Storytime with Rachel F Hundred

Chapter 1: Life After War

His alarm goes off at six.

Harry wakes up unwillingly as he does every day. His hand reaches out and smacks the snooze feature on the alarm clock. He turns over and burrows back under the duvet for another ten minutes of dozing.

It’s September. His nose is cold and the old radiator in his bedroom is making noises which signal it needs bleeding again. He snuggles further into the duvet.

The alarm goes off again.

He shuts it off, forces himself up and out of the bed. He shivers as cold air hits the bare skin outside of the boxers and t-shirt combo which has become his typical nightwear. He applies a wordless, wandless heating charm to the room to compensate for the radiator.

He hopes the hot water has fared better as he stumbles from the room and into the small bathroom in his flat.

The bathroom doesn’t have enough room to swing a cat but it does the job. Harry sets the shower to run while he makes use of the facilities. He drops his clothes into the laundry bag on the hook behind the door and steps into the spray.

He stands for a moment letting the water run over him, down the back of his neck, across his shoulders. He lifts his face and begins to wash with efficiency. He’s never quite lost the habit of the three-minute showers his aunt had imposed on him through most of his childhood. He rebelliously spends another minute in the shower just because he can before getting out. A quick shave charm and two minutes of dental hygiene later, he steps out with one towel slung carelessly around his waist as he towels dry his hair with the other on his way back to the bedroom.

Ten minutes later he’s dressed in old jeans, a long-sleeved grey Henley under a burgundy t-shirt. New glasses are perched on his nose; stylish frames Hermione had convinced him to buy for his birthday. His trainers are not new but they’re in good condition and they’re comfortable. He makes coffee and toast and eats standing up tucked into the corner of the counter between the cooker and sink. He washes up swiftly – another ingrained habit.

He checks he has all the books and papers he needs for the day in his knapsack, shrugs on a warm jacket and a cycling reflector waistcoat over it. He heads out of the flat. His bike is on the landing and he carries it down the narrow flight of stairs to the communal lobby.

The retired milkman who lives in the flat below him, opens the front door just as Harry reaches it. Harry steps back and lets the older man and his black Highland terrier into the building. The dog immediately shakes his coat.

Harry hops out of the way but reaches down to pat the dog who wags at him happily and pushes his cold wet nose into the warm palm of Harry’s hand. “Hello Mister Higgins; Blackie.”

“Harry.” Higgins takes off his flat-cap and runs a hand across the wild white hair revealed. “Wet day out there, lad.”

Harry nods. “Guess it’s the end of the Summer.”

“It’s almost October, lad.” Higgins huffs. “Summer ended a while ago. When was the last time we saw a glimmer of sun?” He tugs on Blackie’s lead. “Have a good day, lad.” They head down the corridor.

Harry takes a moment to put on the cycling helmet before he tackles the door and getting his bike out of the building. He surreptitiously applies an impermeable charm to everything as he carries the bike down the front steps and onto the pavement.

The square is peaceful in the grey light of morning and its haze of drizzle. It’s early still and there are a fair number of cars lining the road. The small park in the centre is hidden by the wrought-iron railings and tall green spiky hedges. The old townhouses are mostly populated by locals – families in the unconverted properties, professional couples and retired folk in those which have been made into flats. The rent is too high for most students here and Harry knows he’s an oddity, but he likes the quiet; likes having his own place.

Harry grimaces at the sky but he clambers onto the bike and sets off. The bike ride is almost meditative; he focuses on the rush of the wind, the speed of the bike, and the turns of the road. The closer to the university he gets, the heavier the traffic becomes, and Harry has to concentrate to avoid uncaring motorists and unobservant pedestrians.

He arrives at the university’s library right on schedule, locks his bike up and heads inside. He heads for the small alcove he’d found on the first day of Freshers’ week, half hidden behind a book stack. He settles in and does the reading for his first tutorial.

University isn’t where he’d expected to end up after the war. He’s not sure where he’d expected to end up but then he’d barely expected to survive the war. He almost hadn’t. Harry pushes the thought away in favour of international law.

He breaks at ten, quietly gathering his things and heading to the small café down the side street next to the library. The muggle downstairs is always busy, but the magical upstairs rarely has anyone.

Harry orders one large pot of tea for two, a slice of the chocolate cake and one of the blueberry muffins from the house elf in charge of the counter. He takes the tray back to the usual table, sets everything out and props the tray up next to the wall by his chair.

He’s just done when Hermione arrives right on schedule. Their daily get-together is a comforting habit for Harry.

She shoots him a smile and slides into the seat opposite him. She immediately shuffles out of the heavy black wool coat she wears but keeps the hideous yellow scarf (a Molly Weasley special) wound around her neck. It looks effortlessly stylish teamed with the simple blue sweater and jeans she wears, but Harry knows Hermione isn’t all that interested in fashion.

She also barely pays attention to her looks despite turning into a stunningly pretty woman. Her wide brown eyes are framed with sooty lashes, set in a heart-shaped face with high cheekbones flushed a natural peach. Her curly caramel hair is mostly tamed but typically caught back in a messy bun with tendrils escaping.

He blinks, not even consciously acknowledging his thoughts of ‘Hermione, beautiful, attractive,’ and ‘Ron is an idiot,’ they’re so familiar. Instead, he reaches into his knapsack and brings out Hermione’s present and card.

“Happy birthday.” Harry says with a genuinely warm smile.

Hermione brightens visibly and she gives a large smile. “Thank you, Harry.”

“You haven’t opened it yet.” Harry points out.

He plays Mum and serves the tea while she painstakingly opens the card. There’s a picture of Monet’s Water Lily Pond on the front. It had been left blank inside originally so Harry’s messy scrawl takes up the entire space with the simple ‘happy birthday’ message and ‘love Harry.’

Hermione shoots him another smile and places the card on the table as she tackles unwrapping her gift. It’s not a book because that would be too unimaginative but as she reveals the simple handmade wooden jewellery box he wonders if he’s gone too much in the opposite direction. She’s smiling though at the cat carved into the lid; it’s a good approximation of Crookshanks. He lives with Luna these days as kneazles are banned from muggle areas now, but Hermione is still ostensibly his owner.

“Open it.” Harry encourages her and picks up his tea.

Hermione glances at him questioningly but he motions at her to continue. She pries the lid open carefully and gives a gasp at the modest pearl pendant inside.

“Harry…”

“You’re only twenty-one once.” He says primly.

Hermione half-stands, leans over the table and Harry follows her so she can kiss his cheek. She immediately sits down and unwinds the scarf so she put the necklace on.

Harry swallows hard because it’s so trusting of her just to put it on. She hasn’t even checked it for charms. Which if she had would have revealed he’s imbued the pendant with protections against most things short of an Unforgiveable.

“Thank you.” Hermione says. “I love it.” She closes the box wraps it back up in the paper and pops it into her bag. “You’re still coming out tonight, aren’t you?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” Harry assures her.

It’s a small gathering of their wizarding friends. It’ll be fine.

Hermione beams at him, takes a sip of her tea and starts unwrapping her blueberry muffin.

“What else did you get?” asks Harry.

Hermione shrugs. “A lot of cards so far.” She smiles again but it’s smaller and sadder. “You’re my first present.”

Harry wants to ask about her parents but Hermione’s relationship with them has been difficult since she restored their memories after finding them in Australia after the war. He tactfully changes the subject and asks her advice on his latest essay.

Her smile brightens again and they debate happily until the pot is empty and their baked goods no more than crumbs on the plates.

Hermione breezes out a few minutes later. She has classes which will keep her busy for the rest of the day. Harry promises to meet her at The Three Broomsticks and heads out too.

Two lectures, the tutorial and a first draft of his paper later, Harry finds himself back at his flat contemplating his meagre wardrobe with a frown. He showers, changes and heads out in shades of black; well-worn jeans, a button-down shirt which he leaves open at the neck leaving a few of his chest hairs to peek out, and a leather blazer. He holsters his wand on his right forearm and holsters a knife to his left ankle. His emergency kit is in a miniaturised wooden chest dangling on a thin strap of leather. He ties it around his neck. His broom is shrunk and stuffed in a pocket. Sturdy boots complete the outfit.

Harry apparates straight from his flat to a side-alley in Hogsmeade.

It’s only a short distance to the pub but he feels the difference between Oxford and Scotland immediately. He regrets his decision not to go with a woollen coat. He mutters a charm to stave off the chill and hurries into the pub.

It’s warm inside and busy.

Harry almost winces at the loud chatter of voices but he takes a deep breath and looks for…

Neville waves to him from a booth at the back.

Harry weaves his way through the crowd, ignoring the wide-eyed stares he gets as someone notices and realises who he is. He’s rarely in wizarding enclaves since the Wizengamot ruling.

He hugs Hermione who has also changed clothes. The burgundy woollen dress, scoop-necked and long-sleeved suits her. It’s quite long and she’s teamed it with knee-high black boots. He’s pleased to see she’s still wearing the pendant.

Ron nods at him from behind a large tankard of beer. Luna waves at him with a brightly coloured cocktail. Neville clasps his shoulder as he pushes Harry into the booth beside Hermione.

“Drink?” offers Neville.

“Just a butterbeer.” Harry says. “Thanks, Nev.”

Neville motions around the table, taking mental note as the others respond with requests before wandering off to the bar.

“Good to see you, mate.” Ron says.

Harry nods. “How are you?”

“Eh.” Ron shrugs. “Joke shop is doing OK. George is thinking of expanding again.”

Harry tries not to react to the news; he’s still a partial owner in Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes. George had refused to buy him out or let him out of the agreement he and Fred had set up. He’s also made it clear he won’t accept Harry gifting his share to Ron. Which means Ron’s not an owner, but a salaried employee and that distinction has caused more than a few arguments between the brothers and a lingering resentment from Ron about Harry’s continued share.

“And the rest of the family?” Harry asks politely. “How’s Arthur and Molly?”

“Good.” Ron shrugs. “You know what they’re like.” His eyes land on Harry. “Ginny’s seeing Joe Woods now.” His tone is more than a little accusatory.

“They’ve been going out a while, haven’t they?” Harry replies mildly.

He and Ginny occasionally do communicate although the sting of their failed romance makes it awkward for them both. They’d imploded as a couple long before Harry had been forced out of the wizarding world. Maybe the Summer after the war hadn’t been the best timing to attempt another go at being a couple, but they’d realised as much as they cared about each other, they’d grown apart.

“Almost as long as me and Lav.” Ron notes, sliding a cautious look at Hermione.

Hermione rolls her eyes expressively. “Honestly, Ron, I’ve told you I’m happy for you both.” She waves a hand at the table. “She would have been welcome to join us.”

Harry nudges her knee with his because he knew Hermione had been hurt when Ron had moved on. Hermione’s relationship with Ron had always been volatile – they’d been off again, on again for a long while before Hermione’s decision to attend a muggle university along with Harry had apparently been the last straw for Ron.

Ron is happy with Lavender though and she’s far from the flighty girl she’d been at school. The war has taken its toll on them all.

Neville arrives back with the drinks, and there’s a flurry as they shuffle seats and Hermione’s presents are set on the table. She opens each with the same care she’d opened Harry’s; cooing over Luna’s gift of a magical hairbrush and thanking Neville for the beautiful journal he has bought her. Ron’s present is a set of hair ribbons all in different colours and it’s obvious Lavender has probably had a say in the gift.  

“Mum, uh, also sent a present.” Ron says awkwardly. He delves into his wizarding robe and brings out a square box slightly crumpled around the edges.

“How thoughtful of her.” Hermione says cautiously. She and Molly have had a fairly frosty relationship since she and Ron broke-up.

She opens the box and pulls out a crystal ball.

There’s a moment where she’s clearly flummoxed because Hermione is in no way interested or skilled in divination. Harry makes the mistake of glancing at Neville and they both have to hide their smiles in their butterbeers.

“It’s traditional.” Ron explains a little haltingly.

“Mothers usually pass down the crystal ball to their daughters on their twenty-first.” Luna jumps in. “You’re supposed to look into it at midnight tonight and see your future husband.”

“Right.” Hermione rallies and asks Ron to pass on her thanks to Molly.

Luna frowns at the ball as Hermione sets it on the table. “You may want to take it in for a spiritual cleanse. I can see fog in the glass.”

Ron shoots Luna an offended look. “That’s my Grandmother Honoria’s crystal ball!”

“Honoria was your Weasley grandmother, wasn’t she?” asks Hermione interestedly.

“Yeah. Well, Mum’s is going to go to Ginny, of course.” Ron explains. “No girls in the Weasley family for yonks though, right? So there’s a whole bunch of balls up in the attic. Mum thought it would be nice to give you one.”

Hermione repeats her thanks which has more of a genuine edge. She tucks the ball into her handbag, shrinks the rest of her packages and picks up her wine. They toast to her advanced years.

