Storytime with Rachel F Hundred

There is a crack like the loudest thunder.

Sirius snaps awake in an instant. He snatches up his wand and bolts out of bed, hitting the floor running. His flannel pyjamas are flimsy protection against the cold of the Scottish winter and his woollen dressing robe chases after him through the small sitting room of his teacher’s flat.

He transforms as he leaps through the doorway and he hits the chilly Hogwarts corridor as a large black Grim.

He feels the Black magic pulls on him insistently although he’s peripherally aware that the castle is rumbling awake.

Sirius continues to run even as he imagines the students tumbling out of their dorms and into the common rooms searching for an answer to the magical shockwave which has just hit the Hogwarts’ walls like a cannonball.

He wonders at the timing, if it is an attack by Voldemort.

Dumbledore is abroad attending a key meeting of the International Confederation of Wizards. The Headmaster is still the British representative, but he had lost his position of Supreme Mugwump over the summer after the disastrous Tri-Wizard Tournament. Even Dumbledore hadn’t been able to wriggle out of the consequences of the tournament ending with Voldemort’s very public resurrection and the death of the Hogwarts’ Champion, Cedric Diggory.

Sirius leaves corralling the students to the Heads of Houses.

He doesn’t stop running, following his magic towards the source of the upheaval, out of the safety of Hogwarts’ sturdy walls and across the grounds to Helga Hufflepuff’s Secret Garden.

Slytherin’s Chamber is lost in the depths of Hogwarts and Ravenclaw’s Room lost within its walls. Gryffindor’s Chamber at the top of the tower is only accessible by phoenix fire but Fawkes has refused to take anyone for centuries. Hufflepuff’s garden remains the only Founder’s space which can be found, even if it is situated at the centre of a maze.

He bounds past the greenhouses and the vegetable garden, throwing himself around the tight corner of the flagstone pathway and through an arch with its pumpkin lanterns standing like guards either side…

All Hallow’s Eve.

Maybe it isn’t Voldemort.

It wouldn’t be the first time someone had attempted a casting at midnight on Halloween in the garden. He vaguely remembers in his own seventh year that the Gryffindor pranksters doing some kind of ritual at Halloween had succeeded in banishing Binns, the ghost who had taught them history.

He races through the next arch which marks the entrance of the maze.

Sirius knows the twists and turns to get to the centre and he scrambles around every corner, through every turning, the Black magic tugging at him even more forcefully. Time is running out.

The urgency has him leaping across the final hedgerow.

He twists back into his human shape as he lands and takes in the devastation.

Seven young female students are sprawled at the edges of a new shallow crater which has replaced the former casting circle. There is a burned-out hollow where the altar used to stand. A bloodied house elf sits within beside the still form of a young man who is curled up like a ball in the dirt and ash.

Sirius recognises the house elf.

Kreacher.

His mother’s old house elf.

Yet it cannot be Kreacher.

As Lord Black he can feel the Black house elves in the family magic. His Kreacher is at Grimmauld, serving Sirius’ brother Regulus. His younger brother had been severely injured by Voldemort years before and needs round the clock care. The exact circumstances are only known to the brothers and Kreacher since the death of their grandfather and mother. It is a family secret sworn to the Black magic.

Sirius pushes old memories away and focuses on the present, on the elf who cannot be Kreacher and yet who is him. His heart leaps in his chest. Is the young man another Regulus? His gaze arrows on the young man and the shock of dark hair that he can barely make out…

It is not Regulus.

Relief closes his throat tight.

He distracts himself by sending a sweeping diagnostic across the unconscious students. It comes back with the blunt assessment of severe magical exhaustion. He casts a wordless Patronus.  The glowy form of the Black viper appears before him.

“Go to McGonagall. Tell her there are seven students unconscious in Hufflepuff’s circle, and a deeply injured wizard.”  

The Patronus races away.

Sirius steps forward, leaving the icy grass and entering the ashy crater.

The house elf’s bulbous eyes swivel to him as he reaches the hollow. A sour look crosses the old and wizened face as the ears waggle. “You is being Lord Black.”

“Yes,” Sirius confirms gruffly. “You…you’re Kreacher, but I don’t know how since I know my Kreacher is at Grimmauld.”

Kreacher grimaces. “Someone be casting a portal and bringing us here.” He snorts. “It be killing Master Harry without my shielding him.”

What had the girls done?

Sirius keeps his attention on the elf. “Master Harry?”

“He be Lord Harry Potter-Black,” Kreacher says bluntly.

Sirius’ eyes widen.

Little Harry Potter.

The death of the Potter heir at Voldemort’s hand had been a tragedy compounded by the loss of the lad’s grandfather who had been watching him at the time.  Potions Master Fleamont Potter had been distant family in the way that much of the wizarding world’s aristocracy were all distant family, tangled together as they were in the branches of an old and unwieldy family tree. The only good thing to come out of the whole tragedy was the devastating injury to Voldemort which had seen the Dark Lord retreat until his dramatic return the year before.

Sirius wonders at what tragedies had happened in this Kreacher’s world that Harry Potter would have ended up as Lord Potter-Black.

Yet…

“Harry Potter would be fifteen not a full-grown wizard,” Sirius gestures at Potter-Black.

Kreacher’s brow lowers. “Your Potter not mine being fifteen.” He waves a thin bony hand. “It does not matter; mine be needing a magical anchor to this world to live.”

Sirius darts a glance towards Heather Potter, sprawled on the other side of the circle. Even if the girl wasn’t unconscious, he doesn’t think she’d be able to establish a family bond given her own youth. She’s barely thirteen.

“The Potters are in London,” Sirius begins.

Kreacher’s ears waggle again, more violently than before. “Theres being no time.”

The house elf is right, Sirius realises as he hastily casts a diagnostic over them. Potter-Black is severely injured. His magical core is badly cracked. The elf’s shield is the only thing holding him together and Sirius thinks Kreacher is only conscious and alive from sheer determination given the diagnostic’s litany of injuries.

“Master Sirius being his godfather,” Kreacher states gruffly. “You bes close enough to bond.”

Only his grandfather’s political training keeps Sirius’ face stoically blank and not gaping with his mouth wide open. “What?”

Kreacher simply looks at him.

Their world must be very different. He and James Potter are not enemies, but they are far from close.

“I don’t know what happened here,” Sirius begins sharply, “I don’t know if you are right and the girls brought you or whether you or Lord Potter-Black here co-opted their casting. You are asking me to save his life without any knowledge of what kind of person he is and whether he deserves to be saved.”

Kreacher sneers. “Even yous be seeing he is entrenched in the Light. They called him the Boy Who Lived, the Man Who Defeated the Dark Lord.”

The prophecy, Sirius realises. Dumbledore had tried to keep it quiet but it had come out in the wake of Voldemort’s return over the summer; a boy born in the seventh month with some unknown power to defeat the Dark Lord. Dumbledore is adamant that with Harry Potter gone, it is Neville Longbottom who is the chosen one.

