a shrill, charmed whistle shrieked overhead, making Remus wince. It was followed by the subtle rustling of books, as though they were waking up to see who had entered the store. (Remus knew of no less than ten sentient ones that most likely were silently saying hello.)

“How do, Remus,” Mr. Morgan said, his silver hair a sort of wild nest that made James’s seem tame. He was the owner’s son, though he’d been managing the store for decades. It was a personal best for Remus, when it came to employment. It helped that Mr. Morgan had a werewolf grandson that, like Remus, had been bitten at a pitiably young age. Remus once thought about asking who the grandson’s sire was, but decided he didn’t particularly want to know the answer. 

“Right enough,” Remus replied, taking off his outer robes and hanging them on the hook behind the front desk. “You?”

Mr. Morgan said, “Alright,” before breaking into a fit of coughing.

Remus eyed him suspiciously. Once he’d stopped coughing, he lightly said, “Stay out of the potions, friend.”

Mr. Morgan huffed. “Stay out m’ business, mutt. I’ll throw you out inna heartbeat.”

“Who’d scare off the bad sort, then?” Remus replied, leaning against the counter. 

Mr. Morgan loudly snorted. “Who’s doin’ the scarin’? Hate to be the one to tell you this, but you’re ‘bout as scary as a pygmy puff.”

Remus rolled his eyes but didn’t respond. He certainly wouldn’t be the one to break the old man’s opinion of him – though he couldn’t tell whether it was a positive or negative one – by going into detail of what he’d done during the war. Intimidating, Remus was not. But neither was he harmless. There’d once been a time, however brief, he was utterly terrifying. (Especially to himself.) 

Pushing those thoughts away, he changed the subject. “Guess it’ll be a slow day, then.” When Mr. Morgan’s bushy brows raised, he reminded, “The memorial.”

Mr. Morgan’s eyes rolled so dramatically that Remus distantly wondered if they’d get stuck that way. He grumbled, “That bloody memorial. You’d think they'd have stopped havin’ it years ago-”

“You and I disagree on this,” Remus said, working to keep his voice light, though it made no difference. Mr. Morgan kept going.

“Bloody Aurors come sniffin’ ‘round, every goddamned year. Wantin’ to make sure everyone stays quiet and respectful. Checkin’ to make sure no one’s lookin’ to copycat the thing. The Lords can’t mourn in silence like the rest of us, can they? The world hasn’t stopped jus’ ‘cause their brats-” Remus’s eyes narrowed. “-are dead-”

Remus spoke over him. “You and I disagree.” The two stared each other down for a moment before Mr. Morgan snorted and looked away. After a moment, Remus said, “My friends lost a son.”

Mr. Morgan’s lips pursed, mouth opening to, no doubt, give a rude retort. But then, his mouth snapped shut. 

“And I’m sorry for ‘em,” Mr. Morgan said after a time, bushy brows now lowering, seeming to actually mean that before the momentary remorse was ripped away. “I’d be more sorry if those fuckin’ Aurors didn’t use that day as an excuse to… Y’know how they’ve done, Remus.”

Remus nodded. “I know.” He truly did. Life here had never been good, but the war made things worse. The months following the Massacre, in particular, had not been a good time to be anywhere near Knockturn Alley. Nor was it a good time to be a werewolf, given a certain pack’s enthusiastic participation in the thing. 

“And y’know no one ever cared for all the little mudbloods and half-breeds that got killed in that fuckin’ war,” Mr. Morgan continued. Remus’s jaw twitched, hands clenching before he released them again. “A month before that Massacre, bunch of little ‘uns ‘round here got disappeared.”

Remus remembered that. He’d been staying in Wales at the time, but he’d still been subscribed to the Prophet. He couldn’t remember the exact numbers of missing children over the course of that week, though he doubted there had ever been any official count. 

‘MISSING UNDESIRABLES IN KNOCKTURN: Werewolves, Bastards, and Squibs, Oh My!’ the headline had read. If that wasn’t enough to make Remus grit his teeth, the sting of it all making that familiar resentment fester and rot, the true story would have done the job. As he’d learned a few days later, all the missing ‘undesirables’ had been children, the youngest being infants and the oldest ones being twelve or so. No names were mentioned. 

If any of them were ever found, Remus never heard. 

Mr. Morgan scoffed. “ Our children killed and what fuckin’ happens? Same thing that always does. If you don’t got a House to your name-”

“Enough, Olly,” Remus snapped. 

He didn’t want to hear it. For very many reasons, the least of which was because it was all true. But he couldn’t feel bitterness for the attention the Massacre victims received or the eternal memorials or anything else, because it was Harry. It was Harry and James and Sirius, and they were all tangled up so deeply in everything he was that to resent any part of them – especially that part – was unthinkable. 

(Yet, a small, small part of Remus would always resent that the Massacre is what ended the war. That the Wizengamot finally got their shit together when their babies were the ones dying, when it was their safety on the line. That it got to the point where Harry, who should’ve been safer than most other half-blood children, was killed.)