There’s a disturbance by the door and Harry glances over and sighs as he sees the red robes of two Aurors looking around the room; one older and a younger partner who is unfortunately very recognisable to Harry seeing as they were at school together. He refocuses on his butterbeer. Maybe if he ignores them…

Unfortunately, he’s not that lucky. They make a beeline for the table.

“Mister Potter,” the older Auror begins as they stop in front of him, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave the premises.”

Madame Rosmerta bustles over before Harry or any of the rest of the table can speak. “Auror Linley, what’s going on here?”

Linley draws himself up and looks down his sharp nose at the owner of the pub. “We had a complaint.”

Neville shoots disappointed looks around the room and Harry sees the old couple in the corner glaring back at him defiantly.

“He hasn’t done anything!” protests Ron hotly. “He’s just sitting with us having a drink to celebrate a birthday!”

Harry sighs and shakes his head as Rosmerta begins to protest. “It’s alright. I can leave.”

“You shouldn’t need to, Harry.” Rosmerta gives the Aurors a dirty look. “The terms of the ruling allow him to occasionally visit wizarding enclaves for social, economic and medical appointments. He’s perfectly within his rights to have a drink in my pub and if anyone else doesn’t like it, they can leave!”

“The ruling also states that if there’s a complaint from the public Potter has to remove himself.” Zacharias Smith shoots Harry a triumphant look.

Harry tries hard not to roll his eyes.

“A valid complaint and his title is Lord Black.” Hermione stands up. “The Wizengamot may have been able to suspend him from ever taking up the seat but he has the title and you should refer to him respectfully.”

“Or what, Granger?” Smith retorts. “It’s not likely that they’ll pay any attention to you!”

Hermione flushes and Harry reaches to take her hand to prevent her getting into trouble, but he’s not quick enough to stop Ron from reacting.

Ron’s on his feet, red in his face and anger heating up his eyes. “Oi!”

Neville is up like a shot and physically shifts to stand between Smith and the table. “They will, however, listen to me.”

Smith turns an unhealthy shade of red.

“That’s enough, Smith.” Linley says, wresting control back. “Lord Longbottom, I don’t believe there’s any need for this to…”

“I’ll be making a complaint of my own.” Neville cuts in, his gaze hard and fixed on Smith for a long moment before flickering to the old couple and back to Linley. “There is no valid complaint here. Harry hasn’t done any magic since he entered the pub and he’s done nothing but sit and converse with friends.”

“I can vouch for that.” A wizard states from the neighbouring booth.

“Me too.” A witch stands up across the room.

Unfortunately, although they mean well, Harry knows the disturbance is now enough for the complaint to be upheld even if the sequence of events is in his favour. Between Harry’s exile, Kingsley short stint as Minister, and the legislation imposing tighter restrictions for muggleborns, they’d learned in short order after the war that the corruption in the Ministry was still rampant. Neville and the other young Lords are trying to change things, but Harry’s too realistic to assume it’ll mean anything positive for him any time soon.

He stands up bringing the litany of support for him to a stumbling close. “Thank you everyone. Rosmerta, Hermione, it’s been lovely, but I think I should probably head out.”

Rosmerta nods understandingly although disappointment flickers through her eyes. “I understand, Harry. It’s been lovely to see you and you’re welcome back anytime. Your drink will be on the house.”

Harry smiles crookedly and pushes his glasses up. He turns and finds Hermione and the others gathering their outerwear. “Hey…”

Hermione shakes her head furiously as she shrugs into her black wool coat. “No, Harry. It’s my birthday and I want to spend the evening celebrating with my closest friends and that includes you. We’ll go to my place.”

She lives across town from Harry in a small studio apartment. The laws have made it difficult for the muggleborn to own or even rent property in the wizarding world.

“Fish and chip supper then, right?” asks Ron excitedly.

Hermione rolls her eyes at him but she smiles her agreement as Neville and Luna also turn to her with beseeching eyes. “Sounds good to me.”

Linley clears his throat. “Apologies for disturbing the birthday celebrations.”

Neville is still positioned between the Aurors and the group. He shakes his head. “I’ll still be complaining, Auror Linley.”

Linley steps on Smith’s foot when he tries to say something. “I understand, Lord Longbottom. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

Hermione hooks her hand through Harry’s elbow and they walk out together, Ron and Luna in front of them, Neville bringing up the rear.

They apparate into a telephone box which can only be seen by magical people near to the fish and chip shop.

Hermione squeezes Harry’s arm comfortingly as they step out into the night air again. “It’ll get better, Harry.”

“Not with ponces like Smith.” Ron grumbles.

Neville sighs. “We’re gathering more support but it’s not exactly easy.”

Harry shrugs. “Let’s just…forget it. Tonight’s about Hermione.”

They all echo their agreement and fifteen minutes later they’re carrying steaming packages of food through the rainy streets back to Hermione’s place.

Hermione suddenly stops and frowns. She pushes her carry-bag of food over to Harry as she dives into her handbag. “Something’s humming…” she mutters and pulls out the crystal ball which is glowing. “Oh!”

The ball suddenly flashes a brilliant white…they blink… and there’s a slap of pure magical power which sends them tumbling…

“HARRY! HELP!”

Harry blinks the spots away from his vision and stumbles to his feet.

The ball is floating above what looks like a whirlpool only it’s in the middle of the road. Hermione is being pulled towards it although she’s desperately trying to pull away from it, hands reaching out…

Harry immediately lunges and tries to grab her hands…

But it’s too late.

Hermione gives a scream and the whirlpool swallows her up.

Harry doesn’t even think, doesn’t even hear the others call out to him or the way Ron tries to stop him – Harry dives into the whirlpool after his best friend.

There’s too much light and sound and…

He tumbles down and down and down…

His stomach revolts…his skin burns…

There’s a moment of silence.

He’s spat out of the sky, crashing through the canopy of a tall tree, boughs breaking his fall as his body hits one after another until there’s just a drop between him and the snowy ground below.

Somehow Harry manages to mumble out the words for a cushioning spell Oliver Wood had taught him when he’d started playing Quidditch.

There’s still an audible thump as he finally lands on the invisible cushion; he bounces.

And bounces.

And bounces.

And manages to slide off to stand on wobbly feet.

Above him the whirlpool is still there in a mid-day sky; an ominous crackling hole in a cloudy blanket over a pale sun. He lifts a trembling hand and is surprised to find his glasses perched on his face; apparently they do live up to their sales pitch to never fall off.

A scream shatters the silence.

Hermione.

Harry runs.

His wand slaps into his hand. He breaks through a bush and into a clearing…

“Sectumsempra!”

His spell lashes across the air and impacts the large wolf which was mid-leap in its attack on Hermoine who is desperately scrambling along the ground away from it. The cleaved body of the animal falls bloody into the snow-covered forest floor near to Hermione’s abandoned handbag.

Harry hurries over to Hermione. She’s shaking and clutching her arm to her. There’s a bump and scrape on her forehead and it’s bleeding freely. The rest of her face is a stark white mask; her eyes are shocked and glassy; she stares at Harry uncomprehendingly.

“Harry…” Hermione sobs. “I…my arm…” she tries to blink back her tears. “I can’t stand, there’s something wrong with my ankle.”

“It’s OK.” Harry soothes her. “We’re going to get out of here.”

Harry checks the sky. The whirlpool is still there, high above them. He takes out his miniaturised broom from his pocket, ignoring the cold and the flutter of fresh snow which begins to fall. He resizes it and sets it to hover.

Hermione shakes her head. “I can’t fly.” Her voice is thick with tears and edging towards hysteria.

“It’s OK,” Harry says again as he packs up her handbag and passes it to her, “I’m going to fly, you just need to hold onto me.”

He carefully picks her up and she gives a muffled cry of pain and grabs his shirt tightly with her good hand. A second later she’s a dead weight in his arms and he realises she’s passed out. He settles on the broom and nudges it to begin its ascent; as fast as he dares.

He keeps tight hold of Hermione as they weave through the trees and…

they’re almost there…

almost

there…

The whirlpool disappears with a clap of thunder and the crystal ball falls through the air.

Harry reaches out with one hand and snatches it to him as he nudges the broom to hover. It’s not glowing anymore and is back to the dulled glass Hermione had received for her birthday.

Harry shakes his head and carefully stores the ball in the handbag Hermione has somehow tucked on her lap.

The whirlpool is gone and it’s snowing.

It’s daylight.

He needs to get a badly injured Hermione help; he needs help himself.

But…where the hell are they?

Chapter 2: Lost & Found

Harry takes a breath.

If there is one thing waging war has taught him it’s that panicking never solves anything, or maybe it’s the one thing his entire childhood has taught him.

He takes another breath.

He starts to look around, trying to find something familiar. There’s a mountain range to the right; not very tall but significant enough that the peaks are covered by cloud.

Beneath him and for a fair distance in the other directions is a forest, the green peeking out behind the latest snowfall.

There’s more snow-capped hills to the back of him, the sides devoid of vegetation.

He can see a lake edging into the front horizon.

A rush of wind washes over him and he shivers violently. It’s bitterly cold. Icy. Hermione shudders against him.

In the absence of being able to get home and any visible help, Harry knows he needs to land and give her some first aid.

He adjusts their height so they’re just above the trees and begins a slow steady flight in the direction of the lake. He figures it probably holds the best bet for some kind of settlement, and in the meantime he keeps watch for a place to land safely to take care of Hermione.

It’s another ten minutes before a suitable spot appears.

He lowers them carefully and dismounts awkwardly. He clears the ground of snow, transfigures a rock into a bed complete with fluffy pillows and sheets even if they do remain grey in colour, and places Hermione carefully down. He sets up a fire for warmth and undoes his necklace to retrieve his emergency chest. He unshrinks it and dives in for blankets and medical supplies.

Hermione groans and starts to move.

“Easy.” Harry says, unfolding another blanket over her.

“Harry.” Her eyes fly open and catch his. “Ow.” She closes her eyes briefly, her nose scrunching up with pain. “Hurts.”

“I know.” Harry says, retrieving a bottle of painkiller potion. He helps her sit up and drink the vial down.

Hermione looks around them and frowns. “We didn’t make it back home?”

Harry shakes his head. “The tunnel thing disappeared. We need to deal with your injuries as best we can and try to find help.”

Hermione grimaces. “Yay.”

Harry smiles softly. “OK, so you know more first aid than me…”

“I have a concussion.” Hermione begins, her normally confident tone is shaky but he can see her visibly trying to keep it together. “My vision is OK, but my head hurts,” her hand flutters close to her bump, “and I feel a little dizzy and sick.”

“You’ve got quite an egg,” Harry confirms, “it’s stopped bleeding I think.”

“Hmm. Wash the blood away from the wound and cover it.” Hermione instructs. “Then carefully check me for any other bumps. I don’t really remember landing so it’s likely I passed out or was knocked out.”

Harry follows the order using a mix of magical and muggle techniques. They’ve substantiated the bump is the only head injury and Hermione is sporting a clean white bandage taped over the cut when they’re finished. She’s also covered in a faint sheen of sweat and still as white as a sheet.

“Shock.” Hermione diagnoses. “Once you’ve handled the rest of my injuries, you’ll need to keep me warm, keep track of my pulse and breathing.”

Harry motions at her arm. “We’ll tackle that next.”

Hermione winces as they shift the blanket.

Harry carefully cuts the coat away from her arm. It’s definitely broken but the fracture hasn’t split the skin. It’s horribly bruised already and swelling. He splints it and follows Hermione’s whispered instructions to create a sling which immobilises the arm against her body; he does another anti-inflammatory spell and numbing charm.

A quick scanning spell diagnoses heavy bruising along that side of her body; her ribs are bruised, her hip, her knee the same and her ankle has a very bad sprain. They determine it’s best to leave her boot on to give her support. She’s also covered in scratches and scrapes which he cleans; one or two of the deep ones get their own bandage. He wraps the coat back around her and covers her with another warm blanket.

Hermione huddles into the warmth, blinking back more tears. “Sorry.”

Harry shakes his head. “Nothing to be sorry about; you’re hurt.”

“What about you?” Hermione asks tiredly.

Harry does the scanning spell on himself and shrugs. He’s bruised badly along his back and calves where he’d hit the tree branches; there are a couple of scratches – one on the back of his neck and one on the back of his hand which he hasn’t noticed before but now that he has, they’re stinging quite badly. He cleans them with another spell.

He reaches into the chest and pulls out some water. He carefully helps Hermione take a few sips. “I have some food…”

“I can’t.” Hermione presses her lips together tightly for a second. “You should…you should eat. You were hungry.”

His stomach rumbles as though to agree with her. Harry shoots her an apologetic glance but he grabs a chocolate bar, eating it quickly and washing it down with some water.