Sirius cannot think of a less likely candidate than the shy Longbottom heir who prefers plants to people and who lives in the shadow of his very successful parents. However, Longbottom had been entered into the Tri-Wizard Tournament the year before by a Death Eater masquerading as Alastor Moody. Nobody had believed that the lad had entered himself and Frank had immediately acted to have his heir removed from the contest over Dumbledore’s protests.

His eyes flicker to where Geraldine Longbottom lies across the circle next to the Potter girl. Neville’s younger sister is a picture-perfect Gryffindor known for her fiery temper, her reckless charge-ahead attitude and premier flying skills which have seen Gryffindor finally beating everyone else at Quidditch.

“Master Harry bes needing you,” Kreacher croaks.

Kreacher really does not have much time left at all, Sirius realises taking in the greying cast to the elf’s complexion. He takes a deep steadying breath.

While it is true he doesn’t know for certain what has happened, he suspects that the seven girls in the circle did a casting. He knows that Kreacher and Potter-Black are severely wounded which lends truth to the elf’s account about the portal grabbing them. He knows that the unconscious wizard will die if someone does not provide an anchor and take over the shielding Kreacher is currently providing. There is no time to get the Potters to Hogwarts before it is too late.

Sirius takes more step into the dirt and crouches down beside Potter-Black. He is a man grown, but a very young man still. If he has defeated Voldemort in his world…

Sirius reaches and clasps the nearest limp hand, his eyes narrowing at the scarring scrawled on the skin.

‘I must not tell lies.’     

It looks like the type of carving left when someone uses a Blood Quill. He doubts that Potter-Black would have scarred himself by choice with such a statement which means someone tortured him by forcing him to write over and over, never allowing the scar to heal.

“Hard life he has had,” Kreacher murmurs.

Sirius tightens his grip. He clasps his wand tightly and reaches out with his magic. “I, Lord Sirius Orion Black, swear upon my magic that Lord Harry Potter-Black is henceforth a member of the House of Black and welcomed into our protection.”

A bond springs up between them, solid as a steel cable. Suddenly, a silver stream of magic surges from Sirius’ hand and wraps itself first around the hand he holds before it spirals up along the arm and over the rest of the still body. It lifts Potter-Black briefly from the ground, arching upwards.

The Black magic heals the young wizard, sealing the cracks in his core and soothing the pain of the magical wounding.

Kreacher sighs as his master’s body settles back on the ground. The elf slumps sideways, his ears drooping, the bulbous eyes glassy in death.

Footsteps catch the edge of Sirius’ hearing as help finally enters the maze. He looks around and sighs heavily.

He has no idea how he’s going to explain what has happened.

o-O-o

Harry wakes up.

He stares at the familiar ceiling of the Hogwarts’ infirmary, surprised at the venue. He is immensely grateful he isn’t back at King’s Cross station with the ghostly form of Dumbledore lecturing him about choices.

A throat clears beside him, catching his attention.

Harry carefully moves his head to look at the wizard sitting in the chair beside him.

Sirius.

His breath catches in his throat.

His godfather looks the healthiest Harry has ever seen him. He looks like the rich aristocrat he’d been born to be, dressed in a warm wizard’s robe of deep green velvet. Sirius’ raven locks are long and tied back into a simple ponytail tied with a matching ribbon of velvet fabric and his beard is neat and trimmed. His silver eyes hold on Harry’s steadily.  

Harry is definitely dead then.

Sirius’ expression turns sheepish as he gets to his feet and shifts so Harry can see him easily. “Ah, no, not dead.” He reaches over to the beside table and pours water into a glass.

Harry’s brow creases as he weakly accepts the glass and sips at it. He hadn’t meant to say his thought out loud. He feels achy and fatigued. He hands the glass back, staring at his dead godfather, confused beyond words.

Sirius sets the glass aside. “Do you remember what happened to you?”

Harry frowns.

He’s had a relatively quiet life since the war ended.

Hermione had stayed in Australia to mend her relationship with her parents. They talk every week on the Floo, but their lives grow less and less entwined with every day which passes. He hasn’t seen any of the Weasleys for months. His relationship with Ron and his family has grown estranged since Harry’s relationship with Ginny ended. Harry is resigned rather than angry. Truthfully, Harry knows he could reach out himself to mend the breach, but he’s been content to retreat into Grimmauld with his only real companion a grumpy old house elf.

Kreacher.

His bond with the elf is gone.

Harry closes his eyes at the pained realisation of why.

The memory slides forward, playing out in his head. They had been decorating the attic and arguing about paint colours and…he’d thought he’d heard Hermione shout his name and he’d turned…

“The air ripped apart beside me,” Harry’s eyes flicker open. “It sucked me in without warning. My house elf he grabbed onto me.” There had been pain, so much pain. His last panicked thought before he’d fallen into blessed unconsciousness was that his magic was being ripped from his body, tearing through his flesh and skin like a thousand knives. He shifts his gaze back to Sirius. “That’s the last thing I remember.”  

“A group of students in this reality cast a spell to bring you here,” Sirius explains succinctly. “No-one will argue that they did not fully think through the consequences of the spell, but they really had no concept of how violent the spell could be to the object of its focus. Your elf anchored your magic. It saved you from being torn apart in the shift between realities.”

Harry blinks.

Realities?!

What?!

“We are about to be interrupted,” Sirius says with a hint of regret in his rich voice, “but know you are in another world rather than your own. Your elf’s action saved your life.”

Grief which races through Harry, closing his eyes, his breath catches on a stifled sob. He’s lost too many loved ones, too many friends, and Kreacher’s death feels like another unfair blow.

“You needed an anchor to this world,” Sirius continues, “so as the elf proclaimed that you were Lord Potter-Black in your world, I adopted you into the protection of the House of Black in this.”

Harry’s eyes snap back open and he stares at the wizard who has to be Lord Black if he has adopted Harry. He looks like Sirius. “You are Sirius Black, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Sirius nods. “From the little Kreacher was able to say and your own title, I assume that there are some major differences between our two worlds since I very much doubt that Lord Potter would ever ask me to stand as a godfather.”

Harry presses his lips together but he doesn’t get the chance to reply as the door to the infirmary room opens and a familiar mediwitch bustles inside.

Sirius retreats to the other side of the room while Madame Pomfrey briskly greets Harry and puts him through a thorough physical check. Harry’s grateful for Sirius’ attempt to give him some privacy but is still a little disgruntled at the nurse’s blithe assumption that he’s fine having Sirius in the room while she does her examination.

He nods when she explains he has a major case of magical exhaustion but he is on the mend and only needs more rest. She hurries out before he can ask when he can leave.

Before Harry can resettle and ask Sirius the storm of questions rattling around in his head, Albus Dumbledore strides in through the open door, Professor McGonagall just behind him.   

While Madame Pomfrey’s younger look had given weight to the assertion of another reality, it is the sight of the old wizard alive and well that convinces Harry that Sirius has told him the truth.