Viciously shredding that thought, Remus swallowed hard before adding, “I’m done talking about this right now. Not today.”

After a long, still moment – wherein Remus wondered if he was about to get sacked – Mr. Morgan finally chuckled. “Good Lord, Remus. Look at you, remindin’ me why I keep you ‘round. Need someone to scare off the wrong sort, eh?”

Remus snorted, and all was forgiven. At least, it was until, hours later, Sirius walked through the door. Remus’s brows furrowed in confusion, though he couldn’t ignore the small thrill of pleasure at seeing him. He once worried that such feelings would lessen with time. But they’ve been together – as together as they could be anyway – for twenty years, give or take, and those small thrills never left. 

Standing straight from where he’d been leaning over the counter and reading, he dog-earred his page and closed the book. He ignored his achy spine as he looked at Sirius and quirked a brow in silent question. Sirius simply made his way over to the counter.

Mr. Morgan’s eyes rolled. “Thought I told you to stop bringin’ your young man ‘round.”

Sirius snorted. “Suppose you think anyone younger than sixty’s a young man, hm?”

Mr. Morgan coughed. “Cunt.”

Sirius grinned, and Remus was pleased to see it met his eyes. Maybe he’d had a good day with the children. Remus was reminded of a new book that had just come in, that he’d set aside for Leo, Dark Magic and Its Origins. Sirius and Lady Black wanted to teach the boy a few darker spells before he’d send him off to school, meaning Leo would need good background knowledge (and Sirius refused to let Leo read the books he was given at that age). 

He was pulled from the thought when Sirius replied, “Mean old bastard, aren’t you? Don’t forget who donated a good bit of books here-”

“Stop antagonizing my employer,” Remus said, though he couldn’t stop his lip from quirking up. “Thought you’d be drinking with James by now.”

Sirius’s smile somehow grew and Remus couldn’t help but return it. That was, until, Sirius said something that made Remus’s heart stop. 

“Harry’s back.”

Remus immediately moved from around the desk, resting the back of his hand on Sirius’s forehead. Sirius rolled his eyes but didn’t move away, even as he insisted, “I’m not sick, Remus. I felt him this morning-”

Remus asked, “Have you been drinking?”

“I have not,” Sirius said, before reaching to cup Remus’s jaw in his hands, shocking him silent. Sirius was rarely affectionate in public, not unless they were out in the Muggle world. Remus felt the coolness of the rings against his skin, contrasting with Sirius’s warmth. His stormy eyes, lighter and freer than Remus had seen them in a long time, flicked between his. 

“I’m in my right mind,” he said lowly, surely, hands tightening on Remus’s jaw. “I am not drunk, nor am I high. I am not mad. I felt my godson return to us, and I feel his magic now. It’s not just him, either. You should hear the commotion at the Three Broomsticks. People are saying their children returned.” 

Before Remus could fully process that , he added, “I’m going to wait at Godric’s Hollow, because I know Jamie’s felt it, too. You’re coming with me.”

It wasn’t a question, nor was it a request. Remus couldn’t bring himself to be upset though, despite their audience. Either Sirius was having some sort of mental break or… Well, he was obviously having a mental break.

(Despite never really wishing he was part of a House, Remus had always been jealous of family magic. Sirius and James were connected to each other – had been connected to Harry – in a way that Remus would never fully understand. James had felt when Harry was born. Both James and Sirius had felt when Harry had died. Remus did not envy them, exactly. But he did not learn of the Massacre until hours after it happened, and he would forever wish he knew immediately.)

Remus needed to be there when Sirius realized the truth.

After a long moment of consideration, Remus turned to Mr. Morgan. “Sorry, but I need to head out early.”

Mr. Morgan waved a dismissive hand. “Go on, then. You better be here early tomorrow.”

Remus rolled his eyes, but nodded. He grabbed his outer robe before following Sirius out of the shop, dragging his aching limbs toward Godric’s Hollow.

Chapter Text

It had been the Christmas holiday. The attic at Grimmauld Place had been so dusty that there was a thick layer of the stuff on everything. So godfather and godson had avoided touching much of anything at first. But by the time they had been halfway through the bottle of cherry-flavored elf wine, they were leaning against the uninsulated wall and the old wardrobe, respectively.

“And what did you tell her?”

Harry had spent over an hour catching Sirius up on that first term of his fifth year. Not anything important, mind. But he’d told him about classes (besides Defense) and the disastrous date with Cho Chang (besides her dancing around questions about Cedric’s last moments). 

He’d off-handedly mentioned how Cho had asked him what his future plans were. What did Harry want to do after he graduated from Hogwarts? He had no idea when he talked to Cho. He had no idea then, while hiding from Mrs. Weasley, who was hunting them down for one reason or another that Harry couldn’t remember. Perhaps it had something to do with the bottle they were passing back and forth.

“Well?”

Harry had shrugged.