There’s an ominous howl.

Hermione jerks and grimaces with pain on the makeshift bed. “We should move.”

“There’s a lake. I think it’s probably a good few hours of flight time.” Harry says. “I’m going to head there.”

Hermione nods. “OK. Pack my handbag in your chest?” She looks up at the sky. “At least it’s still daylight.”

“Where do you think we are?” asks Harry, trying to keep her distracted as he quickly takes a few things out of the chest he thinks they’ll need and pops them into his pocket. He delves around until he finds the heavy suede winter coat he’d put in there one time and changes quickly. He has the rest of the chest packed up including her handbag, and shrunk back down in moments.

“I don’t know.” Hermione admits wearily. “It’s not the UK or we would have had Aurors popping in already.” She shoots him a knowing look. “Sectumsempra is on your banned list.”

“Is it?” mutters Harry, avoiding her gaze. “I must have forgotten.”

“Fuck them anyway.” Hermione says bluntly. “The whole thing is a bloody farce.”

Harry’s shocked enough at use of profanity to look at her wide-eyed.

“You saved their lives and they’ve treated you like dirt,” Hermione says, “I get so angry about it I could kill someone! Like that couple in the pub – you weren’t even doing anything! You deserve so much better.”

“Hey.” Harry cups her cheek briefly. “It’s OK.”

“No, it’s not.” She retorts, but she takes a deep breath. “I’ve never understood how you’ve remained so calm about it all.”

Harry shrugs and begins to set the broom up. “The wizarding world loves and hates me by turns, Hermione. It wasn’t exactly a surprise that as soon as they got over the initial ‘wow, we’re all still alive’ hysteria, they’d start looking at me as if I was the next Dark Lord on the horizon especially after the, uh, thing.”

“You have PTSD.” Hermione lectures. “It wasn’t your fault it was triggered by bloody Malfoy and his big mouth.”

“I didn’t mean to but I did put him and his remaining cronies in the hospital with a dozen broken bones.” Harry points out. “I’m lucky they didn’t put me in Azkaban on trumped up charges.”

Hermione huffs but she’s clearly waning. “It’s unfair.”

Harry shrugs and picks her up. He changes the subject because rehashing the whole banishment ruling is a waste of time. “So if we’re not in the UK…”

“It’s…we obviously got transported somewhere else. It’s probably America or Canada somewhere. There are time zones there which would be in daylight.” Hermione suggests.

“Right. So hopefully they’ll speak English.” Harry nods as he straddles the broom and settles Hermione in front of him so she’s sitting side-saddle; her back resting on his left arm so his right is free to navigate.

Her good arm snakes out of the blanket to grab hold of him again; her hand fisting into the toggles on the front of his coat. “I hate flying.”

“I know but it’s the only method of transport we have. We can’t risk apparating when you’ve got a broken bone.” Harry says matter-of-factly.

Hermione attempts a smile but can’t quite manage it. Harry casts another spell to have the blanket wrap around her like he’s swaddling a baby. She doesn’t protest it.

He rises slowly, barely off the ground and sets off. While it would be quicker above the trees, it’’ll be too cold. He expertly weaves them through the woodland, heading towards the lake. Hermione does her best to shift with Harry; to relax as much as she can on a broom.

“Do you think Molly knew?” asks Hermione out of nowhere. She’s raised her voice a little so he can hear her.

“I don’t think so.” Harry says.  Molly’s a good woman at heart and Harry believes her gift was well-meant. He thinks back to the street and the moment it happened. “Ron was shocked.”

“Thank you.” Hermione says.

He dips his head a moment to look at her questioningly.

“For saving me.”

Harry snorts. “If we kept track of who saves who, I think you’d come out ahead.” He really couldn’t imagine how he would have gotten through the past two years – hell, the past ten years without her.

Hermione hums and snuggles into him more. “Well, thank you anyway.”

She slumps against him a few minutes later; asleep rather than unconscious since she starts to snore. Harry can’t blame her. He’s tired and achy but he needs to get them to safety.

It starts snowing again; a curtain of white snowflakes that make Harry decrease their speed even more as his visibility becomes compromised. He sets an impermeable charm to keep the wet off them as he carefully threads a path through the trees.

He flies for a over an hour before he calls a halt and stops for a rest. He sets Hermione down again, transfiguring a log into a bed for her. He goes to the bathroom behind a nearby tree before he sits on the edge of the bed, eats another chocolate bar and sips some water.

Regretfully he wakes Hermione from her slumber. They stumble through an embarrassing ten minutes as he helps her through a toilet break of her own behind another tree. She’s breathless and in pain again when she’s finished. He picks her up and settles her back on the bed. She accepts a small chunk of chocolate which she sucks on for a little while. She drinks down half a bottle of water and accepts another vial of pain potion without complaint.

“It’s getting dark.” Hermione frowns up at the sky. “Will we be able to get to the lake before sundown?”

“Maybe.” Harry gestures out at the snow. His charm is keeping it off them but even with the tree canopy above them, the ground is beginning to get a deep covering of snow.

“This reminds me of Christmas and Godric’s Hollow when we were on the run.” Hermione murmurs.

Harry cocks his head as something occurs to him. “Do you…” he shakes his head, “nope, never mind.”

“What?” asks Hermione.

“It’s just…we went from night to day.” Harry points out. “Maybe it’s a time-zone thing or…”

“Or maybe we got transported in time.” Hermione catches on quickly. “Maybe, but I think we were translocated as well otherwise we would have just landed back in the street.”

“We would have been nearer help if we had.” Harry begins to pack up. They can’t afford any more dallying if they are to make it to the lake before dark.

It’s slow-going.

Hermione curls up against him and closes her eyes. But this time she whimpers in her sleep as though her pain has followed her into dreams.

Harry flies without stopping until the twilight begins to creep into the dark.

Hermione doesn’t argue with the decision to stop. She can’t help much but she’s patient while he constructs some shelter. It’s not great – he’s too tired but they have a bed so they don’t have to sleep on the ground, there’s a roof over their heads and there’s enough of a wall around them to keep the worst of the weather away.

There’s another bathroom break; some more chocolate and water before he settles them for the night.

He warms a rock to provide heat and clambers on top of the bed with a blanket of his own, careful to keep space between himself and Hermione because of her injuries. Hermione shifts closer anyway. Her good hand inches out to curl around his.

He smiles at her reassuringly and watches as she drifts off to sleep. He really hopes they find help in the morning.

His eyes are too heavy to keep open. He closes them.

There’s a sound.

His eyes fly open.

It’s still dark.

There’s something by the heated rock.

He freezes as he takes the size and shape in, the black fur. It looks like a grimm. Like Padfoot.

Harry’s heart beats rapidly in his chest.

The animal doesn’t come any closer. It stays by the rock. It’s not sleeping but lying like a sphinx as though waiting or guarding…

Harry’s too tired, he aches too much…he closes his eyes again.

The sun is beginning to leech light into the dark when he opens them again. He immediately checks on Hermione. She’s still sleeping. He slides off the bed and checks the rock; it’s still warm. There’s no animal tracks around it and he wonders if he imagined the grimm.   He stretches and grimaces as every bruise and scrape makes itself known. A visit behind the tree later he misses his small bathroom and all its amenities. He does the shaving charm and the dental hygiene spell. It’s easier than getting the chest back out to hunt for a toothbrush.

Hermione stirs and gives a small cry of pain.

Harry hurries over to her. “Easy.”

“This blows.” Hermione says roughly. “My arm is killing me.”

“I’ll get you some more pain potion.” Harry promises as he helps her off the bed. She limps using him as a crutch until she’s behind a nearby bush. He helps her enough that she can manage and then leaves her with her wand until she finishes and calls him over.

He helps her back to the bed and gives her another vial of pain potion. They really need food. His stomach is protesting the lack of a meal. He gets the chest out and hunts around for the ever-fresh box he’d packed in there.

Hermione watches with interest. “I never realised you had that.”

Harry shrugs as though it doesn’t matter. “I packed it the night I got the notice about the Wizengamot hearing.”

“You were going to run?” asks Hermione intuitively, because she really does know him best.

“I wasn’t going to let them send me to Azkaban.” Harry says. “I’ve just…updated it every so often since. Just in case.”

“You wear that necklace every time you’re in the wizarding world.” Hermione remarks as she accepts a foil package. She glances at the contents – bread and cheese – and takes a tentative bite. “I can’t blame you.”

Harry sits beside her and takes a bite of his own sandwich.

“My handbag’s kind of bottomless.” Hermione admits.

Harry glances at her.

Hermione tries a smile. “I started packing it with emergency supplies when I realised they were going to put you on trial and then…well, they passed the Muggleborn Act so…” she takes another small bite.

Harry nudges her shoulder with his very, very gently.

They focus on eating for a while.

Harry finishes his sandwich and drinks some more water. Hermione wraps the rest of hers up and accepts the bottle to drink down the rest while Harry stows the food away.

“I always meant to say thank you.” Harry admits quietly.

“What for?” asks Hermione clearly surprised.

“For helping me.” Harry says. “My plan was basically ‘run for it.’ You had it all worked out, the spell to bring us up to speed and sit our GCSEs and A Levels, and…getting the flats and navigating the university applications.”

Hermione smiles. “Someone has to look out for you.”

“I know it caused problems with Ron.” Harry comments.

Her eyebrows shoot up and she winces because her head is still sporting an egg-shaped lump above her right eye. But he’s not surprised at her surprise because he rarely ever says anything about her and Ron.

“That…it wasn’t your fault you know.” Hermione says quietly. “It was a lot of things.”

Harry nods as he shrinks the chest again and reties his necklace. “I know, but I know the amount of time you spent helping me was part of it.”

“It didn’t help.” Hermione admits candidly. “But Ron and I…” she sighs, “he asked me to marry him.”

It’s Harry’s turn for his eyebrows to shoot up. Ron had never said…

“It was after the ruling and the Act was passed.” Hermione explains. “He said if we got married, I wouldn’t have to worry about school or a career so it wouldn’t matter that the Act made it more difficult for me.” She blinks rapidly and brushes tears away from her cheeks.

“Hey, we don’t have to talk about it.” Harry says softly.

“No, I’m just tired and hurting that’s why I’m crying.” Hermione accepts the handkerchief he hands her. “It’s not…I mean, we were always a bit rocky and then…” she sighs heavily, “it was like he didn’t know me at all!” She blows her nose noisily. “He’s better off with Lavender. She wants to get married, have a family and be a stay-at-home Mum.”

“I’m sorry.” Harry says anyway.

Hermione takes a deep breath and winces again.

“Do you need some more pain potion?” asks Harry concerned.

“Better not.” Hermione says. “We don’t know how long it’s going to take us to get somewhere.”

Harry makes quick work of getting the broom ready and within minutes they’re back in flight.

The next hour is spent flying with Hermione dozing on his shoulder.

It stops snowing.

Harry slows as the trees start to become tighter. He brings them to a stop as his eyes catch on a thin strand looped between two trees.

“What?” asks Hermione.

He quickly shushes her and points.

Hermione stiffens. “That’s Acromantula webbing.” She’s careful to keep her voice low.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Harry whispers.

Hermione clutches at him as he slowly starts to rise up. They can’t go through the trees anymore. It’s not safe.

“Close your eyes.” Harry suggests.

“I hate flying.” Hermione complains miserably.

“At least we know where we are.” Harry says.

“Do we?” asks Hermione. “We can’t just assume this is the Forbidden Forest because it has spiders.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Harry says. “But if it is then we should be close enough to see across the lake to…”

“Hogwarts.” Hermione says as they both spot the familiar sight of the school’s turrets rising up in the distance.

Harry sets the broom’s direction and sets off briskly.

“Harry,” Hermione says urgently, “you can’t go to Hogwarts. It’s one of the prohibitions on your ruling!”

“Fuck them.” Harry replies, shocking her into silence. “You’re injured and it’s not like McGonagall’s going to turn us away.”

“Professor McGonagall, Harry.” Hermione remonstrates.

He smiles because it’s such a Hermione thing for her to do. The flight is easier above the trees but Harry has to keep casting warming charms and it’s not long before he feels Hermione shaking with cold against him despite her coat and blankets.

As soon as they’re clear of the trees, he lowers the height again to almost ground level. They skim over the surface of the silvery lake and Harry thinks he catches sight of a merman below the surface watching them.

He clears the lake and hits the Hogwarts ward without slowing down.

He only slows when he sees Hagrid’s hut.

As far as he knows, the hut was destroyed in the war and never rebuilt.

Hermione’s eyes are filled with concern as they meet Harry’s. But there isn’t a choice; she’s too injured for them to wait. He continues their trajectory to the front steps.

The large doors are already opening and…

Dumbledore.

Dumbledore stands on the steps.

Dumbledore.

Harry brakes sharply in alarm and Hermione clutches at him as the broom stops.