Harry has reflected on his Dumbledore’s actions over the past couple of years. He’s over the initial anger at the way Dumbledore had used him as a weapon, but the disappointment lingers along with the nagging question of whether his late mentor had ever truly cared for him.

Different Dumbledore, Harry reminds himself briskly as the old wizard comes to a stop at the end of Harry’s bed. He’s still grateful that Sirius returns to his side, McGonagall joining him. He returns her nod of acknowledgement taking in the different hairstyle and the less traditional robes she wears than his own version.

“It is good to see you awake,” Dumbledore begins, drawing his attention. “May I enquire as to your full name?”

“You don’t know it?” asks Harry cautiously.

“The elf gave Professor Black a name,” Dumbledore demurs, “but we would rather hear it from yourself now that you are awake and able to answer questions.”

“My full name is Harry James Potter, Lord Potter-Black.” Harry looks over to the table and the discarded glass of water.

Sirius silently hands him it and Harry takes a shaky sip, the cool liquid sliding soothingly down his croaky throat.

Dumbledore’s lips press together, his blue eyes behind his wire-frame spectacles hard glints of blue. “Did Professor Black explain the circumstances which brought you to our world?”

“He mentioned a group of students cast a spell to bring me here,” Harry is not up to sparring with a visibly distrustful Dumbledore.

Dumbledore’s gaze flickers to Sirius. Maybe Sirius wasn’t meant to tell him. His Dumbledore had always preferred keeping secrets and he can’t imagine this one is any different.

“The spell was to bring someone who had defeated Voldemort to us,” Dumbledore informs him briskly. “One of the students was trying to save her brother from having to face him since he is the only remaining possible candidate of a prophecy.”

“Her brother?” Harry repeats, confused. Neither he nor Neville have siblings. Perhaps the prophecy on this world relates to someone else.

Dumbledore’s gaze sharpens. “I assume Neville Longbottom does not have a sister on your world?”

“No,” Harry stills as the rest of Dumbledore’s words sink in. “Neville’s the only remaining candidate?” He looks at Dumbledore squarely. “What happened to your Harry Potter?”

“Voldemort attacked him when he was no more than a wee baby,” McGonagall answers in a shockingly strong Scottish brogue. “His grandfather died in the same attack.”

His grandfather?

“Not his parents?” asks Harry, glancing at her.

McGonagall shakes her head, the sharp grey bob barely moving. “James and Lily were at a medical clinic with their daughter.”

Their daughter?!

But…if they were not at the cottage did that mean they were alive?!

Harry places a hand on his forehead. “I don’t understand.”

“It was a set-up,” Sirius murmurs. “The Potters’ Secret Keeper infected the baby with a mild illness to get them to leave their son alone. They turned to Lord Potter to watch the boy while they travelled in secret to have their daughter treated by a Healer.”

“Who was their Secret Keeper?” asks Harry, needing to check their identity just in case it wasn’t the rat.

“A wizard called Peter Pettigrew,” Dumbledore tells him matter-of-factly.

Harry grimaces.

McGonagall clears her throat. “He was the Secret Keeper for your family, lad?”

Harry nods. He takes a breath to calm himself. “My parents were killed defending me. I survived and Voldemort was defeated for a time, disembodied.” He pauses to take another sip of water before continuing. “He regained a body at the end of my fourth year at Hogwarts.”

Dumbledore sighs. “He was restored to full health this past June. He kidnapped a student from Hogwarts’ grounds during the final of a tournament we were holding and used him in a ritual. He brought him back and dumped him at the gate to announce his return.”

Fear grips Harry for a long moment stealing his breath.

It is just his damned luck that he’s been yanked across realities to one where Voldemort is alive.

Harry hurts and he’s so very tired. He is really not in any shape to contemplate the idea of another long fight with the evil bastard.

Dumbledore hums briefly. “Had they sought my advice ahead of casting, I would have advised the students not to attempt the spell. It is a cruelty to steal someone from their own world for the purpose of fighting this war in ours.”

“But?” prompts Harry, hearing the unsaid word.

Dumbledore offers a small rueful smile. “But the deed is done and I believe your knowledge of Voldemort’s defeat may assist us in this one.”

The Horcruxes, Harry realises. He knows his Dumbledore knew about them by the time Voldemort returned but he had also been putting the pieces of what they were and where they were together very slowly.

“Maybe,” Harry concedes.

Dumbledore inclines his head. “The Potters would like to meet with you. While Professor Black did the right thing in taking you into the protection of his magical House to anchor you, they are your family.”

“So was Sirius in my world,” Harry shoots back, panic rising at the idea of meeting them. He’s made his peace with his own parents; talked to their shades thanks to the Resurrection stone and felt their love and care for him.

“Poppy said that Harry is still recovering and needs to rest,” Sirius says firmly, moving subtly to draw Dumbledore’s attention. “Not to mention he has a lot to process given the situation. Perhaps the Potters can visit once he’s recovered and settled more.”    

Sirius and Dumbledore stare each other down across the infirmary room.

McGonagall rolls her eyes which makes Harry want to laugh. “We should leave Lord Potter-Black to rest at the very least,” she says, cutting through the tension.

Dumbledore glances towards her but acquiesces when she looks back at him pointedly. “Very well. We will leave you for now.”

Harry gives McGonagall a small smile of gratitude as she ushers the old wizard out of the room.

The door closes with a firm thunk.

“You must have a million questions,” Sirius notes quietly.

A hysterical laugh bubbles up and out of Harry before he can stop it. He stops himself almost immediately but he see the alarm in Sirius’ silver eyes.

“Sorry, just…” Harry shrugs, “it’s a lot.”

Is he stuck here? Will he ever get home again? Yes, he’d drifted apart from his friends, but he loves them and he knows they love him.

He presses a hand against the side of his aching head.

“It is a lot.” An understanding smile curves across Sirius’ face, shifting his features from aristocratic to something warmer. “You should try to get some more rest, Lord Potter-Black.”

Harry wants to argue but he can feel fatigue dragging him back towards the peaceful blankness of sleep. He hands Sirius the almost empty glass of water and scoots further under the covers.

“Call me Harry,” he says tiredly.

“Harry,” Sirius repeats. “And I’m Sirius.”

Sirius, but not his Sirius.

Old grief washes over him and Harry closes his eyes. Maybe if he sleeps when he wakes up, he’ll find that this has all been a crazy dream.

Probably not. His luck has never been that good.

He gives in and lets the dark drag him under.

o-O-o

When Sirius opens his flat door, the identity of the unexpected visitor is not a surprise. James Potter has never been known for an abundance of patience.

Sirius keeps a hand on the door, signalling his intent to keep their interaction quick.

“Lord Black,” Potter inclines his head in a brief show of respect.

Sirius follows his example but does not move from the doorway. “How may I help you?”

“Albus says that the traveller was released into your care this morning,” Potter says briskly, a hand sweeping his tousled dark hair back from his face.

“Harry’s asleep,” Sirius replies. “I would rather not disturb him.”