Sirius raised a brow in reply. When Harry pointedly avoided his gaze, he’d huffed and Harry hoped it was the end of it. But Sirius had grabbed Harry’s shoulder and yanked him into his side, the two of them sinking deeper onto the moth-eaten couch. 

“Oi!” Harry yelped.

“You’re not getting out of this one, Potter,” Sirius said, thin fingers poking Harry’s ribs. He laughed despite himself. When he glanced up, Sirius was giving him a stern, almost comically haughty look. “Be serious, godson. I certainly am.” Harry hadn’t giggled since the days he thought cupboards were roomy. And he certainly didn’t produce such an innocent sound then, when Sirius poked his side again. “Tell me, young buck… What do you want to be when you grow up?”

“Alive, I suppose,” Harry quipped.

Sirius hadn’t laughed immediately. Not like Harry had been aiming for. Instead, a strange look crossed his face, jaw tightening as he sniffed, eyes flicking away before he took another swig of wine. Before Harry could apologize for the flippant comment and claim it as a joke (though he’d certainly meant it), the look passed and Sirius’s expression cleared. 

“And here I thought you’d be like your mum,” Sirius said brightly, passing the bottle over. “She used to say she wanted to be an aster-lot.”

“An astronaut?”

“That’s what I said,” Sirius huffed, eyes amused. “Well, she said that’s what she wanted to be before she started Hogwarts.” He got a familar look in his eyes, then, a sort of melancholic nostalgia that always accompanied stories about Harry's parents. Well, stories about his life in general before Azkaban, really. “She knew quite a bit about astronomy.”

“What about when she got older?”

If Sirius noticed the desperation in Harry’s tone, he didn’t show it. Though his arm tightened around Harry’s shoulders. “ She talked about going into law. She would bounce back and forth between that and healing. While she enjoyed healing, she also wanted to help create legislation that would better protect non-purebloods. People like Remus, in particular, once she was let in on the secret. But she felt that healing would be better for the war effort. So, by the time she graduated, she had an apprenticeship at St. Mungo’s lined up.”

Harry, soaking this information up, asked, “And Dad?”

“James wanted to play Quidditch,” Sirius said. “It was all he talked about for years. Becoming an Auror was… Well, he thought he’d be of greater use to the Order as an Auror. But he could have played professionally, if he had gone for it. 

“I remember Fleamont once asked him what he would do if Quidditch didn’t work out. He wanted James to have a backup plan. ‘What if you get injured?’ he asked him. ‘What if you lose your place as you age?’ And, well, your dad replied, ‘Suppose I’ll have to be a coach then. Perhaps an announcer.’” 

Harry had grinned. “Would he have been a good announcer?”

Sirius had scoffed, his own grin forming. “Oh, absolutely. He loved the sound of his own voice so much, I daresay he’d have enjoyed announcing more than playing.” 

Before Harry could ask another question (because he had about a million of them), Sirius wagged his finger. “Now quit changing the subject. What do you want to be when you grow up?”

Harry shrugged, feeling his cheeks heat up as he mumbled, “I dunno.” At Sirius’s stare, he had sighed. “An Auror, I reckon.”

Sirius hummed, head slowly tilting from side to side as though he was letting the idea roll around his mind. “An Auror, hm?”

Once again, Harry shrugged.

“You won’t get away with that this time,” Sirius lightly chided. “I need a proper answer.”

After a moment, Harry said, “I dunno, Sirius. I reckon I… I’m already used to catching dark wizards, aren’t I? Why not keep doing what I’m good at?” At Sirius’s pursed lips, he quickly added, “Besides, Dad was an Auror. Maybe I’ll feel… closer to him. Does that make any sense?”

“It does.” Sirius’s voice had been slow and careful in a way that belied his intoxication. “And I can understand that you might want to keep fighting the good fight, so to speak. But, well, I have to be honest…” He hesitated before he said, “If you want to be an Auror, then great. You have my full support. You’d be great at it. But I hope that there will come a time when you don’t feel the need to fight, mate.”

Harry could have told Sirius that such a future was pure fantasy. He’d been fighting all his life. Before the Tri-Wizard Tournament, it was a Basilisk. Before the Basilisk, it was him and Quirrel and the Philosopher’s Stone. And before he’d even known magic was real, it was fighting for every atom of space he took up in Number 4 Privet Drive. 

He’d been fighting all his life. The art of survival was all he was good for. As much as he hoped Voldemort would one day disappear, so that people wouldn’t die, so that the people he cared about would be safe… 

He wouldn’t know what to do with a peaceful future. 

Mrs. Weasley’s shout from the base of the ladder leading up to the attic had saved him from replying. As they rose from the couch, Sirius’s bony arm slung onto Harry’s shoulder, he quietly said they would pick the conversation back up later. 

Later came and went with sharp claws. Lupin held Harry back from following Sirius into the Veil.

By the time the chaos got sorted in the Great Hall, the sun was setting over Hogwarts. Many were choosing to stay at the school, but quite a few had apparently chosen to leave with their sort-of families. Not a single person decided to go into Ministry custody.