“Off!” She demands. “Off!”

Harry helps get her straight and she immediately throws up, vomiting badly over the gravel drive of the school.

Harry supports her but keeps a close eye on the wizard who wears Dumbledore’s face.

It’s not the same Dumbledore Harry knew though; the robes are a traditional black not the colourful garb Dumbledore liked to wear; his beard is shorter and trimmed close to his face. He’s not wearing glasses and his eyes are shrewd and calculating; not hiding his intelligence or observation.

Harry shivers as the intent stare catches his. He knows Dumbledore’s probably reading his mind but he can’t bring himself to care; he’s still pants at occlumency so it’s not like he can stop him.

“Harry,” Hermione says shakily, “I’m going to pass out now.”

Harry breaks Dumbledore’s gaze quickly. He barely manages to catch her but he does. His own body protests; too much flying, too many bruises and aches. He holds onto her though and sweeps her up into his arms.

“We need help.” Harry says tersely as Dumbledore just stands there. He tightens his hold on Hermione. “Please.”

Dumbledore seems to consider him for a long time but it’s probably only a moment. “Follow me.”

Harry carries Hermione over the threshold and into Hogwarts.

Chapter 3: Hogwarts Help

Harry ignores the festive decorations and the very large tree that takes up most of the entrance foyer.

Somehow he isn’t surprised to see Professor McGonagall nor that she falls into step behind him. He does note subtle differences; her hair is short and styled into a sharp grey bob; there’s no hat; her black robe is open and not buttoned up displaying a stylish grey tweed suit with a matching green blouse. All he knows for certain is that the Minerva McGonagall who occasionally drops in for tea at his flat is not the woman stalking behind him.

There’s no sign of the students on their route but Harry figures they must have locked the common rooms down when Dumbledore realised Harry and Hermione had entered the wards. Or maybe there are no students staying over at Christmas – there never had been that many.

Harry mumbles a featherlight charm under his breath as they get to the staircases. Hermione isn’t heavy but walking with her all the way to the infirmary isn’t easy. He’s just pleased that this Dumbledore has allowed them entry as they make the familiar journey.

They clear the infirmary doors and Harry automatically makes for a bed. He carefully places Hermione down gently.

“What’s happened?”

Harry looks up in surprise at not hearing Madame Pomfrey. She’s a step behind the witch who asked him the question. A Healer, Harry realises, taking in her green robes and the way she’s competently running a set of scans.

“She fell from a height.” Harry says cautiously, not sure how much he should share. He probably won’t get out of telling Dumbledore, but he’s learned to be wary about confiding too much in too many people. “When I got to her, she was conscious but disoriented. She has a concussion, broken arm and some heavy bruising to her right side. Her ankle has a bad sprain. We had to sleep rough last night in the forest so she’s pretty exhausted and cold.”

“Is the broom yours?” asks the Healer gesturing back at the door where the broom is hovering.

Dumbledore’s eyebrows rise.

Harry coughs. He had forgotten about the broom. “Ah, yes. Mine.” He whistles and the broom shoots across the room. He shrinks it and puts it back in his pocket.

“I don’t believe I’ve seen that model on the market before.” McGonagall comments. The gleam in her eye suggests she’s as Quidditch mad as the Minerva McGonagall he knows.

Harry hums but focuses on the Healer. “Is she OK?”

“Yes.” The Healer says briskly. “We’ll need to keep her sedated while the skelegro takes effect but the rest will do her good.” She turns and looks over her shoulder. “Poppy, please can you get her situated and administer the treatments I’ve specified.” She produces a piece of parchment from her pocket, taps her wand against it and hands it to Madame Pomfrey.

“Yes, Healer Dumbledore.” Pomfrey replies.

Dumbledore.

Now he’s heard the name Harry can see the resemblance in the nose, chin and the shrewd blue eyes which land on him.

“What’s the young lady’s name?” Pomfrey asks.

Harry swallows; he can lie but he figures he should be truthful where he can. “Hermione.”

The Healer steps away from the bed and focuses on Harry. “You, young man.” She waves her wand at Harry and frowns. “You’re in considerable amount of pain. Take a seat, please.” She motions for him to take the bed next to Hermione and Harry sighs and steps back, glancing anxiously at Hermione as he does.

Pomfrey smiles at him. “She’s in good hands, Mister…”

“Harry. You can call me Harry.” Harry replies.

A moment later the curtains are drawn around Hermione’s bed and Healer Dumbledore is encouraging him onto the bed to at least sit while she does her examination.

“I’m reading a litany of historical issues but the current damage is consistent with a bad fall.” Healer Dumbledore reports crisply. “Mostly you’re in need of a good meal, a warm bath, and some rest along with a lot of pain potion and bruising balm. You haven’t taken any potions since you were injured according to my scans.”

“Hermione needed it.”   Harry says, unaware that his chin has taken on a stubborn tilt.

“Ariana, I would appreciate some time alone with our visitor. There are a number of questions to ask him.” Dumbledore interrupts.

It’s confirmation that the healer is his sister which boggles Harry’s mind for a moment – he really wishes Hermione was awake.

“I’d prefer it if he was clear-headed for our discussion.” Dumbledore continues.

His sister pins him with a sharp look. “Healing comes first in this infirmary, Albus. We’ve had this discussion.”

“It’s fine.” Harry says.

Ariana looks at him searchingly before sniffing and turning back to Dumbledore. “You have fifteen minutes, Albus, and then he will be under my care and you’ll talk to him again at my say-so.”

Dumbledore simply nods his head. There’s no twinkle or sly smile – nothing but calm authority and acceptance.

Ariana huffs and heads back behind the curtain to Hermione.

Dumbledore and McGonagall approach Harry.

“I’ll erect a privacy bubble if that is acceptable.” Dumbledore says matter-of-factly.

Harry nods.

Dumbledore sketches a spell with his wand and in a second the bed and the two professors are surrounded by an viscous bubble distorting everything behind them.

“As we have limited time, perhaps you could tell us exactly what happened to bring you here.” Dumbledore says.

Harry nods again. “Yesterday…well, yesterday for us was Hermione’s birthday, September nineteenth.”

Dumbledore’s expression doesn’t flicker but McGonagall is visibly surprised.

“We went out to celebrate with some friends and Ron gave Hermione a present from his mother. It was his Grandmother’s crystal ball.”

“Ah, the tradition of matrimonial Seeing.” Dumbledore murmurs.

McGonagall sniffs.

Harry guesses she also shares the hatred of divination with her counterpart.

“We were walking back to Hermione’s flat when the ball started to hum and glow. Hermione took it out of her bag and…” he shrugs, “there was a bright flash of light, a power surge which knocked us for six. Hermione…she called out for help and when I looked at her, there was a whirlpool in the middle of the road.”

McGonagall isn’t hiding her scepticism.

“She was dragged into it before any of us could grab hold so I followed her.” Harry continues.

Dumbledore’s gaze seems to sharpen at that.

“The whirlpool tossed us out over the Forbidden Forest…”

“The what?” asks McGonagall.

“The forest?” Harry gestures out towards the window and the forest beyond. “Maybe you call it something different?”

“Young man…”

“Minerva,” Dumbledore intercedes, “I rather think he has a very good reason for calling it a different name.”

“You can’t possibly believe this tale!?” McGonagall says bluntly.

“I believe him to be telling the truth.” Dumbledore confirms. He holds up a hand to prevent her from speaking. “You fell from the whirlpool above the forest?”

“I broke my fall with a cushioning spell. Hermione wasn’t so lucky.” Harry says. “We realised with the location and the change of time we’d been transported somewhere else. We just didn’t know where. We tried to make it back to the whirlpool but it disappeared.”

“And where do you think you are now?” asks Dumbledore intently.

“Another universe?” suggests Harry, scratching his stubble absently. “Another timeline? I’m not sure.” His gaze darts back to the still drawn curtain beyond the bubble. “Hermione would probably know.”

“And what makes you so certain this is an alternate universe?” questions Dumbledore.

Harry looks back at him and meets his eyes directly. “Because in my universe you’ve been dead for three years, Professor.”

“Well, really!” McGonagall blurts out.

Dumbledore nods slowly though. “He’s telling the truth.”

“But how can his story possibly be true?!” asks McGonagall. “Travel between universes is not possible!”

“I’d quite like to know how exactly it happened myself.” Harry says, running a hand through his hair. He’s actually more bothered about how they get home.

“To work such magic is a difficult feat,” Dumbledore admits, “but it is not impossible as clearly it has happened. Do you have the crystal ball?”

“Yes, but I’d prefer Hermione gave you permission before I hand it over.” Harry says bluntly. “She’ll want to examine it herself when she’s recovered.”

“Smart?” asks Dumbledore, his demeanour breaking for the first time with his visible curiosity and interest.

“Brightest witch of our age.” Harry replies.  

McGonagall lifts an eyebrow. “You’re familiar with Hogwarts. I assume you both attended?”

Harry nods. “Same year; we sorted into Gryffindor.” He sees the minute softening of her features as she realises they were in her house.

There’s a chime and Dumbledore turns to the outside of the bubble where a blur of green can be seen. He takes down the bubble.

“Our time is up.” Dumbledore turns back to Harry. “I don’t believe you intend this school or students harm, but I think it would be best to limit your exposure to anyone until we have a better understanding of the differences between our two worlds.”

Harry nods again because that seems imminently sensible.

“You and your friend are welcome to stay, Harry. We will give you as much help as we can to return you home.” Dumbledore states, his tone ringing with a finality which has McGonagall looking like she wants to sigh – or roll her eyes.

“Thank you, Professor.” Harry says.

“Ariana, if you could alert me when Harry and Hermione are recovered enough for further conversation.” Dumbledore requests politely.

Ariana nods her head. “It won’t be until tomorrow at the earliest.” She gestures towards the infirmary doors. “I’ll set them up in a private room near my quarters. The students who remain with us for Christmas won’t bother them there.”

“Thank you, Ariana.” Dumbledore says, and the warmth Harry has been expecting to hear when Dumbledore speaks to his sister finally bleeds through in his tone.

Dumbledore and McGonagall don’t dally; they leave with nothing more than a nod of acknowledgement.

Harry is quietly but efficiently bundled off to a bathroom with a house elf. He soaks for a while in the medicinal bath salts Pomfrey handed him when he entered. He’s almost asleep when the house elf pops in again with a robe and he’s shown to a treatment room.

Ariana enters and nods at him with satisfaction. “The bath helped.”

“Lots, thank you.” Harry says. “How’s Hermione?”

“Sleeping. Her injuries have been treated and we’ve dealt with the concussion. You did a good job with the splint.” Ariana tells him. “She’ll make a full recovery in a couple of days.”

Harry breathes out, relieved.

She starts to scan him again. “You have some lingering bone density issues, possibly due to malnutrition in your childhood. I’ll prescribe a potion for you to take to assist. You’re also missing some standard vaccinations for dragon pox and magical measles. I’d like to administer those just to be careful.”

Harry accepts with a nod.

“The scar on your forehead is a cursed scar.” Ariana says bluntly. “You received this as a child?”

“I was just over a year old. A dark wizard killed my family and tried to kill me.” Harry explains succinctly.

“I have some salve which will help it fade. It won’t disappear but it will be less distinguishable.” Ariana says briskly.

Harry looks at her surprised. “That would be great, thank you.”

Ariana pauses the scan suddenly and lowers her wand. She catches his gaze firmly. “Your magic is unstable.”

“Yes.” Harry says, swallowing hard around the lump in his throat.

“You haven’t seen a healer for the trauma?”

Harry frowns. “They told me nothing could be done.”

Ariana raises her eyebrows. “They lied.”

Harry absorbs that numbly because of course they lied. “When I was told there wasn’t a magical treatment, I saw a psychologist – a squib who had been educated in the muggle discipline – on the advice of a friend.” He admits. “They’ve helped.” Hermione had been right that the psychologist he’d seen had been able to help Harry find a way to deal with his PTSD, and his magic had settled. But then it was rare he was somewhere it would be provoked.

“We’ll set that to one side for now.” Ariana says, not unsympathetically but with enough briskness Harry doesn’t feel she’s pitying him. “You’re exhausted and your body is one big bruise. That needs to be handled before we determine anything further.”

Harry doesn’t argue with her diagnosis.

“I’ll send Poppy in to provide your treatment.” Ariana says.

He’s too used to Pomfrey to mind much when she bustles in, treats his bruising, doses him with potions and forces him to eat two cups of beef broth. Once he’s done, he’s left to change into a set of plain pyjamas and he’s shown to a private room.

Hermione is already washed and dressed in infirmary pyjamas, fast asleep in one bed. Harry takes the other.

For a long while he doesn’t think he’ll sleep, there are too many thoughts whistling through his head and competing for space in his brain.