A flicker of what might be relief races across Potter’s face drawing Sirius’ attention to the faint stress lines at the corners of his hazel eyes and the circles of dark underneath. Potter looks drawn, Sirius reflects, although somehow Potter remains an attractive bastard, nevertheless. Good cheekbones, a straight nose, and a strong jawline are not diminished by a bit of stress.

“May I come in and speak with you?” Potter asks bluntly.

Such a Gryffindor.

Sirius steps back and allows Potter entry only because they do need to talk. He closes the door and joins Potter in front of the hearth where the other wizard stands, staring at the pictures of Sirius’ family which clutter the mantelpiece.

“Albus says he’s not ready to meet us,” Potter begins, turning around to face him and getting straight to the point. “Is that true?”

Sirius blinks because that sounds like Potter is questioning Dumbledore’s reading of the situation. He’d rather thought Potter was completely in the Headmaster’s pocket.

“Harry hasn’t said anything explicitly against meeting you nor has he requested a meeting,” Sirius demurs. “When Dumbledore suggested it yesterday morning, Harry was…unsettled by the idea. His parents have been dead for years in his world.”

Potter pushes a hand through his dark hair again, sending the fashionably messy do further awry.

“He’s having to adjust to the idea of being in a different reality,” Sirius concludes.

This time Potter’s reaction is more than a flicker – there is a definite look of hesitation before Potter wrangles the emotion off his face.

Sirius raises an eyebrow and decides a blunt approach may serve him better with Potter. “Are you ready to meet him?”

Potter’s eyes snap to his, startlement shining brightly in the hazel depths. Chagrin dances across Potter’s face.

“Not really, no,” he concedes with a faintly hysterical chuckle.

Sirius lets his own understanding peek out from the pureblood aristocratic mask he’s been trained to wear his entire life.

Potter’s shoulders drop down a notch. “You seem to be handling this well.”

Sirius allows himself to shrug. “I had my existential crisis the night it happened when Poppy told me I’d need to stay close to him to establish the bond properly. When I was alone with him, it hit me that I had adopted a complete stranger into the House of Black on the word of a house elf.”

Potter laughs at Sirius’ wry tone. His warm smile only makes him more attractive. It reminds Sirius of how Potter had looked in their school days – vibrant and joyful.

“How is Heather?” asks Sirius quickly to avoid dwelling on the inconvenient resurrection of his schoolboy crush.

“Physically recovered,” Potter says, rolling with the change of topic with equanimity. In fact, he seems touched that Sirius has asked after his daughter. “She’s remorseful that her actions have brought about the death of a house elf and gravely injured the wizard they summoned.”

“Does she know that he’s a different version of Harry?” asks Sirius gently.

Potter sighs. “Lily insisted on telling the children. She’s…my wife is hopeful that we can welcome him into our family in some way.”

“And you?” asks Sirius, hearing the cautionary note in Potter’s tone.

“He’s not my son,” Potter says with a quiet devastation which it is likely the other wizard has lived with since losing his firstborn. He shakes his head as though to shake away the thought or perhaps the aching memory of loss. “That’s not to say I won’t welcome the opportunity to get to know this Harry, but Monty remains my heir.”

Monty. Fleamont Potter the Second, the Potters’ youngest child. The boy is ten years old.

Regulus has already owled in response to Sirius informing him of what has happened and told Sirius to make Harry the Black heir.

Sirius feels that it might be the best way forward. He’s never liked the prospect of having to marry and have children although he knows that is his duty as the Lord of his magical House. Regulus is his current heir, but his brother is bedridden and sickly, and their only other options are Malfoy’s spoilt brat or Andromeda’s ditzy daughter.

Harry provides an opportunity.

That is if he stays…

“Has Dumbledore said anything more to you about whether the spell can be reversed?” asks Sirius.

He hasn’t heard anything more about investigating that since the night of the incident when he and Minnie had briefly discussed it.

Potter shakes his head. “You know Albus. He never tells anyone anything until it is absolutely necessary,” he waves a hand, “and sometimes not even then.”

The bitterness is surprising.

“I never thought I’d hear you say a word against him,” Sirius notes dryly.

Potter grimaces. “He kept the news of Harry’s death from us for hours. A wizard doesn’t forget that.”

“Hours?” The word slips out before Sirius can stop it, he’s that surprised.

“Hours,” Potter briefly closes his eyes. “We thought Harry had survived. Bathilda said she had seen Hagrid retrieve him from the cottage. We thought…” his voice trails away and grief is written starkly over his face once more.

It must have been crushing to have realised the truth, Sirius muses, compassion washing over him.

“Albus wouldn’t even let us say goodbye to him properly,” Potter sighs. He visibly shakes himself again. “Heather told Lily which spell they used. Apparently, Hermione Granger found it in the Restricted Section.”

The change of topic is abrupt but Sirius does not protest it.

Of course it had been Granger who had found the spell. The young muggleborn witch is the only one of the casting coven allowed access to the Restricted Section on a regular basis. Minnie’s not the only professor who favours her because of her smart intellect.

“Lily and Remus have been studying it since we got the details,” Potter continues on.

Sirius registers the names absently, unsurprised to hear that the Potters’ werewolf has rallied to help them.

“From everything they’ve studied, it doesn’t look like we can send Harry back to his home reality,” Potter concludes. “It’s a miracle he survived the trip here at all. The spell was noted in one book as never succeeding because the person in transit would be ripped apart by the magical eddies of the journey.”

Sirius grimaces. “Guess they didn’t count on a house elf tagging along and shielding their master.”

Potter nods. “Heather says they didn’t know about the lack of success bit.” He sighs. “I’m just grateful the school hasn’t reported the incident to the authorities.”

Sirius raises an eyebrow. Minnie had insisted on waiting on Dumbledore to make the decision. He wasn’t best pleased at it in truth, but he was bound by his teaching contract to defer to the Headmaster in the matter. It was something he planned to raise with the Board. Contracts should not restrict the teachers from reporting actual crimes to the authorities in his opinion. The girls may have acted with the best of intentions but they were responsible for the death of the other Kreacher and for Harry’s injuries and the loss of his home.

“What has Dumbledore proposed as reparations?” asks Sirius mildly. “I haven’t had the chance to speak to him about it yet, but Harry has lost everything due to their actions.”

Potter looks so surprised at the idea that Sirius knows his suspicion that Dumbledore hasn’t even mentioned any kind of consequences is correct.

“I hadn’t…” Potter stops and puts his face briefly in his hands. He takes a deep breath and looks up, shifting into a posture more befitting his status. “The girls had the best of intentions but, of course, given the circumstances, the victim of their casting is due to compensation. I will speak to the other parents about the matter.”

Sirius is assured that Potter will do as he promised; Potter’s Gryffindor honour will not allow him to ignore it now Sirius has pointed it out.

Potter sighs. “I should get back.”

“I’ll talk with Harry about meeting you,” Sirius promises. “I’ll let you know what he says.”