“That’s one less worry,” he murmured to his friends when Hermione pointed it out. He glanced across the courtyard, where Neville was walking with the healthy version of his parents. He looked grimly determined, trudging along like he was off to fight another war.

Hermione frowned at the sight. “I’ll write to him later.” She added, almost to herself, “Honestly, we should write to everyone we can.”

Before Harry could respond, Arthur cheerfully called, “Coming along, then?” 

They made up an odd collection. Molly and Percy leading the charge, George trudging along, Lily several paces behind, and Arthur and James seemingly competing for the rear. Both men would often glance over their shoulders at Ron, Harry, and Hermione. 

Ron was dead silent, eyes scanning their surroundings to better avoid glancing at his sort-of-parents. Hermione was talking, worrying aloud about all the other pockets of people walking across the grounds. She was especially worried about D.A. members, and Harry couldn’t blame her. He was concerned too, but he didn’t have the bandwidth to worry about it at the moment. His nerves were buzzing bees beneath his skin and it felt like the beehive had been roughly shaken as they meandered to a stop, gathering in a loose circle on the grassy lawn just off the courtyard. An awkward silence slowly infected the warm summer air. 

James cleared his throat and said, “Right… The wards should let you all onto the grounds of Potter Cottage. Just avoid landing in Lily’s begonias, or I’m not responsible for whatever hexes may befall you.” Lily rolled her eyes but Harry noticed that her mouth was twisted to hide a smile. “Questions?” 

At the blank stares and uncomfortable silence, he gave a single nod. He glanced at Harry, clearly wanting to say something, but quickly looked away. “I’ll meet you all there,” he said, before Disapparating with a crack . 

As Molly and Lily, then Percy and then George, followed suit, Harry quietly asked Ron, “Is it too late to make a break for it?”

Ron snorted. “Yeah, mate, it’s too late.” Hermione took Harry’s hand and squeezed it comfortingly. Ron continued, “If things get weird, we’ll just pull a fast one, eh? But until we figure out what’s going on-”

“Which we will,” Hermione interjected. “We’ll figure things out.”

Ron nodded in agreement. “Course we will. So, for now, let’s just keep level heads, yeah? Besides… we’ve just got to see the mini-Harrys running around, don’t we?”

“I’ve always thought you’d make a good older brother,” Hermione added.

Harry ignored the odd flutter in his chest and the way his cheeks were heating up, opting instead to roll his eyes. Distantly, he was aware of Arthur watching them curiously. But he did his best to ignore him as he nodded and said, “Yeah. We'd better get going.”

Wand in hand, Harry Apparated to Potter Cottage. The familiar sensation of being squeezed through a tube – combined with the fuckery occurring over the past several hours – rushed over him. His knees hit soft grass and he doubled over, vomiting.

He heard a muttered, “Ah, shit,” and a firm hand was rubbing circles into his back. Harry’s head jerked up, watery eyes taking in the sight of James crouched beside him. 

James’s hand paused for only a moment before he resumed the movement. He murmured, “You’re alright,” just as Lily hurried over and asked, “Is he alright?”

Harry tried to tell them that he was fine, only to be cut off by a sharp twist in his stomach as he retched once more. Brilliant. Expelling his guts was surely making a good impression on his dead parents.

The final cracks of Apparition sounded and he heard Ron let out a low whistle. “Don’t mind Harry,” Ron said loudly. “He’s just got a delicate constitution, is all.”

“Really, Ron?” Hermione huffed. 

Harry, still doubled over, flicked him off without looking at him. James snorted, but kept rubbing Harry’s back. Sympathetic tittering filled the air until Harry finally emptied his stomach and was able to collect himself. 

After he’d risen to his feet, he avoided everyone’s eyes, cheeks burning as James patted his back one final time. Confusingly, Harry was glad the man was no longer touching him, while also feeling a coldness once his hand left.

“Alright?” James murmured.

Harry nodded, avoiding his eyes.

Lily silently extended a handkerchief, and he hesitated before taking it and wiping his mouth. He put it in the front pocket of his jeans and tried not to think of it again. Of the fact that his dead mother handed him something. It was just a handkerchief, sure, but… 

He shook those thoughts away, taking the opportunity to look at Potter Cottage, only to gape at the sight. He hadn’t been sure what he was expecting. Well, that wasn’t completely true. He supposed he had been expecting an exact copy of the real, memorialized cottage that housed him and his parents when he was a baby (minus the structural damage, of course).

Instead, he found himself staring at a house that was so large it felt illegal to call it a cottage. It was as though the bare bones of the house had been stretched in all directions, and was now a grand Tudor instead of a young family’s Fidelius Charmed hideout. The front garden was lush with all manner of plants, trees, and flowers. Thick ivy clung to brick, creating a green archway around the front door. Other equally large, equally picturesque houses lined a cobblestone street, willow trees swaying in the summer breeze. “Huh.”

Lily’s head whipped toward him. “Do you remember it?”