He can barely believe they’re in a different world, but they must be. Why else would Dumbledore be alive and be so different from the doddering grandfather persona his Dumbledore had assumed? This Dumbledore looks competent and assured; old but with all his marbles.

Harry sighs. He had a complex relationship with his own Dumbledore, and even with the war over for a while, he’s not entirely certain he’s come to terms with all the manipulations Dumbledore put him through. In the cold light of day, Harry knows his Dumbledore raised him to give his life for the wizarding world. His every decision with Harry had been to lead Harry along that path of self-sacrifice, of believing his own life held little value except for his role as The Boy Who Lived.

God.

He hates that moniker.

He’s not doing this, Harry tells himself firmly. He’s not dwelling on Dumbledore’s machinations and Snape’s creepy fixation on his mother or losing Sirius…

He’s not.

He’s spent too much time already since the war coming to terms with just how much he had been manipulated; how badly he’d been let down by the adults around him. Even Sirius who Harry loved despite only knowing his godfather a short time…or perhaps it’s more truthful to say he loved the idea of Sirius; of someone who would take care of him, love him.

And Sirius had loved him for all his faults.

Harry knows that.

Sirius had loved him.

He blinks back the press of tears.

He’s tired.

It’s been a horrible, horrible twenty-four hours of surviving some kind of interdimensional whirlpool, barely managing to rescue Hermione and keep her well enough to find help.

That’s all it is.

He’s tired.

He rubs a hand over his face.

In truth, he knows he’s due a meltdown.

Although really the last time he’d had a meltdown it had led to the whole banishment ruling and…

He knows Hermione thinks he’s handled it all fine; the truth is he hasn’t. But he’d told her the truth; it’s nothing more than what he expected. Nothing more than what Dumbledore raised him to expect. The wizarding world’s hero one day; it’s villain the next. Exiled for most of his childhood and all of his Summers. What does it matter to Harry to be exiled again? At least he doesn’t have to put up with the Dursleys anymore.

He hadn’t even fought it.

He knows part of him thinks that on some level he deserved it, because he had put Malfoy and his cronies into the hospital.

That first night back at Hogwarts after the war, after the Summer. They’d gone back to finish their schooling. He’d been so angry at the sight of Malfoy. Sitting back at the Slytherin table. Sneering and haughty as though he hadn’t spent the previous years cowering to a monster; as though he hadn’t tried to kill Harry and his friends. Maybe he hadn’t thrown them completely to his mad Aunt Bella when they’d been captured but…

Harry had lost control when Malfoy had tried to start up the same bullying as he always had; when he’d taunted Hermione about the word carved into her flesh when she’d been tortured.

Mudblood.

Harry’s magic had surged out of him like a tsunami and taken down Malfoy and his friends with a single blast of power. It had probably only been the fact that everyone hates the Malfoys and the Death Eater collaborators which had saved him from prison.

Chaos magic.

The Healer he’d seen in the wake of it had said there was no treatment.

Maybe they hadn’t lied.

Maybe in Harry’s universe there wasn’t a treatment.

Maybe.

All he knows is his magic hadn’t been the same ever since. He can feel it under his skin; he feels it with every move, every thought. Power at his fingertips and he knows the damage he could do with it.

He doesn’t fool himself.

He and Riddle had had far too much in common for him to do that. One different choice, one different turn…he could have been the next Dark Lord.

Maybe it’s for the best that he’s exiled.

Out of the way of temptation to take that step into the Dark.

Although truthfully sometimes he thinks Hermione is the only reason why he hasn’t ended up a Dark Lord.

He has a good life thanks to Hermione.

It’s not just that she’d bossed him into getting muggle treatment from a squib. She’d sorted getting them a tutor to complete their magical education; organised for them to sit the exams in France to ensure they had an ICW recognised qualification to enable them to keep their wands. And she’d ensured they had learned everything they needed to attend the university too; cramming the years of muggle schooling they’d missed into a year of hell.

But they’d succeeded. He enjoys his law and social science degree. He’s thinking about going into social work focusing on at risk children.

He has a future.

It’s definitely not the future he’d seen for himself when he’d been younger and foolish enough to believe the wizarding world would be his chance at a happy ending.

It’s not even the future he’d dreamed about stuck in the tent during the war; that had been nothing that special. Just a life of peace in the magical world without the threat of Voldemort. A family. A good job and a stable life. Something he’d yearned for. Something he’d thought he might never get.

Open me at the close.

He’d let go of that dream when he’d walked to his death.

And after…maybe dating Ginny had been his final attempt and that had gone up in flames. Literally. She’d set him on fire during their last argument. Magical fire which hadn’t done anything more than tickled but fire.

Harry misses Ginny sometimes.

He thinks maybe she’s a bit like Sirius in truth; maybe he just misses the idea of her more.

He shifts, changing position.

His back doesn’t hurt as much now, he muses. He opens his eyes and looks over at Hermione. She’s sleeping soundly, soft snores occasionally escaping her. He hopes she isn’t in pain anymore. He had hated seeing her so injured. It brings back too many memories of the war.

There’s a flash in his head; screams and blood and Bellatrix cackling.

He closes his eyes tightly as though he can shut out the image.

Harry has no idea how he would have survived the war without Hermione. She was with him every step. He knows if he had told her she would have walked beside him to Voldemort. She’s been his comfort and his support in the muggle world.

He knows Hermione’s choices have been made with him in mind. Yes, the writing had been on the wall with the revised Muggleborn Act, but before if anyone had asked him to place a bet on who would have a chance of succeeding despite the Act, Harry’s money would have been on Hermione. Maybe if he had been stronger, if he’d kept control of his magic, he might have been able to have done something to fend off the law but he’d been exiled before it had all come to fruition.

He doesn’t deserve her, but he’ll hang onto her as tightly as he can for as long as she lets him.

He snuggles further into the duvet and falls asleep to the comforting snores of his best friend.

Something wakes him.

It’s not Hermione although she’s continued to snuffle in her sleep. It sounds like…purring.

He blinks and looks across the dimly lit room. There’s a cat-shaped lump curled up behind Hermione’s knees on her bed. It looks like Crookshanks.

Harry frowns but he’s tired and Hermione is safe. He drifts back into sleep almost absently.

The sound of the curtains being drawn back wakes him next. He startles awake so suddenly the house elf gives a small cry and pops away.

Harry rubs a hand over his face and slides out of the bed. He checks briefly on Hermione but she hasn’t stirred. He wanders out to the bathroom and follows his usual morning routine. When he gets out of the shower, he finds clean pyjamas waiting for him on the stool where he’d placed the discarded clothes. He goes back to the room, and finds Hermione beginning to stir.

He hurries over to her. “Hermione.”

Hermione grimaces and opens her eyes slowly. She smiles at him before comprehension slams into her eyes. She takes a sharp breath.

Harry takes her hold of her hand quickly. “We’re safe.” He promises. “We’re at Hogwarts and we’ve been treated for our injuries.”

Hermione presses her lips together and swallows. He turns and pours her a glass of water, helping her to sit up and sip it.

“Thank you.” Hermione says. She checks her previously broken arm. “It still aches.”

“It’s just healed.” Harry says. “Hermione, do you remember when we got here at all?”

Hermione nods slowly. Her gaze meets Harry anxiously. “I think I may have hallucinated.”

“You didn’t.” Harry tells her firmly. “That was Dumbledore standing on the steps.”

“But…” Hermione’s eyes widen. “Time travel?”

Harry shakes his head. “He’s different. I think we travelled to another universe.” He pushes his glasses back up his nose. “The Healer is his sister.”

“Oh my.” Hermione says. “That’s…”

“Weird.”

Hermione’s mind is as always running ahead. “The crystal ball must have had some kind of spell attached to it. We need to examine it.”

“I think Dumbledore had the same idea.” Harry admits.

Her gaze returns to him and he reads the concern there.

Harry shrugs. “I told him about the ball, the whirlpool thing and how we got injured. I’ve used our first names only. He’s agreed for us to stay here and help us get back home.” He motions around the room. “He’s asked we stay out of sight of the students and I think it’s the Christmas holiday.”

“You did the right thing.” Hermione assures him.

There’s a knock on the door and Pomfrey arrives. She scans Hermione, confirms she’s well on the mend, and hustles her away for a bath and treatment.

Harry follows Pomfrey’s departing order and gets back in bed. The house elf pops in again with a tray of food. It’s a full English, with juice and tea.

“Thank you.” He says to the elf who stares at him with oversized eyes, their ears flickering. “I’m sorry for startling you earlier.”

“Kitsy doesn’t mind.” Kitsy replies a little timidly. “If yous be wanting anything, call for Kitsy.” She pops out before he can say anything else.

He almost devours his breakfast, but forces himself to slow down and eat properly. He’s mopping up the last of the fried egg with the last of his toast when Hermione appears.

She’s escorted into the room by Pomfrey.

Hermione gives Harry a tentative smile as she gets back in her own bed.

Kitsy arrives with a tray of food; oatmeal with some stewed berries, some soft scrambled eggs on toast. The elf blushes purple when Hermione thanks her.

Harry waits until she’s finished eating before he starts talking. “Dumbledore’s sister says there’s a treatment for the problem with my magic.”

“I thought the healers said there wasn’t anything.” Hermione frowns.

Harry stays silent.

Hermione sighs heavily. “Why do I suspect the treatment doesn’t just exist here?”

“Because you’re even more cynical about the wizarding world than I am these days.” Harry says.

She snorts but doesn’t disagree.

“I hope it is that they just didn’t have one back home.” Harry’s fingers worry the edge of the sheet. “She said she’d talk to me about the treatment later.”

Hermione nods. “Good. If they have something to help you that’s good.”

Neither of them say that it won’t make a difference to the ruling. Even if Harry is treated, when they return home he’ll still be exiled to the muggle world.

“Hopefully we’ll be able to stay until I get it then.” Harry replies.

“I don’t think that will be a problem.” Hermione admits. “I have no idea how we’re going to get home and even if we do get help…” she grimaces, “we could be here for some time. I mean, I had no idea there was any kind of magic which could displace us from our own universe.”

Harry nods. “We should probably speak to Dumbledore and work out a plan.”

“Professor Dumbledore, Harry.”

Harry grins at her usual remonstration and her eyes narrow dangerously.

“What’s so funny?”

Harry doesn’t stop smiling at her. “I’m just really happy you’re OK.”

Hermione’s expression softens. “Me too.” Her hand reaches out across the gap between their beds and he takes hold of it, a little surprised at her fierce grip. “I’m really glad you’re OK too, Harry.” Her face sets with determination. “And don’t worry, we’ll get home.”

“I’m not worried.” Harry says truthfully. “I’ve got you on the case.”

She laughs but he can tell she’s pleased.

It’s going to be OK, Harry thinks to himself; it’s going to be OK because they have each other and they’ve already survived a war and exile…interdimensional travel should be a breeze by comparison.

Right?

But maybe, Harry considers seriously as Ariana sweeps in to scan them again, maybe he shouldn’t jinx them.

Chapter 4: Magical Theories

Truthfully, Harry is surprised that Hermione follows Ariana’s order and rests for most of the morning. It’s probably a testament to how badly she was hurt which makes Harry’s stomach tie itself in knots so he stops thinking about it.

He retrieves his own pyjamas from the chest, his reading for his latest essay and settles cross-legged on his bed while Hermione snoozes.

After their lunch of a warming Scottish broth, freshly baked bread rolls, and rice pudding for afters, Hermione has regained some colour in her cheeks and there’s a familiar glint in her eye. She ties her hair back with a flick of her wand. She searches her handbag and comes up with a notebook and pen. She levitates the ball out of the bag and onto the cabinet between the beds.

She sits on her own bed, cross-legged but facing him. Harry mirrors her.

“Right,” Hermione mutters, “first question: how did we get here?” She waves her wand and sets the pen to make automatic notes.

They both look at the ball.

“It seems the obvious causal factor.” Hermione states. “The ball began humming approximately twenty minutes after we arrived outside of a magical enclave and into a predominantly muggle environment.”

“You noticed the humming.” Harry recounts.

“Yes,” Hermione sighs, “and when I picked it out of my bag it was glowing yellow.”

“There was a bright flash of white light and some kind of power surge.” Harry remembers. “It knocked us off our feet.”

“Not me.” Hermione corrected. “The whirlpool opened up below me and I couldn’t jump free of the pull.” She frowns thoughtfully. “It reminds me of black hole theory; a fierce gravitational pull which is hard to break free from.”

Harry nods in agreement. “You cried out for help and I tried to reach you but it was too late.” He tries to keep his voice even, to hide how desperate and scared he’d been in that moment. “I jumped in after you.”

Hermione smiles gently at him and her eyes warm with gratitude. “I managed to slow my fall when I fell out the other side.”