“Thank you,” Potter says, gratitude shining from his eyes once more.

Sirius escorts him to the door and out where they murmur their goodbyes. He closes the door and turns around to see Harry stepping out of the guest bedroom.

Sirius raises his eyebrows. “How much of that did you hear?”

“All of it,” Harry admits. He pushes his hands into the infirmary robe he’d been provided with which covers the infirmary pyjamas Poppy had put him in. There is a bag in his room with the small number of possessions he’d had on him which had survived the journey including his wand. He’s wearing new glasses.    

They really need to take Harry shopping.

Sirius waves him into a seat by the fire.

Harry walks steadily enough but stark relief flickers over his features as he sits – the features Sirius realises anew that Harry shares with James Potter in a way that is undeniably genetic. Good cheekbones, a straight nose, and a strong jawline. Not to mention the messy hair. The colour of his eyes though…the striking emerald is all Lily Potter.

Sirius takes the seat opposite Harry. “How are you feeling?”

Harry sighs deeply. “Would you believe me if I said I had no idea?”

“I think I would,” Sirius says. “I’m not sure how I would react to being yanked to another world, losing a bonded elf, and finding myself faced with the prospect of meeting long dead loved ones.”

“You forget the terror of finding out the monster you’d defeated is alive and well in this world too,” Harry murmurs.

Sirius inclines his head.

“Is it just me or is my Dad…I mean, James not particularly enamoured with Dumbledore?” asks Harry. The bluntness is also remarkably similar to Potter’s. Maybe that too is genetic.

“I always thought that he was a supporter and ally,” Sirius says quietly. “Dumbledore certainly favoured him and his friends when we were at school. They were part of a group sworn to fight against Voldemort and his Death Eaters back during the first Wizarding War.”

Harry hums. “And you?”

“My grandfather knew Tom Riddle before his reinvention,” Sirius says evenly. “We declared ourselves neutral and ordered the rest of the House to remain the same.”

“And did they?” asks Harry, heavy scepticism colouring every word.

“My mother took the Dark Mark,” Sirius concedes. “She’d never forgiven Gramps for stepping in and taking Regulus away from her after my father’s death. There were a couple of others.”

“Bellatrix?” probes Harry intently.

Sirius nods slowly. “She and her husband, his brother.”

“Is she imprisoned?” asks Harry.

“The brother is,” Sirius says with a frown. “Bellatrix and her husband were killed trying to attack the Longbottoms.”

“If he follows the pattern of my Riddle, he’ll seek to break his followers out from Azkaban soon,” Harry notes grimly. He sits forward. “Was Lucius Malfoy ever identified as a Death Eater here?”

Sirius’ eyebrows rise. “Malfoy?” He shakes his head. “His brother was found to be part Riddle’s inner circle. He was sentenced to Azkaban. Lucius stayed out of it as far as I know.”

“He was part of Riddle’s inner circle on my world,” Harry says.

Sirius presses his lips together, that perspective explaining certain old events in a very different way.

“This is why I’m not fully certain my knowledge will be any good,” Harry continues. “Maybe things are just too different here.”

“Or maybe they are more similar than you think,” Sirius responds firmly, mentally filing Lucius’ likely Death Eater credentials to be examined again at a later date. “According to Dumbledore the girls’ spell was meant to bring forth the one who would be of the most help in the fight against Voldemort.”

Harry pushes the glasses up his nose. “Why did they do it?”

“If I had to make a guess it was to save Neville from this prophecy business,” Sirius says dryly. “Geraldine adores her older brother and Hermione Granger is his best friend.”

“Hermione went along with it?” asks Harry.

“You know Granger?”

Harry smiles sadly. “She’s my best friend.”

“Ah,” Sirius winces. “I should have realised since our Harry Potter would have been of the same age.” He leans forward. “Neville and Hermione are both quiet for Gryffindors. They kind of gravitated towards each other in first year and stuck together.”

“Neville’s a good guy,” Harry replies warmly. “He’s capable of more than you might think.”

Sirius nods slowly. Perhaps Longbottom would grow into a young man of substance. Pressure honed diamonds out of rock.

“I don’t think my Hermione would ever have gone along with a spell like this,” Harry says contemplatively.

“Even if she thought it was the only way to help her friend?” presses Sirius.

Harry tilts his head thoughtfully. He wrinkles his nose. “She might have considered it, but I still don’t think she would have gone through with it.” He pauses. “Not unless Ron and I were going to do it anyway and then…”

“And then she would have gone along with it to mitigate it,” Sirius completes. It would explain the extensive notes Granger had left in her dorm on the spell.

“I’d like to meet with her,” Harry says. “I want to know all about this spell and, if she is anything like my Hermione, she’ll have done extensive research.”

“I’ll arrange it,” Sirius says.

“I suppose I’d better meet with Dumbledore tomorrow as well,” Harry slumps back and closes his eyes. “Better not give him too much time to plot.”

Sirius raises both eyebrows at that. He can’t exactly argue with the sentiment of it, but he can argue on a different basis. “You should rest more. You’re barely recovered.”

Harry sighs wearily. “A war waits for no-one. I know that better than anyone.” He opens his eyes. “Tell me about this world, Sirius. Tell me everything.”

o-O-o

Harry tries not to feel ambushed when he walks into Professor McGonagall’s office for the meeting with Hermione and Neville and finds an array of parents waiting with them, including the Potters.

Sirius leans in beside him. “If you want to walk right back out, we can do.”

Harry shakes his head. “It’s fine.”

It is not fine, but he had already suspected that Dumbledore would take advantage of his request and attend and he’s right about that; the old wizard is lurking in the back of the room.

McGonagall does offer him an apologetic smile. “We thought it best for the parents of the girls to be present given the circumstances.”

Harry nods in return. He resists the urge to tug at his new jumper, a thick green Arran knit. He has teamed it with jeans which had cost more than he paid for his entire wardrobe back home. He’s appreciative though that Sirius has thought to get new clothing for him in line with what he’d been wearing when he’d been transported.

His gaze settles on the girl in the first chair.

Hermione is not his Hermione.

She sits straight-backed and poised, but there is a subdued quality about her body language. Her bushy hair is tamed back into a braid, she lacks make-up, and the slight overbite she’d always been self-conscious about has not been fixed yet. Her uniform is pristine; her Gryffindor tie is neatly knotted, she wears a crisp white shirt under the winter option of a buttoned-up grey cardigan. Thick black tights under the knee-length grey skirt are teamed with black boots polished to a high sheen.

In contrast, Neville looks rumpled beside her. His neatly cut blond hair is windswept. His warm brown eyes peek out of a still chubby face with ruddy red cheeks. His wizarding day robe has a smear of dirt at the hem which gives away that he was in the gardens before the meeting. His tie is loose, his shirt wrinkled, and his grey trousers are creased.

Harry feels lighter just at the sight of him.

Behind Neville’s chair, there are two adults who look nothing like the people he’d once seen in a ward in Saint Mungo’s.