Harry slowly shook his head. He didn’t feel it was wise to point out the lack of a gigantic hole in the roof. “Sorry.” 

If Lily was disappointed, she didn’t show it. Though, he noticed that James was quick to step in and clap his hands together. “Right. Now that we’re all here, I guess we ought to show you kids your rooms-”

Molly interjected with, “Why don’t you give us a tour?”

Lily stared at her.

Molly didn’t blink. “No offense to you and your lovely home, dear. But if I must let my youngest son and his… fiancée out of my sight, I’d appreciate knowing exactly where they’ll be sleeping. I’m sure you understand.”

James and Lily had another one of those silent conversations before James turned and gave Molly a tight smile. “That’s completely alright, Mrs. Weasley.” And he turned on his heel and started toward the house. The procession followed. Harry hung back with Ron and Hermione, equal parts nervous and, despite himself, curious beyond belief.

Ron loudly whispered, “If you’re going to puke again, aim ‘Mione’s way, not mine.”

Harry rolled his eyes as Hermione sent Ron a strong side-eye. “Oh really, darling. You’d let your fiancée right in the line of fire.”

“Some sacrifices must be made for the greater good, love-”

“You’re both such pricks,” Harry muttered, causing George, who’d been eavesdropping and not bothering to hide it, to snicker. “Merlin, I hate magical transportation-”

“And it hates you, too,” Ron quipped. Harry fought the urge to stick his foot out and make the bastard trip as they walked up the front stoop and followed this odd collection into Potter Cottage.

As Harry entered the house, that strange warmth in his chest returned full force. Working to push that feeling down, he forced his eyes to trail across the foyer. The others followed James and Lily through a set of French doors into what he assumed was the living room. 

But Harry lingered for a moment, that warmth battling an abrupt bout of nerves that made him want to turn on his heel and run back out the front door. 

The walls were a warm white and the air smelled like, oddly enough, oranges and vanilla and another scent he couldn’t quite pin down. It was equal parts pleasant and strangely familiar. And as his eyes moved across the oak staircase, he heard a voice that made his heart seize up. A voice he would’ve recognized anywhere.

“Where is he, Jamie?”

Hermione gasped aloud as Ron murmured, “Fuck me.”

Suddenly, there was the stomping of boots on the expensive wooden flooring and he entered the foyer. 

Sirius.

Seeing his parents as they should have been, had they lived, was hard enough. Seeing Sirius like this, like he should’ve been if he’d never gone to Azkaban… It was fucking horrific. It was cruelty of the highest order. This entire day had felt like an exercise in surrealism and, if he was honest with himself, he’d only half-believed his senses ever since being violently deposited in the Great Hall. Part of him felt he would wake up soon.

But never, ever, in his wildest dreams would he have been able to conjure up this image. Sirius, healthy. Sirius, alive. This Sirius was not gaunt, nor was there a constant cloud over his eyes. No, his gray eyes were clear and light, and looking at Harry with so much joy it made something ache within him. 

“Oh Harry.” His godfather moved toward him, and Harry couldn’t have moved away, not even if he’d wanted to. Moving would ruin everything. Moving would shatter this cruel daydream. 

Harry hadn’t realized he was crying until Sirius's hands were cupping his face, his thumbs wiping soundless tears away. “Look at you. Merlin, you’re all grown up.”

He was furiously shaking his head before he’d fully thought out the action. “This isn’t real,” he whispered, sounding terrified to his own ringing ears. “Y-You’re not-”

He was cut off by the feeling of Sirius’s arms around him, pulling him against his chest and squeezing so tightly that Harry could scarcely breathe. Not that he was in the first place. He hugged back just as fiercely. It hurt so much, feeling his godfather’s solid warmth, smelling cigarettes and an unfamiliar cologne, feeling the fabric of his robes, and knowing.  

This felt real. Sirius felt so real . 

“You died.” Sirius hugged him even tighter. Even when Harry repeated, “You died. I’m s-sorry. It was my fault. It was all my fault-”

Sirius shushed him, pulling away. Harry fought the embarrassing urge to cry some more. He was glad when Sirius’s arm moved to wrap around his shoulders as he led Harry further into Potter Cottage, Ron and Hermione right on their heels.

Harry allowed himself to be led, doing his level best not to make it obvious just how much he was leaning on Sirius. As they entered the living room, he barely processed the expensive leather couches or the rich wood paneling or the curious portraits on the wall. Nor did he fully process the way everyone had arranged themselves (James and Lily, Arthur and Molly standing tensely while Percy and George were awkwardly perched in two armchairs). 

What he did process was Professor Lupin standing by the fireplace, one hand on the mantle like it was the only thing holding him up, face drained of all color. He gawked at Harry and muttered, “Christ.” He turned wide, amber eyes to James and Lily. “What in the hell’s going on?”

“I’m sure you’ll see it in the papers tomorrow morning,” Lily sniffed. Sirius sat on one of the couches, pulling Harry down beside him and keeping his arm around his shoulders.