“I did a cushioning spell.” Harry says.

“That would have been better.” Hermione notes, looking disgruntled she hadn’t thought of it. It reminds him of a younger Hermione standing in the middle of a Devil’s Snare and wondering how to make fire. “Anyway, I don’t really remember the landing but when I came to the wolf was there and…” she looks over to him, “the next thing I know you run in and deal with it before it can hurt me.”

Harry shrugs.

Hermione taps her fingers against her chin. “So, we know that the ball and our translocation to what is probably another universe are most likely connected.” She looks hard at the ball. “Question two; what triggered it and will it be triggered again?”

Harry’s eyebrows shoot up because he has definitely not considered that. “If it does trigger again, remember the cushioning spell.”

Hermione lifts her eyebrow but concedes with a grimace. “We don’t really know what triggered it, do we?”

“Well, something had to have triggered it because otherwise someone in the Weasley family would have ended up in another universe.” Harry points out.

“That’s right,” Hermione says, “so what do we know about this ball when it was with the Weasleys and what changed?”

Harry can almost see her mind turning things over in her head.

“Fact,” Hermione begins, “the ball belonged to Ron’s grandmother, Arthur’s mother.”

“No stories of universe hopping with Ron’s grandmother.” Harry supplies.

“Before Ron’s grandmother was a Weasley, she was a Honoria Crouch.”

“And suddenly it all makes sense because that family was completely cuckoo.” Harry comments dryly.

“Honoria’s mother was Elspeth Gamp, but Elspeth’s mother was Callidora Black.” Hermione thinks out loud.

“How do you know this?” asks Harry bemused.

“Grimmauld Place.”   Hermione answers. “I was stuck there for weeks before you arrived. I spent a lot of time in the library talking with Sirius.”

Harry suppresses the old hurt about that Summer, about Hermione getting the chance to spend time with Sirius while he had been forced to stay at the Dursleys.

“Anyway,” Hermione says, “if the ball is handed down traditionally by mother to daughter, it is very likely that this ball has only ever been in the possession of a pureblood family.”

“You’re not blood-related to the Weasley family.” Harry says.

“Exactly.” Hermione says. “My genealogy is a difference.”

“And you’re muggleborn.” Harry points out.

Hermione looks surprised at his suggestion, but she accepts it with a nod. “It’s also very likely that the ball has only ever been in the wizarding world. There’s a lot of ambient magic in the wizarding enclaves which does not exist in most areas of the muggle world.”

“It’s also not been used in a generation.” Harry says. “Maybe it developed a fault or…something.”

Hermione nods again. “I think that’s a reasonable theory. We’ll add that to the others.” She looks at the ball again. “Well, if it was me who triggered it by being near it, I think it would have already triggered again.”

“Or it just hasn’t got the power to do it again yet; maybe it’s charging.” Harry notes.

She grimaces but accepts that. “If it’s triggered by touch then we’ll take the precaution of my not touching it.”

“We can also ensure it stays in the wizarding world.” Harry says.

“And if it is some kind of fault…” Hermione’s brow creases, “actually I don’t know how we’d mitigate that.” She goes to rub her head but aborts just before her hand reaches where the lump had been. “I really hope it isn’t down to a flaw or degradation,” she continues, “if it is, it’ll be difficult to replicate to send us home.”

Harry nods slowly.

“OK,” Hermione says determinedly, “let’s work through each theory. Let’s start with the last one – the ball degraded, was flawed in some way and it resulted in creating a tunnel between universes as a magical accident.”

The pen in the notebook labelled the theory ‘Accident.’

Hermione frowns. “We may not be able to ascertain whether it will trigger again or be able to replicate what happened, and we’ll certainly not be able to replicate with any certainty of getting to our home universe rather than just another variant.”

“I’m not liking this theory,” mutters Harry.

“It’s your theory.” Hermione points out dryly.

“That’s probably why I don’t like it.” Harry replies with a grin.

Hermione rolls her eyes at him. “Moving on, the next theory is that the ball was triggered by being in the muggle world for approximately twenty minutes. So, it was either deliberate or accidental.”

“Deliberate?”

“Maybe something like an anti-theft spell.” Hermione replies absently. “The ball was an heirloom.” She grimaces. “Possibly it is an anti-theft spell and it triggered because I’m not in the Weasley line or it recognised I’m not a pureblood.”

The notebook scribbles ‘Anti-theft’ with three bullet points under it denoting the three possible triggers for the spell.

“If it is a spell that would be help us be able to determine a way back.” Hermione finishes.

“What if it wasn’t a spell, it just reacted to being in the muggle world badly?” asks Harry.

“We’re back to ‘Accidental.’” Hermione brushes a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. “Right. We’ve covered the ball was flawed or the muggle world triggered it…that leaves us with genealogy or blood status.”

“Wouldn’t it need some of your blood to determine you’re not pureblood?” Harry ponders.

“It could have just scanned me, that would explain the humming and glow, but that assumes there is some passive way of determining I’m not a pureblood.” Hermione frowns. “I don’t know of anything which would enable it to do that. Let’s face it if there was such a way to test people for their blood status, Umbridge would have been using it during the war.”

“She would have been using it at Hogwarts.” Harry says.

Hermione gives a snort because it’s true. “So you’re right; it’s probably not triggering because I’m a muggleborn but…maybe because I don’t share DNA with the original owner of the ball.” She points at it. “I picked it up and touched it. Sweat, skin cells…it might have determined my DNA from those.”

“But that brings us back to some kind of anti-theft thing, doesn’t it?” asks Harry, shifting a little to ease his muscles.

“Yes.” Hermione says. “Or…or it was deliberately tied to me as a person.”

Harry regards her for a long moment. “You asked me if I thought Molly had known.”

“Did I?” Hermione blinks at him. “I don’t remember that.”

Her confusion is genuine and Harry sighs.

“You were kind of out of it,” he notes, “but seriously, do you think Molly would deliberately booby-trap your present?”

Hermione deflates with a long sigh of her own. “No.” She grimaces. “Not really. I mean, she hates that I broke up with Ron and I can’t blame her taking his side because she’s his mother.”

“She’s been fine with me.” Harry says.

“That’s because Ginny broke up with you.” Hermione points out. “Molly’s probably still hoping that you’ll both get back together in the future.”

Harry isn’t sure that the horror of that isn’t written all over his face.

“Anyway,” Hermione says, “you’re right. I don’t really think Molly would booby-trap my present.” She pauses. “Well, I think if she was going to do something it was probably charming it to show me Ron at midnight or something like that – not send me into another dimension.”

“But if she’s upset with you, why…”

“Because she hates Lavender more than she hates me.” Hermione cuts in. “And she’s always been concerned that I’ll get in the way of Ginny dating you; marrying me off to Ron would take care of that.”

Harry’s not sure his eyebrows can creep any further up his forehead. “What?”

Hermione just looks at him pityingly and points her finger at him. “And that is the reason why she’s never had to worry really. You’re just oblivious about this type of thing.”

He can’t argue with that. “Getting back to the ball…”

Hermione shoots him a look which tells him she knows he’s changing the subject but she’s going to let him. “Right,” she takes a deep breath, “there might have been some kind of booby-trap tied to me personally. Unlikely but possible.”

The notebook writes ‘Vendetta’.

“But if it was tied to me we should be able to investigate and determine a way home hopefully.” Hermione finishes.

“So, what’s our next step?” asks Harry, changing positions and stretching.

“Well, we need to do some controlled tests on the ball.” Hermione says. “I’m a bit dubious about doing anything though until we’re both recovered. If we trigger it again…”

“We need to be fighting fit to deal with another trip.” Harry agrees.

Hermione nods. “Also, if they can help you with your magic…”

Harry doesn’t have to say anything; they both know that any help would be appreciated.

“OK.” Hermione says. “Until we’re better, the ball goes in a box.”

Harry slides off the bed, resizes his wooden chest and pulls out a container.

“Really, Harry, Tupperware?” Hermione wrinkles her nose.

Harry shrugs.

Hermione sighs and levitates the ball into the plastic box. Harry seals it with the lid and with a magical spell for good measure. She transfers it back to her handbag as he shrinks the chest down and ties the necklace back on.

“Next item on the agenda…” Hermione begins.

“There’s an agenda?” mutters Harry as he clambers back on the bed.

Hermione simply raises an eyebrow. “What resources do we have?”

Harry sighs. “The contents of my Gringotts vault, the Potter family vault and the Black vault at the time of the ruling.”

Hermione chews her lip. “So, a lot?”

“Enough that we don’t have to worry about money.” Harry confirms. Why they hadn’t thought to do that during the war was beyond him.

“Didn’t the bank fine you for the break-in?” asks Hermione bluntly.

“They did.” Harry confirms. He’s pretty certain the goblins had wanted his decapitated head on a stick but they’d settled for confiscating any goblin-made item in the vaults. Mostly the Black vault had found itself stripped of lots of useless but priceless items. Harry figures Sirius would think the whole thing worth it.

Hermione looks concerned.

“It’s fine, Hermione.” Harry says. “I have enough money.” He’d accepted full responsibility for the break-in with the goblins and he knows Hermione’s always felt guilty about that. But she’d had few monetary resources without her parents and Ron had little to his own name beyond the gadget Dumbledore had bequeathed to him.

“Well, I do have some money.” Hermione says. “I had a small trust fund from my grandfather so I had most of that converted.” She sighs. “The rest of my money is in Barclays back home.”

Harry thinks about the student account he’d opened. There’s not a lot in it – the money is a small amount to pay for his tuition and living expenses.

“Money sorted then.” He says out loud.

“We have shelter.” Hermione says. “But we’re very lucky they’ve allowed us to stay here.”

That they can’t count on that hospitality being forever is left unsaid.

Harry pushes his glasses up his nose. “They’re also feeding and watering us…”

“…and providing medical care.” Hermione finishes. “We’re really very lucky.”

“We should probably offer to compensate them – rent or something.” Harry says.

“Good idea.” Hermione nods decisively. “We’ll talk with Professor Dumbledore.”

A strange look comes over her face as though she’s weirded out by talking about a Dumbledore who isn’t theirs and who isn’t dead. He can empathise; he feels completely weirded out.

Hermione rallies because she’s Hermione and she instructs the notebook to turn the page. “What do we know about here?”

Harry blinks. It makes sense to take stock; do a risk assessment. He hasn’t though much beyond the immediate need to get help and to appreciate it.

“There’s an acromantula nest in the forest.” Harry blurts out.

Hermione doesn’t spear him with her ‘you’re an idiot’ glare which Harry takes as a sign she’s still recovering. “That makes sense because it looks like Hagrid is here?”

Harry shrugs. “I only saw Dumbledore and McGonagall.”

He can almost see her lips twitching with the need to correct him.

Hermione pushes her hair back over an ear. “I think I remember seeing his hut though.”

“You did. We did, I mean.” Harry confirms. He rubs his chin. “I don’t think they call it the Forbidden Forest; they were confused when I called it that.”

“OK,” Hermione gestures to the notebook and the pen obediently writes it down, “what else?”

“Well, Dumbledore obviously.” Harry runs a hand through his hair.

Hermione finally moves from her position as she reaches over and catches hold of his hand. “Are you OK?”

Harry’s caught by surprise at the way his throat closes up suddenly and the press of tears, the need to just…

The glass of water on the table begins to rattle.

Hermione doesn’t let go of his hand as she just closes the distance between them, clambering up onto his bed to envelope him in a hug.

He sinks into her arms for a long while. Breathes in the scent of her, the feel of her alive and warm. Lets the feel of her calm his chaotic magic.

Hermione inches back slowly and he lets her settle them both; sitting on the edge of the bed, side by side, her hand tight in his. She doesn’t speak, just sits beside him giving him her strength as he follows his therapy methods; deep breaths, focusing on his senses.

“Sorry.” Harry says eventually. He’d holding onto her hand and can’t quite seem to make himself let go.

Hermione just squeezes his fingers lightly; enough pressure to tell him she’s there with him.

Harry takes a deep breath. “Professor McGonagall looks different; her hair, clothes.” He worries at the edge of his pyjama top. “She looked like she wanted to take my broom apart and see what made it tick.”

Hermione’s shoulder nudges his.

“Also I think she hates divination just the same as ours.” Harry says.

Hermione raises one perfectly arched eyebrow in silent query.

“I told them about how you’d gotten the ball from a friend’s mother.” Harry explains. “Dumbledore recognised the tradition straight away. She was less than impressed.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.” Hermione says. “Professor McGonagall is a very logical woman.”

“She’s Head of Gryffindor I think.” Harry muses. “She seemed to soften a little when I said we’d been Gryffindors.”

Hermione bites her lip. “They didn’t recognise us?”

“No.” Harry says. “I’m not sure…maybe we jumped into a different year? We definitely jumped dates.”