Frank Longbottom is an attractive blond man, tall and broad, and dressed impeccably in the same manner as Sirius with well-tailored trousers, an expensive shirt with a cravat tied loosely at the throat, and rich expensive robes. His wife, Alice, is similarly attired in a feminine version of the same. Her blonde hair is pulled up into a complicated do. She has the same shaped face as Neville and her delicate bow of a mouth and wide blue eyes convey a very English countryside type of prettiness.

There is a young girl who is a mini-Alice sat next to Neville. Her clothing matches Neville’s dishevelment minus the dirt on the hem of the robes. Harry identifies her as Geraldine, Neville’s sister.

To the other side of her, Lily Potter sits on a chair dressed head to toe in a warm woollen tartan muggle dress, teamed with brown knee-high boots. James is in a tailored navy suit behind her which matches one of the colours in the tartan. Besides Lily, a young girl with the messy Potter hair and Lily’s green eyes sits fidgeting.   

McGonagall positions herself at the Potters’ side as she waves Harry and Sirius into the empty chairs facing the gathering. She swiftly introduces everyone as they take their seats.

“Lord Potter-Black, you requested this meeting so perhaps I can ask you to begin?” McGonagall’s brogue lilts across the room.

“Good afternoon,” Harry says politely. “I requested the meeting because I have some questions for Hermione…”

“We weren’t going to let her face you alone!” Geraldine jumps in. “It’s not her fault!”

Frank clears his throat noisily. “Geraldine, perhaps we can give Mister Potter a chance to speak?”

Geraldine flushes a bright red and she subsides in her chair, her fingers continuing to worry at her robe.

Harry ignores how Lord Longbottom has disregarded his own title and waves a hand at the man. “I want to assure everyone this is not a blame or finger pointing exercise. I just want to know more about the spell and the casting which brought me here.”

“Why?” asks Dumbledore. “I believe Professor Black has already conveyed to you the news that it is a one-way trip.”

Harry glances over at him. “Wouldn’t you want to know more from the person who devised the casting if it was you?”

Dumbledore concedes with a hum.

He turns back to Hermione. “Why don’t you take me through how you came up with the spell?”

Hermione casts a look towards Alice who nods. Harry is a little relieved to see the witch acting as a guardian in place of Hermione’s own parents who as muggles cannot visit Hogwarts.

“I got the spell from a grimoire in the Restricted Section,” Hermione begins. “We’d been looking at ways to get Neville out of the whole prophecy nonsense and bringing someone who had defeated Voldemort before in a different reality to help us seemed like a good plan.” Her eyes flicker to Geraldine giving away that it was the other girl who had pressed for it.

“The grimoire called for a coven of seven witches, all virgins, to call across space at the thinning of the veil on All Hallow’s Eve,” Hermione recites in a lecturing tone which makes Harry miss his own Hermione even more. “It called for us to be in nature, grounded. That’s why we decided to use Hufflepuff’s circle.”

“Did you make any changes?” asks Harry, hoping to lead her to what he really wanted to ask.

Hermione shifts subtly but it is enough to know that she is uncomfortable with the question. “I changed the summoning to specifically ask for an adult rather than someone underage.”

“And?” prompts Harry.

Hermione shakes her head. “That was it.” Her chin rises a touch.

Harry keeps hold of her gaze. “You called my name. I heard you. You summoned a Harry Potter. Why?”

“I already said,” Hermione deflects briskly, “we wanted someone with knowledge on how to defeat Voldemort.”

“Then why not call for another Neville Longbottom?” asks Harry pointedly. “Why did you call for me?”

Her eyes snap over to the Potters briefly before she looks at Neville who is frowning at her.

“You don’t think Neville is the subject of the prophecy,” Harry states firmly, knowing he is right in his assertion, “you think the prophecy was fulfilled when Voldemort attacked Harry Potter at Godric’s Hollow.”

Hermione breathes out sharply in a rush and gives a quick nod. “Yes.”

“Really?” Neville blurts out. “You really think that?” There is more than a hint of relief in his voice.

“That’s…that can’t be right,” Alice murmurs, a hand creeping up to press against her heart. She looks over at Lily.

Lily sighs. “I think the same, Alice.” Her quiet assertion has James bowing his head as her daughter stares at her.

Hermione turns to Neville with a beseeching look on her face. “The prophecy says that he will mark the one who has the power to defeat him as an equal, he has never marked you, Neville. It can’t be you, and if it can’t be you then it must have been Harry Potter.” She shoots the Potters an apologetic grimace.

“But there is no way of knowing if Harry was marked or not,” Frank argues. His face turns sheepish. “Apologies, James, Lily, presumably when you saw Harry after…” his voice trails away as his expression takes on a guilty flush of alluding to their child’s body.

“We didn’t see him,” James says, his hand coming to rest on his wife’s shoulder in comfort. He looks over to Dumbledore accusingly. “We were told it was for the best that we did not.”

Dumbledore looks saddened. “I simply wished to save you the pain.”

“And instead you denied us the chance to say goodbye fully to our baby,” Lily snaps back.

“Forgive me, Lily, James,” McGonagall pipes up, “but surely the fact that Harry did not survive the attack precludes his being the one the prophecy references.”

“But neither did Voldemort for a time and it never states that the one with the power will defeat him, only that they can,” Hermione says. “It could be argued that the prophecy was fulfilled that night because Harry died at Voldemort’s hand.”

“But…” begins Frank.

“I’ve thought the same,” Lily says cutting across the flustered wizard. Her eyes dart to her husband who is resolutely not looking at her but away into the distance. “Personally, I think the prophecy is a load of nonsense.”

Hermione’s brown eyes flash with pleased vindication.

“A load of nonsense which Voldemort believes,” Harry replies carefully. His heart is pounding a little too fast from speaking to a version of his mother directly. He takes a steadying breath and pushes back his fringe to reveal his lightning scar. It’s faded in the years since the final battle but it is still visible.

“The Sowilo rune…” Lily whispers. She clears her throat at the questioning looks thrown her way. “I created a runic sequence in the nursery, a magical protection. I anchored it with a Sowilo rune drawn with my blood and James’ on Harry’s forehead.”

“One of us would willingly sacrifice our life for him and the sequence would take effect,” James says quietly. “We hoped it would shield him.”

“In my world, it did,” Harry says, knowing that it is very likely that his parents did the same.

“But if that is true, the late Lord Potter’s sacrifice would have counted since Potter blood was used; it carries his magical legacy,” Sirius suddenly says.

“We’ve meandered off topic,” Dumbledore steps up to stand beside Hermione. “I believe the girls have something they wish to say on behalf of themselves and the others.” He sends Hermione a pointed look.

“We wanted to say sorry,” Hermione rushes out. “We,” her hand gesture encompasses the group, “we never meant to cause you any harm.”

“So you can send me back?” asks Harry.