Lupin sent her a disbelieving look. “I’m asking you, Lil, I’m not asking Rita fucking Skeeter-”

Molly sent him a dirty look. “You should mind your language. There are children present.”

“Where?” Ron asked drily. “Are they in the room with us right now?” His sudden hiss let Harry know that Hermione had elbowed his ribs. Not that any of the adults seemed to hear him. 

Harry’s mind was slowly but surely catching up with his body. Enough to feel the warm weight of Sirius’s arm (much heavier than it was before). Enough to catch the way Arthur was staring at Sirius, an expression on his face that Harry had never seen before. 

Well, no. That wasn’t true, he realized. Arthur always stared at Lucius Malfoy that way.

Chapter Text

James’s son was too thin. That was the first thing James noticed in the Great Hall. He’d put his hands on his shoulders, and his heart seized at how bony they were through his Muggle t-shirt. Sharp bone beneath wiry, tensed muscle.

That had been the second thing James noticed, the way Harry had tensed. He’d gone still at James’s touch. Holding himself like he was bracing for impact, like he was trying not to flinch away. James fought the urgent, consuming impulse to grab him, to keep him close. Lily felt the same, James could tell. She’d placed her hands in her lap, clenching them so tightly they were trembling, all to keep herself from reaching out. Those hands had rubbed potions onto Harry’s skinned knees and smoothed down his wild hair. Those hands had closed Harry’s eyes for the last time, before they’d put him in the ground. All without hesitation, without thought.

But she must have known, as James knew, that such a display would be unwelcome. Either Harry would deny them, or they’d find themselves on the other end of his wand. Or his friends’ wands.

Harry hadn’t had very many close friends, but he’d always been friendly. He’d socialize with just about anyone, and had been a good sport whenever they’d shuffle him around to meetings or their friends’ houses or parties. He’d gotten along well enough with other children, though his true opinions came out once they were home. He’d either smile and claim he had a new best friend, or he'd give James a wrinkled nose and a serious, “I didn’t like them at all.”

He’d had friends, of course. Cousins and playmates and brief playground acquaintances. But not friends like these two. Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. It was clear enough that Harry had met them in the throes of some sort of false reality, as Fawcett had called it. A rewriting of the war. How dangerous was that reality that Harry and his friends were practically in each other’s laps, watching the rest of the Great Hall like one might watch a slowly approaching beast? How comprehensive was such a reality? One that allowed these three to behave as though they’d known each other all their lives? That allowed them to orient themselves around each other like planets around a star.

James doubted any spell could be so strong. No spell could have erased his son’s presence from the House magic so thoroughly, nor could have kept James from his son while he experienced so-called implanted memories. Only death could do that. Regardless of what Fawcett and the DMLE claimed, Potters knew necromancy. His House was well-acquainted with death in a way that belied their reputation. James knew the truth. His son had died. It had been the single worst day of his life.

Now, he was back. He was standing right across the room, too thin and wary and grown-up now. A bit off, but still here. Family magic always knew, even if the senses could be deceived. This was his son. 

Alive. 

James had never before felt such a strong urge to thank every god he could name, every known entity, both Muggle and magical. The sheer relief in his chest had overcome any unease he should be feeling. Necromancy, after all, required a certain level of depravity that made the most evil of wizards shudder. But James couldn’t quite care. If he ever met whatever damaged soul revived his son – revived all of these children – he’d shake their hand and aid them in hiding from the DMLE.

“Do you remember this, Harry?” Lily asked now, after showing the children and Arthur and Molly Weasley, of all people, the kitchen. Harry had always enjoyed the kitchen. He’d grown up watching James and Lily cook and had joined in when he’d grown old enough to do so. He’d had a real knack for it (inherited from James, if he did say so himself). 

Harry shook his head. He didn’t say a word in reply. 

Lily turned away.

James kept his hands clasped behind his back. It was the best way to keep from reaching out for him. 

Another change. That quiet watchfulness was another change. Harry was never talkative, exactly. He was not like his godfather, who was besotted by the sound of his own voice – an affliction that James was self-aware enough to admit he also suffered from – but he had never been so quiet. Nor had he been a very observant child. But this Harry was anything but unobservant. In the Great Hall, he had stayed watchful and alert, eyes scanning the room and never once resting. 

Even now, even with Sirius’s arm around him, he was tense. His eyes moved to the windows, to the doors leading into the kitchen, to the back door, to every person in the room (apart from James and Lily), then they would pause on Sirius for a moment. Then, they would restart that process again. But at least Sirius was able to hold onto him. 

James had never been jealous of Sirius and Harry’s relationship before. Not when Harry had been an infant, fussy and screaming unless his godfather held him and hummed the fucking Buzzcocks of all things. Not when Harry was eight, unable to fully enjoy his birthday party until Sirius had finally arrived with a new broom in tow (two hours late and without the butterbeer, a sin Lily had never forgiven him for). 

Remus had once said that Harry had three parents. It hadn’t been a joke, merely a statement of fact. James couldn’t disagree. There were very many times when Harry needed no one but Lily, times he needed no one but James. But there was an equal number of times when only Sirius could be what Harry needed.