“Maybe.” Hermione considers. “Nobody knows how other dimensions work but it’s reasonable to think that time might flow differently.”

Harry presses his lips together. “You already know about Dumbledore’s sister being the healer here, although Poppy’s still the nurse.”

“I remember our Poppy telling me that there used to be a healer.” Hermione says. “When the last healer retired, the governors decided to do a deal with Saint Mungo’s to send someone if there was a need instead.”

“Ariana seems very competent.” Harry remarks. “I think her personal history might be a lot different to what happened in our world.”

“Makes sense.” Hermione says. “Although if she did go through a trauma in childhood like in our world and they have a treatment here…”

“She could have been treated and recovered.” Harry breathes in.

Ariana Dumbledore on their world had never recovered from the trauma to her magic when she had been attacked by a group of muggle boys. She’d ended up permanently injured; confused and unstable until the day she had taken a step into the spell-fire between her brothers and Gellert Grindelwald. But if she had recovered…

“Having his sister in his life could have made a huge difference.” Hermione theorises matter-of-factly.

“He’s definitely different.” Harry gives in to the inevitable because he’s going to have to talk about Dumbledore eventually. “His clothing isn’t…odd. He hasn’t got the whole grandfatherly thing either. He seems…normal. I mean, scarily intelligent but normal.”

“That’s…” Hermione scrunches her face as she searches for a word.

“Mind-blowing.” Harry supplies.

Hermione hums. “I sometimes wonder if…” she breaks off before she finishes and Harry looks at her quizzically.

“What?” he prompts when she remains silent.

She moves to angle her body more towards him so they can see each other. “I don’t want you to ever think I’m making excuses for him or condoning what he did to you.”

His heart starts to pound because they never talk about it.

“He was wrong to do what he did to you, Harry.” Hermione says passionately, her soft brown eyes filled with conviction. “He made decisions about your life, about you, all to win a war which he could have prevented years before we were even born. You didn’t ever deserve the choices he made for you.”

Harry focuses on the tight grip she has of his hand; the steadiness of her gaze. Hermione has been the one friend he’s always been able to rely on; the one person who’s ever truly been wholly and completely on his side.

Even when he thought she was against him – the horrible Summer after the graveyard when he just wanted his friends to talk to him, to be there for him – and telling McGonagall about the broom in third year – all of it had been to protect him.

He trusts her.

So maybe he can allow himself to believe that she’s right; that the way Dumbledore had played with his life hadn’t been right; that Harry hadn’t deserved it.

“But…” Harry murmurs.

“But,” repeats Hermione softly, “sometimes I think he knew what would happen after it was over. Sometimes I think the choices he made at least helped prepare you for that.”

For living in the muggle world.

For living with the knowledge that he was feared and hated by many in the wizarding world.

For being on his own a lot.

Dumbledore’s choices had left Harry with a lot of scars – many invisible compared to the lightning bolt on his forehead but they’d made him a survivor.

He takes a deep breath. Another. His hand holds Hermione’s tightly.

“I think he knew because they’d done the same to him.” Hermione continues. “So he hid his intelligence and power behind the façade of a grandfatherly persona, emphasised his eccentricity so they wouldn’t look more closely than the colour of his robes. He hid.” Her thumb strokes over his knuckles. “But they still turned on him when they didn’t want to listen; when they were scared. And in the next breath, still expected him to save them. So, I think he knew.”

Harry thinks she’s right.

She’s always more right than she’s wrong, even when she’s wrong.

“I don’t think this Dumbledore is hiding.” Harry remarks.

Hermione doesn’t comment on his deflection; she just keeps holding his hand. “Well, maybe things are different here.” She sighs. “We need to find out exactly what is different and what’s not, especially if we might be here for a while.”

“Maybe we could ask for some history books while we’re stuck in here.” Harry suggests.

Hermione positively beams at him. “That is an excellent suggestion.”

Harry clears his throat. “Kitsy.”

He doesn’t need to look at Hermione to know she isn’t pleased with him for using the elf.

“We’d like some history books from the library if we’re allowed, please.”

Kitsy’s ears waggle. “Kitsy bes bringing you some books from the library.” She pops away and almost immediately pops back with her arms filled with books.

Hermione finally lets go of his hand – and he ignores how he misses the warmth of her touch – and starts to sort through the books as Kitsy disappears after Harry’s muttered thanks.

She clambers back onto her own bed with a thick tome. Harry picks one of the remaining books at random and lies back. His fingers skim over the gold lettering.

“A History of Britain: From Merlin to Modern Day.”

He darts a look at Hermione but she’s already enthralled in her own reading.

He wants to thank her; tell her he believes her about Dumbledore. Because he can see it. He can see clearly how Dumbledore had taught Harry the truth about the fickleness of the wizarding world; how the Summer exiles might have helped keep him enough in sync with the muggle world that he could return to it without too many issues.  But he doesn’t because Dumbledore might have done what he had thought best for Harry, but Dumbledore had also treated Harry as nothing more than a pawn, moving him about at his whim at the end of the day.

His heart beats fast again.

He can’t think about it; can’t allow himself to think about it. So, he pushes the thought away, opens the cover and starts reading.

Chapter 5: Interlude

Arcturus Black, Earl of Grimmauld, stares at the family tapestry with a frown.

It’s a beautiful piece of art; a deep green background with the family tree delineated by shining silver thread. There’s a new name written there now: Harry James Potter.

The name glitters with a magical glow.

He feels the corresponding deep inner knowledge that there is a new presence in the family magic – a powerful presence, but one steeped with pain.

Not a baby.

Arcturus is certain of that.

There’s too much power, too much pain for a baby.

Combined with the sudden appearance of the name on the tapestry and Arcturus is bewildered; none of it makes any sense.

The name hovers beneath James Potter but there’s no line to suggest that James is the father. Besides Arcturus prides himself that he would have known if the Potter heir had been serious enough about a dalliance to get a woman with child. He has spies everywhere and he knows that the only woman Potter had chased with any meaning had been the Evans girl.

Maybe it’s an accidental pregnancy – regardless of how carefully they guard magic there are still accidents which happen…but, no. If it was an accident there still should have been a line denoting parentage between Potter and the new arrival.

It’s as though this Harry is related but at the same time, not.

Not to mention the feel of Harry is adult – young perhaps – but not a child.

Arcturus reaches out and traces the name carefully. “Who are you, Harry James Potter?”

There’s a ping as a visitor crosses the ward and Arcturus straightens, breathing in sharply. He has half-expected the message he had sent to be ignored. He strides out of his study and quickly through the passageways to the hallway where his head elf is helping to divest his visitor of outerwear.

“Lord Gryffindor.” Arcturus offers a small bow of his head as protocol dictates.

Charlus Potter barely returns the nod and stares at him with hard brown eyes. “I got your summons. If this is another attempt at a rapprochement…”

“It’s not.” Arcturus doesn’t allow the annoyance and irritation he feels about the refusal by the Earl of Gryffindor to accept the attempt to bridge the gap between their two families the year before to appear on his face. The rapprochement is vital to removing the stain from their family magic caused by his father’s treatment of Dorea. Maybe if he hadn’t waited so long after his father’s death to make the approach but…Melania, his late wife, had been adamant that the attempt had to follow her own death. Sometimes he hates prophecies. “May we offer you some refreshment?”

Charlus shakes his head and straightens the cuffs of his stiff black robe. “I’d like to get to business.”

Arcturus simply nods. “Follow me.” He leads the way back to his study and gestures towards the wall where the tapestry hangs. “You’ll see the reason I called you here under your line.”

Charlus throws him a suspicious look but he looks towards the tapestry, tracing the lines of the Black family down to where his own name is outlined next to his wife, Arcturus’ cousin, Dorea. He hears the sharp intake of breath as Charlus reads the name beneath his son’s.

“Harry James Potter.” Charlus murmurs softly. He looks back towards Arcturus who has taken up a sentry position in front of his desk. “You feel him in your family magic?”

“Yes.” Arcturus confirms. “I came to check the tapestry as soon as I felt him appear.”

“When was that for you?” asks Charlus, turning to face him fully.

“The day before last.” Arcturus admits. He’d sat on the name for more than a day before giving in and sending a message to Charlus.

Charlus nods. “He’s in a great deal of pain.”

“Can you pinpoint him?” asks Arcturus, more bluntly than he would have normally, but Charlus isn’t one for Slytherin tactics and he can see the bluntness land well with his fellow Lord.

“Not well.” Charlus admits. “He’s here in the British Isles somewhere North but other than that?” He snorts. “His presence is obscured and there could be any number of reasons why.” He sighs and closes his eye briefly before opening them again. “Perhaps some refreshments wouldn’t go amiss.”

Arcturus immediately calls for his elf and orders them both a glass of whiskey. He directs Charlus to take one of the easy chairs in front of the fireplace and he sits in the opposite one gracefully just as the elf arrives back with the drinks.

They raise their glasses in a silent toast and toss back the first gulp with matching grimaces of pleasure.

“We’re going to have to work together to tackle this new arrival.” Arcturus says quietly but with confidence. “I know my family magic will not accept any less and I doubt that yours will either.”

“You’re right.” Charlus admits, his tone surprisingly even-tempered. “But that does not mean I can accept your rapprochement.”

“When we last spoke of this, you stated you accepted my apology for the wrongs done to my cousin Dorea by my family and for the time I took to attempt the rapprochement.” Arcturus points out. “Surely those are the greatest divides among us?”

“My heir believes your heir tried to kill his friend, a friend who is like a brother to him.” Charlus shoots back.

“Your heir’s disapproval of mine is based on misinformation.” Arcturus points out. “I have my heir’s word that it wasn’t him who tried to kill the werewolf and I know through the family magic enough of what occurred to know his silence is driven by family honour.”

Charlus sighs. “I know you believe him and I accept that your family magic may have given you more insight but…” he holds up a hand to prevent Arcturus from arguing, “I think we’ll all agree that the younger generation are all vague when confronted with what actually went down between them, but the fact remains that until the actual truth is known, I have to support my heir just as you have to support yours.”

“And so no rapprochement.” Arcturus states, ruthlessly keeping his disappointment from his tone.

“Not yet, but…” Charlus raises his glass towards the tapestry, “the boys are going to have to come to terms with whatever did happen because this is more important. I suspect this is going to force the issue one way or another, Arcturus.”

Arcturus leans back at the use of his first name. It’s rare that Charlus uses his first name although they had gone to school together.

“In truth, I’ve missed your friendship.” Charlus says gently. “If it hadn’t been for you Dorea and I would not have found each other.”

Arcturus dismisses that with a wave of his hand. “I have missed our friendship too, Charlus.”

“I might wish the matter didn’t need to be forced this way but…” Charlus sighs, “I can’t deny I’m pleased that something is forcing the issue. You shouldn’t pay for your father’s bitter pettiness or my son’s misconceptions and I hate that Dorea is caught in the middle. She was devastated to hear of Melania’s death and she hated not being able to attend the funeral to pay her respects.”

As always the mention of his late wife tightens Arcturus’ chest and for a second he finds it difficult to breathe. It’s only been a year since Melania had died and he grieves for her every day.

“If anyone can force things with James, it’s her, and she wants this matter settled.” Charlus says.

“Then we’ll settle it.” Arcturus says.

It feels like a promise as Charlus nods in agreement. Maybe the words to agree the rapprochement cannot be used right then and there but they will be used within days not weeks or years. Arcturus can live with that.

They sip their whiskey and their eyes are drawn back to the tapestry.

“Have you ever heard of such a thing happening before?” asks Charlus.

Arcturus shakes his head. “No.” He looks over to Charlus pointedly. “You?”

“No.” Charlus breathes out in a long-drawn sigh. “Do you have any theories?”

“He’s too powerful for a child and his presence is too formed. It’s as though he entered our world as an already grown adult.” Arcturus summarises where his own thinking has landed succinctly.

“Yes.” Charlus agrees with a sharp nod. “But a young adult. I feel that. He’s younger than James.”

Arcturus inclines his head. It’s very likely Charlus can feel the presence within his family magic much clearer than Arcturus can since Charlus seems to be in the direct line in some way.

“He’s definitely related to the Blacks as the family magic would not have recognised him otherwise but there is no direct lineage.” Arcturus waves towards the tapestry. “What it means for him to hover beneath your heir on the tapestry…”

“He’s definitely a Potter and while our families are interwoven everywhere,” Charlus gestures at the tapestry himself, “my marriage to Dorea is the most direct link.” He purses his lips. “I wonder…do you believe it’s possible he time travelled from a future we haven’t lived yet?”

Time travel.

It was certainly a theory only…

“If he has travelled in time then why isn’t the lineage showing? There should be a line back to James at least.”

“Maybe, although perhaps the magic cannot recognise his parents as they have yet to be born?” counters Charlus.