Hermione bites her lip as she slowly shakes her head. “I…I didn’t account for the physical impact of the travel or how you would have to be anchored here somehow. I thought…there was a passage saying that the spell intended for the traveller to return when the purpose for their summoning was over.”

“The book we found said it was a one-way trip,” Lily notes.

“Possibly because no-one had survived it before,” McGonagall says tartly.

Hermione looks down at the Professor’s sharp comment.

“I forgive you,” Harry says, glancing around to include Geraldine and his counterpart’s sister. “I can’t be mad that you were trying to help Neville. My Hermione’s help saved my life a lot back on my world.”

Hermione’s gaze snaps up to meet his, surprise and delight openly chasing each other across her face. “She did?”

“Thank you for your graciousness, Lord Potter-Black,” James says formally. “We are prepared to provide compensation but perhaps we could discuss that at a later date.”

“If that is all, the students should get back to their dormitories,” McGonagall says briskly.

Harry knows better than to argue with a McGonagall.

“Just one more thing, Professor?” Hermione swiftly turns to her Head of House with begging eyes.

McGonagall’s hard lines all seem to soften in the face of Hermione’s sincere plea. She nods briskly. “Be quick about it, Miss Granger.”

Hermione hurriedly swivels back to Harry. “You did defeat him, didn’t you?”

“I did,” Harry confirms. He suspects that ensuring whoever was summoned had defeated Voldemort was part of her alteration of the spell.

“Then you know what ‘the power he knows not is!’” Hermione says in a rush. “Surely that means we can defeat him here because you have that same power!”

Harry holds up his hand before anyone else can clamour to answer. “I’m not marked by your Voldemort either,” he points out gently.

“But with the prophecy fulfilled by our Harry Potter in that attack, it opens up the possibility that Voldemort can be defeated by others now,” Hermione argues.

“I’m afraid it isn’t as simple as that, Miss Granger,” Sirius cuts in before Harry can reply again, “and I find your assumption that the man you stole from another world should fight our Voldemort rather cold-hearted.”

Hermione goes a tomato-shade of red and inches back in her chair.

McGonagall shoots Sirius an admonishing glare. “I’m sure Miss Granger did not intend to bring Lord Potter-Black here to fight Voldemort himself.”

Harry is sure that Hermione did have every intention of him fighting Voldemort. It was a very logical Hermione thing to do to save Neville. Truthfully, he knows himself enough to know that had this Hermione approached him with her plan ahead of time, he might even have agreed to it – his saving people thing hasn’t exactly gone away.

But he is beginning to suspect that things are not so clear cut as to enable Harry to step in even if he wanted to do so.

o-O-o

Sirius walks with Harry back to the flat, wondering at what part of the meeting with Granger and the others that they’ve just attended is preoccupying the other wizard.

It’s not as though Harry doesn’t have a right to be contemplative. There are questions ricocheting around Sirius’ own brain.

He’s also a little disconcerted by how Harry had sidestepped staying for a discussion with Dumbledore in favour of returning to their flat ostensibly to rest. Harry had seemed very determined the day before to speak with the Headmaster.

Sirius provides the password to the portrait of a rather stuffy former Runes teacher and guides Harry inside the flat.

Harry takes a few steps inside and turns to Sirius as the door closes with a resounding click.

“Something on your mind?” asks Sirius.

Harry frowns. “You said that if Lily had set-up the protection shield that it should have worked when his grandfather died since James also provided blood?”

“Yes,” Sirius nods. He doesn’t understand why it wouldn’t work, but then he doesn’t know the exact runic sequence that Lily Potter used. Perhaps she had made a mistake or confused the sequence somehow. He thinks it unlikely with someone of Lily’s fierce intellect but even the best rune practitioners can make mistakes.

Harry rubs his forehead briefly. “I think I might be going mad. I just…”

There is a brisk knock on the door.

Sirius wonders whether he should be worried that he can already identify Potter’s knock. He glances at Harry wordlessly asking if he is alright with a visitor and receives a nod in return.

Sirius opens the door to both adult Potters and ushers them inside.

For a long moment they all awkwardly stand in the small space just by the door.

“We’re sorry to barge in like this but the meeting before raised some questions and we wanted to talk them through with you both?” Lily says briskly.

Sirius waves them to the seating area. They might as well get comfortable.

The Potters take his couch, sitting close together, bodies angled towards each other, their hands entwined.

Harry takes a seat opposite them, avoiding Sirius’ usual chair.

Sirius sits down and calls an elf for some refreshments. They make small talk until the elf pops back with the tea tray and leaves again before picking up their former discussion. In that time, the Potters insist on being called James and Lily.  

Sirius sips his coffee, grateful for the bolstering jolt of caffeine. “You said you have questions.”

Lily nods and puts her tea down. She waves a wand and a parchment appears as though conjured from thin air. She floats it across to Sirius. “This is the runic sequence I used.”

Sirius examines it. He finds no fault in Lily’s spell. “This should have worked.”

“So why didn’t it?” asks Lily. Her gaze flickers to Harry and grief floods her face for a long moment, her eyes shiny with tears. “I just…I don’t understand how you survived and my Harry did not.”

Harry shifts forward, not quite reaching for her but compassion written all over his Potter features. “My parents stood between me and Voldemort. I really don’t know enough about runes to know if the difference would cause it to fail?” He looks over at Sirius questioningly.

Sirius shakes his head at the same time as Lily. “The way this was written it wouldn’t have mattered; it just needed someone of the same bloodline. It’s ingenious and would stop all spells even the Unforgivables.” He sends the parchment back to Lily. “You aren’t called the brightest witch of our generation for no reason.”

“I was desperate,” Lily says bluntly.

“So,” says Harry with a false brightness colouring his tone, “if this spell was supposed to work and worked for me, is there a possibility that it did work here?”

“What do you mean?” asks James hesitantly.

“Forgive me, but I believe you didn’t see your Harry after his death?” checks Harry.  

Lily goes red with fury. “Albus refused and we were too distraught to keep fighting him on it.”

“Right,” Harry says. “After the attack, Hagrid retrieved me. I thought for a long time that he immediately took me to Privet Drive…”

“Why on earth would he take you to Petunia?” blurts out Lily.

“Blood,” Harry says succinctly. “My Dumbledore worked out the shield was powered by the bloodline, but he assumed it was only yours. My godfather was framed for murder, my godmother injured in an attack, and there was nobody to protest differently. Dumbledore decided to leave me with Aunt Petunia; she raised me.”

“Merlin!” breathes Lily. She stares down at her tea. “I think I need something stronger.”

Sirius taps his wand and a decanter of firewhiskey sails across the room.

With the exception of Harry, they all doctor their drinks.

“You think our Harry was alive when Hagrid retrieved him,” James states aloud.

Harry nods. “I think Hagrid brought him to Hogwarts which is what actually happened to me immediately after although I didn’t know that for years. I think if he was brought here, Dumbledore saw him and realised Harry was magically injured.”

“Because you were,” Lily says slowly.