Seeing Harry lean on Sirius was no different. Or so James told himself. Right now, Harry needed Sirius. Not his parents, whose very presence seemed to cause the boy to grow angry, or form a frightening, detached blankness in his eyes. 

Even if it hurt, the ache was nothing compared to losing him.

Harry also needed those friends of his. They refused to leave his side and vice versa, which James found to be frustrating, though he was endeared despite himself. Loyalty and protectiveness in friendships were valuable things. But Lily had that small tightness around her eyes that revealed her irritation, though she was doing an admirable job of hiding it. For his part, James was trying his very best to remain positive.

He could do without Arthur Weasley in his kitchen, though. 

As the tour moved from the kitchen and toward the staircase, Mr. Weasley hung back. Most days, James did well in pretending the older man didn’t exist. It was one thing to have the occasional run-in at the Ministry or see him at the annual memorial. It was another to see him and his wife in his family’s home. It brought up far too many memories of when he was young. Of that time, just after he’d become truly cognizant of the world, when he realized that there were no good men in war. 

James had never mastered Occlumency, despite various people attempting to teach him throughout his life (his father, an uncle on his mother’s side, Sirius, and Lily). At such moments, he often wished he were able to master the art. He was sure that old resentments had to be spilling from his eyes, if not his expressions.

“Will Lupin be remaining here?” Mr. Weasley asked, voice low. 

“Yes,” James said, tone deceptively light. “He’s a close family friend, as you well know.”

Mr. Weasley’s eyes narrowed when he said, “And Black?”

James took a moment to keep his breathing steady. Once he knew he would speak without anger, he said, “Yes. He and his family will want to stay here for the night.”

Mr. Weasley cleared his throat, eyes like knives, even as his expression kept that infuriating geniality. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable-”

“I don’t care,” James said plainly. Mr. Weasley’s jaw ticked. James felt a smugness in his chest, though he made sure he didn’t let it show. “I allowed you to enter my home out of courtesy-”

“If this is going to work,” Mr. Weasley interrupted, “we must cooperate with each other.” James fought the urge to snap at him. Very few people made James feel more like a teenager than Arthur Weasley did. Petty. Angry. Half-feral beneath a charming exterior. “Until this… situation resolves itself, we have to be civil- ”

“I am more than capable of civility,” James said coolly. “For example, I will not dictate who can or cannot visit your home while my son is staying there.” And wasn’t that just the bitch of it all? James had somehow wound up in a shared custody agreement with the Weasleys, and it would be hilarious if it were happening to anyone else. “See? Civility.” Mr. Weasley’s mouth was a thin line. “I ask you to do the same.”

“I won’t have my son exposed to dark magic,” Mr. Weasley said, giving James a stern look that sent him straight back to sixth year. “And we both know that Black is as dark as they come.”

James had to swallow back his instinctual reply of ‘Too late for that.’ Because if James’s private theory was correct, all of the resurrected souls had been so entwined with dark magic, he’d be shocked if there was any light left in their magical cores. 

Instead, he pressed his lips together. Mr. Weasley was right when he said that they must maintain some modicum of civility. 

“Dark magic is not practiced in my home,” James lied, civilly.  

Mr. Weasley’s expression did not change, and James fought the urge to grit his teeth. Civility. “Especially not while your son and, erm, future daughter-in-law are guests,” he finally said, stumbling over that last bit because he was worried he’d laugh. His son had not been subtle in the slightest. But if a fake engagement set the children’s minds at ease… Well, he’d play along. They all would, it seemed, given that even Mrs. Weasley had bitten her tongue. 

The corner of Mr. Weasley’s mouth twitched, but he nodded in acknowledgment.

The two of them turned to follow the rest of the group upstairs. When they approached the base of the staircase, there was a painfully awkward moment where they silently debated who should walk first. 

“For God’s sake,” Lily snapped. James startled. She was now standing at the top of the stairs, arms crossed over her chest. She was at the end of her rope, he realized. Otherwise, she would have maintained her impassivity in front of strangers, or as much as Mr. and Mrs. Weasley could be called strangers. “There’s enough room for the both of you, isn’t there? No need for a pissing contest. Honestly.”

She waited until they were at the landing before she tightly said, “Sirius has everyone on the back balcony.” Her eyes slid to Mr. Weasley, “I’m sorry to inform you that you will not be receiving a tour of the bedrooms. Our family is entitled to some privacy, you know.”

James felt quite smug when the tips of Mr. Weasley’s ears went red. He coughed. “Right.”

Lily quietly scoffed. James took that as his cue to look at Mr. Weasley as he said, “The door to the back balcony is at the very end of the hall, to the right. We’ll join you in a moment.”