Arcturus concedes the concept with a sigh of his own. He sips his whiskey and mulls it over. “He’s very powerful.”

“Yes,” Charlus says quietly, “very powerful. He may be the most powerful wizard in the Potter magic.”

Arcturus raises an eyebrow at that because Charlus has never been someone given to hyperbole.

“You sense the same.” Charlus challenges him gently.

“He is powerful.” Arcturus allows. Very powerful, and although he may be loath to admit it to Charlus, he knows Harry James Potter is probably the most powerful wizard in the Black family. That’s huge given his own heir is a magical powerhouse, and it’s not as though the Blacks generally are lacking in magical power. The three sisters from Cygnus’ line are all magically strong.

“He’s hurting.” Charlus murmurs. “I ache to sooth him but I cannot find him.”

“You’ve tried scrying?” asks Arcturus.

“Dorea tried practically the moment he hit the magic.” Charlus confirms. “It’s how we know he’s in the country.” He finishes his whiskey and sets aside the glass. “The scrying couldn’t pinpoint him.”

“If he is a time traveller, it could be Time herself intervening to keep us away from him.” Arcturus suggests. “After all there is a potential paradox of a future generation running into a direct ascendant.”

Charlus snorts. “You mean that muggle scientific theory called the Grandfather paradox?”

“Well, if he has travelled back in time and you were to meet, it’s entirely possible the timeline will be altered enough that his existence may never happen.” Arcturus lectures briskly.

“Maybe.” Charlus shakes his head. “I fear the reason may be more prosaic than that.”

“Oh?” prompts Arcturus gently.

Charlus is the one to raise an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me your spies haven’t already informed you of the strange activity at Hogwarts yesterday.”

Arcturus smiles slyly. “What have you heard?”

Charlus looks at him with unhidden exasperation. “Albus called for a lockdown due to some unexpected visitors.”

“Your wife’s best friend tell you that?” Arcturus teases.

“Actually I met up for drinks with Tiberius in Hogsmeade yesterday night and overheard Hagrid.” Charlus says dryly. “Minerva takes her vows to the school seriously.”

Arcturus doesn’t admit anything about his own source although he suspects Charlus knows who it is since it’s hardly a secret that Sirius works at Hogwarts. “All I know for certain is that two young people arrived at Hogwarts injured somehow from being in the forest and in need of help. They were admitted to the infirmary and nothing else.”

“Which is as much as Hagrid babbled all over the pub.” Charlus confirms. “It’s a strange coincidence, yes? That we sense this young man at the same time as two strangers appear at Hogwarts.”

Arcturus raises his eyebrow again. “Neither you nor I subscribe to a belief in coincidences.”

Charlus smiles. “Well said. So if the story is true and the young man is this Harry James Potter…”

“Then he’s under Hogwarts’ wards which may explain why the family magic cannot fully make sense of him.” Arcturus concludes.

“It also explains why we couldn’t pinpoint his location if he was in the forest.” Charlus says. “The ambient magic there interferes with scrying.”

Arcturus frowns. “If he’s at Hogwarts…”

“Then he’s under Albus’ dominion.” Charlus interjects unhappily. “I know.”

Arcturus’s eyes narrow on Charlus.

“Don’t give me the stare, Arcturus,” Charlus says tersely, “you’re hardly the only one to notice how much power the man has accrued since his fight with Grindelwald.” He sighs. “It was sheer good luck the majority of the Wizengamot felt that he couldn’t keep his Chief Warlock status and work at Hogwarts.”

“If you know he has his own agenda…”

“He hasn’t done anything yet.” Charlus points out. “All any of us have regardless of our spies and informants is a lot of conjecture and theory. He’s been a good Headmaster and he is a hero of the wizarding world whose opinion carries weight. He has a lot of influence.” He grimaces. “Thanks to his friendship with the Croaker boy, James even considers him a mentor.”

Arcturus frowns. “You haven’t intervened?”

Charlus shakes his head. “James is a good man and he’ll work Dumbledore out eventually, especially with Alastor’s training honing his sense of paranoia. Besides, to go against Dumbledore right now would be foolish and reveal too much.” His eyes snag Arcturus’ pointedly. “You feel the same or you’ll have moved on him already.”

Arcturus can hardly argue with that. “He’ll try and keep these visitors to himself if they have time travelled.”

“Until Minerva pulls him up on the family magic aspect.” Charlus states dryly. “She’s loyal to Hogwarts, not to Albus personally thankfully, and I doubt there is any way he can keep their presence from her as his Deputy. I expect that we’ll be informed within the next day or so once Albus has reconciled himself to acknowledging he needs to inform us.”

That sounds like Dumbledore. He won’t want to inform them but he will and he’ll do it as though they’ll owe him a great favour for what is nothing more than his magical duty.

“The trick will be keeping Albus from interfering even once he’s informed us.” Charlus murmurs.

Arcturus doesn’t bother to agree out loud because he knows Charlus already knows Arcturus thinks the same.

“Have you spoken with James about the new presence in your magic?” asks Arcturus briskly, changing the subject.

“He’s aware but he was about to head out on a mission.” Charlus sighs. “He was concerned by the pain he can feel.”

Arcturus figures they’re all worried about the level of pain they can feel. Harry’s presence vibrates with a soul-deep hurt.

Charlus’ brown eyes snag Arcturus’. “Have you spoken with Sirius?”

“Briefly.” Arcturus acknowledges. “He had a similar concern.”

He doesn’t share that Sirius is half-convinced that Harry’s magic is in chaos. Sirius’ sensitivity to chaotic magic is something they don’t talk about. Anger surges within him again. Walburga and Orion are long dead but the memory of finding them whipping a four years old Sirius while the young boy protected his baby sister from harm is still as vibrant as the day it had happened.

“Perhaps it’s not time travel.” Arcturus says tersely. “There is a Witch’s spell which can mask a child from the family magic.” It was how Walburga had managed to hide Sirius’ mistreatment from Arcturus for the first four years of his life.

Charlus frowns. “Perhaps, but it doesn’t explain why the lineage is absent.” He points to the tapestry again.

“True.” Arcturus concedes.

“Well, whatever the circumstances of Harry’s arrival here or his past, we’ll look after him now.” Charlus states.

Arcturus nods. “Agreed.”

Charlus gets up from his chair and Arcturus rises to stand with him. They walk out to the hallway together in comfortable silence. Charlus pulls on his outerwear and offers a nod of farewell to Arcturus.

“Give my regards to Dorrie.” Arcturus says quietly.

Charlus smiles and nods again.

A second later Arcturus stands alone in the hallway.

There’s a sound on the staircase and he looks up to see Regina making her way down. His young grand-daughter is dressed in what has become the uniform of youth; jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt. Her black hair is tied back into a loose ponytail and she’s far from the composed and icy image of Lady Regina Black which she wears in public.

“Gramps.” Regina hugs him without hesitation.

Arcturus huffs a breath but he hugs her back. He’s never been able to say no to her – and neither has her brother. If it hadn’t been for Melania, Regina might well have turned into just another high society spoiled princess.

“Was that really Lord Gryffindor?” asks Regina as she eases back.

“It was.”

“No wonder Siri said he felt a disturbance in the Force.” Regina teases, looping her arm through his as they make their way to his study.

“Your brother said no such thing.” Arcturus chides her gently.

“That’s because he’s a stick in the mud.” Regina grumbles but there’s too much affection in her tone for Arcturus to take the complaint seriously. Regina adores Sirius as much as he adores her. He knows Sirius takes Regina to the muggle cinema whenever she wants to go.

“Did Lord Gryffindor know anything about the new Potter?” asks Regina as they enter the study.

“He has a theory.” Arcturus confirms.

Regina pulls away to examine the tapestry again. “Harry James Potter.” She murmurs and her fingers trace gently over the thread. “Who are you?”

“That is the question.” Arcturus says as he settles into the worn leather chair behind his desk.

Regina sighs. “Sirius told me about Hogwarts. Do you think the young man is this Harry Potter wizard?”

“I think it’s likely.” Arcturus says.

Regina stiffens and pales; her eyes turn glassy and Arcturus is up and out of his seat before he consciously decides to do so.

He hates the gift she’s been given; the Sight she has to See; the gift of her ancestor Morgana Le Fay, the Lady of Black Lake. Melania had passed the guardianship of the Lake to Regina on her death.

He stops within a hand’s breadth of her. He knows not to disturb her in the midst of a vision, had already learned that years before with Melania, but it’s so difficult.

Regina blinks once, twice, and sways on her feet.

Arcturus is there to steady her. He calls for an elf and some hot chocolate as he chivvies her towards the seats he and Charlus had occupied.

Regina sighs at his fussing but accepts the drink he presses upon her. He sits finally in the opposite chair while she regains her composure.

“What did you See?” he asks her gently.

“Too much,” says Regina softly and she shakes her head, “not enough.” Her fingers tremble against the ceramic mug she holds.

Arcturus stays quiet. He wishes he could help her more but the visions are hers to bear. He’d also learned that with Melania. He’d hated it then and he hates it now.

The fire crackles and pops.

“War is coming.” Regina says finally. “Blood will be spilled and lives will be lost.” She shivers despite the warmth of the fire. “The wolf is at the door; the snake is in the forest. But the Grim protects the innocent; the lion defends the pride.” She blinks again.

Arcturus rubs his chin thoughtfully, the prickle of his beard against his fingers comforting. It’s not news to him. The signs of unrest in their society have been growing steadily stronger for a long while. It’s the reason he’s kept watch; the reason why he’s so keen to ensure the rapprochement happens.

“I saw a young wizard standing between the dark and the light.” Regina continues. “The sword of Gryffindor in one hand, a wand in the other. He’s to be our protector; our shield.” She looks up suddenly catching his gaze. “Harry James Potter.”

“You saw Harry James Potter.” Arcturus states, keeping the wonder and the shock out of his voice.

“He looks so much like James.” Regina says shakily. “Hair as wild but his face…his nose, his chin…they’re all Potter.” She sighs. “But his eyes are green. They remind me of someone but I can’t think who.”

“What else did you see?” asks Arcturus, pushing her gently.

Regina sips her chocolate before she replies. “A witch from Guinevere’s maternal line stands beside him, shoulder to shoulder.” She smiles. “We’re going to be good friends.”

It’s not a guess but a statement of fact, of knowledge.

Arcturus rubs his chin again. “Is there anything more?”

Regina shakes her head, regret flickering across her pale features. “Nothing of use.”

Arcturus reaches out and takes hold of her hand. He lets the family magic swirl around them, soothing them both.

A harsh ringtone breaks the silence and startles them both. They aim a shared glare at the telephone on his desk.

“Sirius.” They both say together because the family magic will have informed his heir as soon as Regina was overtaken by her vision.

Regina is quicker than Arcturus. She’s sliding her hand out of his, dropping her drink on the nearby coffee table and skipping over to answer the call before Arcturus can move.

“Siri!” Regina’s voice is warm with love and affection. “I’m fine. It was just a vision.”

Arcturus resumes his previous seat as Regina perches on his desk and talks with her brother. She tells him everything she’s already told Arcturus but she lets slip more details – the name of the witch being Hermione, the fact that Harry Potter has a lightning bolt scar on his forehead, and that Avalon still sleeps.

Arcturus tunes her out as she moves on to describing her day with her friends, the latest fashion trends and something to do with a movie she wants to see.

“I ran into Bellatrix in the Alley.”

That arrests Arcturus’ attention because the eldest of Cygnus’ brood is dangerous. Bellatrix is a powerful witch, ambitious. She’s already seen two husbands to the grave. Her third husband is a Belgian aristocrat and Bellatrix has lived abroad for the past two years on their estate. He had hoped she’d stay abroad.

“No, she was fine. Mean but fine.” Regina rolls her eyes expressively at something Sirius says. “Like she’s going to do anything to me; she’s far too scared of you and Gramps.”

Arcturus can only huff approvingly. Bellatrix had tried to bully her young cousin once when they were children and had felt the wrath of Regina’s brother descend on her full force. She’d tried again as a teenager using magic and that time Sirius had put her in the hospital. Arcturus had given her warning then too. It had been the last time she’d tried anything with Regina.

“No, I don’t like that she’s back either but Cissy was with her and she said that Bellatrix was spending the holidays with her since she’s pregnant.”

“Yes, I know,” Regina’s face scrunches up, “Malfoy spawn.”

Arcturus throws her a warning look because while the child may be Malfoy’s heir, the boy will also carry Black blood.

Regina laughs and then hands the phone over to Arcturus. “He wants to speak to you.”

She bounds around the desk, kisses his cheek and hurries away, snatching her drink as she passes on her way out of the door.

“Grandfather.”

The sound of his beloved grandson and heir has Arcturus smiling. “Sirius.”

Continued in: A Step to the Right: Part 2