Mr. Weasley gave a small nod before turning on his heel and walking away. James kept watching him until he turned the corner. Then, his attention moved to Lily. Her mouth was tight at the corners and her eyes looked so very stressed that James automatically raised his hands, his fingers rubbing circles into her temples. She sighed. Her eyes closed but she didn’t relax. Not until when, a moment later, he moved behind her, his hands now massaging her shoulders, thumbs firmly pressing into the new tension there. 

She sniffed. “I hate this,” she whispered. “Having them in our house.”

James murmured, “I know. So do I.”

“He’s so different,” she continued. 

“He is.”

She sniffed again. “I… Are you sure he’s…”

“I am.” He knew it was different for Lily. She didn’t have family magic. She didn’t feel this warmth in her chest, this wonderful ache of the hollow space, where the Heir once resided, having been rapidly filled. She didn’t feel the warmth of Harry’s presence. No matter how quiet Harry was, or how thin or watchful, he was still Harry . James could feel it, even if his eyes needed a moment to adjust.

He added, “But, I don’t believe it’s as Fawcett said it was-”

Lily snorted. “I know Benedict’s tells.” James fought the urge to roll his eyes. Lily met Fawcett when she’d briefly apprenticed with a law office and they’d become friends, despite the age difference. It had been right before things had gotten so bad that the Ministry had to admit there was a war on. He was pulled from that particular thought when she added, “He was lying through his teeth.”

“They just don’t want to admit it’s necromancy,” James said.

“How could it possibly be necromancy?” she asked. James was quietly pleased when she relaxed enough that hints of her Brummie accent came through. His fingers pressed a bit more firmly, and she sighed. “He’s grown, changed. They all have. The rules of magic-”

“There are no rules of magic,” James said, unable to contain a smile when she huffed angrily. They’d been married nearly half their lives and they’ve had this same argument too many times to count. “Entities as fickle as death are especially resentful of rules.” James ignored the sudden chill in his bones, which was just as quick to leave as it had been to appear. 

“I hate when you talk like that,” Lily muttered, before sighing. “I can’t believe he’s back.” She sniffed. “He’s so beautiful, James.”

“He is,” he said, his voice back to a low murmur. He pressed down a little more firmly, and she sighed. “I’m surprised you let him out of your sight.”

“You and Weasley were taking too long,” she said. She was quiet for another moment before adding, “Rem and Sirius will keep watch over him. He needed a moment without us there. He tenses up every time we speak.”

James’s hands paused before they resumed their movements. “I’ve noticed.” He hesitated before telling her, “In the Great Hall, he said that his parents were dead.”

Lily whirled around and James’s hands fell away. Her brows furrowed. “Well, that doesn’t make any sense. If it’s truly necromancy, I mean. Unless Benedict was telling the truth? Perhaps the false memories included…” She trailed off, and James couldn’t blame her. The thought of his son, of any of his children, being orphaned at such a young age broke his heart. They’d spent countless nights worrying about such things, back when the war was on.

James’s lips pressed together, his own brow furrowing as he realized he hadn’t considered how Harry’s comments and behavior fit within his personal theory. His son not only possessed a sort of amnesia about his own life, his childhood home, his sister. But he moved like Remus and Sirius had, like James himself had, immediately after the war ended. “Hm.” 

He turned, leaning against the wall of the hallway. His, however many great-grandmother Hestia mutely waved from her portrait, and he nodded in acknowledgement. To Lily, he said, “It is necromancy… But, I admit I don’t know how these false memories fit.” 

Lily leaned on the wall across from him. “Is it possible you’ve decided on a theory before you’ve collected proper evidence?”

“I suppose it’s possible for me to be wrong.” He added, “Hasn’t ever happened before, mind.” She rolled her eyes, but he succeeded in causing a small smile at the corner of her mouth. “But it’s possible .” He cleared his throat, glanced down the hallway. He hesitated. He trusted his wife with his life, with so many of his secrets. But some things were bound to the House. After a moment, he finally settled on slowly saying, “I will do some research.”

She nodded. “So will I, when there's a free moment.” She sighed. “I don’t like the unknown, James.”

“I know,” James said. His eyes met hers, that vivid green filled with equal parts worry and frustration. There were far too many unknowns with all of this. It hadn’t just been Harry who’d returned, after all. Over three hundred children, resurrected and fully grown. “But you know what we do know?”

“Hm?”

“Our son’s come back to us,” James murmured, unable to stop his grin. “Haz is out on the balcony.”

“He’s going to sleep beneath our roof,” Lily added. Not beneath the ground, went unsaid. She grimaced. “Even if he’s staying with the Weasleys tomorrow night.”

“He’s going to eat dinner with us tonight. Then breakfast tomorrow morning,” James said, because he refused to think about Harry away from him, at the Burrow, of all places. “He’ll play Quidditch with Ivy and Leo, I’m sure.”

Lily suddenly let out a soft gasp, tears pricking her lovely eyes. “He’s going to meet Holly.”

James and Lily shared a smile. Lily’s was quite weepy, as was James’s and he'd freely admit to it. He’d had dreams where Harry and Holly played together, sat at the same table, got to exist within the same plane.

“He’s going to meet Holly.”