Harry nods. “Voldemort cast a Killing curse, but I was shielded. It rebounded on him, blew him out of his body and the magical backlash destroyed most of the nursery.” He lifted his fringe and traced the scar. “The Killing curse impacted with the rune and created a scar.” He pauses.

Harry is hesitating, Sirius realises. He’s not the only one.

“There was something about your scar,” James states gruffly.

Harry winces but nods. “I became a Horcrux.”

The blunt announcement has James turning so pale Sirius worries he’ll faint. He swallows hard against his own discomfort, the secret he’s kept for years nagging under his skin.

“What’s that?” Lily’s brow is creased in a frown of confusion.

Sirius clears his throat. “A Horcrux is a vessel for a piece of a soul.” He motions at Harry with his coffee cup. “Voldemort must have intended for Harry’s murder to create a Horcrux when he cast, he probably had some kind of inanimate object ready to house his soul shard, but when the backlash happened, the object could have been destroyed and the soul would have sought possession of the nearest living thing.”

Lily’s hand covers her mouth; her eyes are wide with horror.

“How did you survive?” James manages to get the question out.

“It’s a long story,” Harry sighs heavily, “but Dumbledore had left a message with Severus Snape…”

Snape!

Sirius hadn’t heard that name in years. The Potions Master had disappeared after the war once Dumbledore had testified to Snape’s spying for him.

Lily looks equally disturbed at the mention of him. She and Snape had been close in the early years of their schooling, Sirius remembers, but they’d drifted apart as Snape had become more and more entrenched in the worst of Slytherin House.  

“…he basically let me know that I was Horcrux and the only way for Voldemort to be defeated was to essentially allow him to kill me so the Horcrux would be destroyed. My friends and I had spent months tracking down all the other ones he’d made and destroying them apart from his snake.”

“That’s horrifying,” Lily murmurs.

“What I didn’t know and what Voldemort didn’t realise is that he had created a new connection between us when he used my blood to resurrect himself at the end of my fourth year,” Harry continues, resolutely ignoring their appalled expressions. “When he cast the Killing curse…”

“You were anchored to him,” Sirius completes. “You survived.”

“I survived,” Harry nods. He turns back to James and Lily. “I think there is every possibility that the same thing has happened here.”

“Hagrid brings Harry to Hogwarts and Dumbledore realises that he is a Horcrux,” Sirius says out loud as though testing the theory.

James shakes his head. “Albus wouldn’t have killed him! I can’t believe that!”

“No,” Lily agrees wearily, “but would he pretend that Harry died and keep our son’s fate under his own control? I can see that.” She blinks as though realising what she has just said. “Oh my God! Harry is alive!” She bursts into tears.

Harry and Sirius look politely away as James comforts his wife.

“It’s alright, Lils,” James says, “we’ll confront him; get him to tell us the truth.”

Harry clears his throat. “That’s not necessarily the best idea.”

James and Lily stare at him.

“What?” asks James.

“If your Harry is alive, the prophecy is in motion and he is marked,” Harry says hurriedly. “Voldemort thinks he’s dead. He’s safe where he is.”

James frowns heavily. “You just want us to ignore that our son might be alive?! That Dumbledore has hidden Harry’s existence from us? That he lied to us!”

Sirius sits forward on his chair, pulling James’ attention and anger away from Harry. “Say this is right and Dumbledore stashed Harry away somewhere safe and faked his death, he must have a plan. He always has a plan.”

“Everyone is missing the point,” Harry says exasperatedly. “Until all the other Horcruxes are destroyed, Voldemort cannot be defeated and this Harry’s life is at risk if Voldemort finds out he’s alive. This Harry doesn’t have another anchor yet. He wasn’t used in the ritual to resurrect Voldemort. Sirius told me that he used Cedric Diggory.”

“Then we find the other Horcruxes and we destroy them, make Voldemort vulnerable again,” James retorts.

Sirius coughs. “Ah, there’s no need.” He heaves a sigh, his magic burning a little to remind him of the oath of secrecy he had taken. He raises his wand. “I hereby recognise James and Lily Potter as family to the House of Black so that they may share in its secrets.”

The magical oath settles on them with a snap.

Harry stares at him. “You know about the Horcruxes.”

“My mother offered up my brother Regulus as a sacrifice to help Voldemort hide one,” Sirius explains. “He was poisoned and will never make a full recovery. Kreacher adores him and rescued him against my mother’s orders. He brought him straight to my grandfather and myself.” He presses his lips together briefly considering what to say. “We hunted down all of the ones we believed he made in the wake of that. When he was defeated that Halloween, we thought we’d gotten them all.”

“Hufflepuff’s cup,” Harry says.

“Ravenclaw’s diadem,” Sirius replies in return.

“Slytherin’s locket,” Harry continues.

Sirius winces at that one. “His family ring.”

“His diary,” Harry finishes. “That leaves the snake and Harry.”

“You’re wrong about the lack of an anchor, Harry,” Sirius corrects him gently. “You had no living magical anchor and needed to create one. Our Harry still has the anchor of two living parents who imbued him with a shield tied to their blood.”

Harry blinks owlishly at him.

Lily reaches for her tea and downs the whole cup. She replaces the cup in its saucer with a clatter. “We need a plan because Voldemort is not going to kill my child to resolve this Horcrux nonsense. I don’t care what Albus is thinking, was thinking. He doesn’t get to make decisions about my son and he doesn’t get to hide him from his family!” Her green eyes blaze with determination.

Harry reaches for her hand and she grasps it like a lifeline. “I’m with you.”

James places his hand over theirs in silent solidarity.

The three of them turn to Sirius.

Sirius wonders at how he’s ended up seemingly in a conspiracy with the Potters to take down Voldemort and upend Dumbledore’s plans. He blames the elf.

He gets to his feet and adds his hand to theirs.

o-O-o

Epilogue

Harry wakes in the middle of the night, something tugging at his magic. He looked around his bedroom, the shadowy shape of each piece of furniture so very familiar to him after seven years.

The magical tug comes again, faint yet there. He’s certain that it is a magical summoning for him. 

He closes his eyes briefly, wondering whether he should ignore it.

It has been six years since his younger counterpart defeated Voldemort by burning him to ash with his protective shield just as Harry himself had once done to Professor Quirrel. Neville had killed Nagini by luring her into the greenhouses where a carnivorous plant had bitten off her head.

It is unlikely that the tugging is a threat.

He opens his eyes, his thumb sliding over the silver ring he wears which is meant to protect him from being grabbed by another universe again. Hermione had gifted it to him the year after she’d joined the Department of Mysteries; an apology for ripping him from his own world. The gesture had led to a date, then another, and their wedding is due to take place in the summer.

Maybe the tug is an attempt by yet another world.

Maybe he needs to get out of bed and find out what is going on rather than lying in the dark and endlessly speculating.   

He gets out of bed, grumbling at the cold beyond the blankets. His hand finds his discarded glasses on his bedside table with habitual ease and he slides them onto his face in one smooth motion.

He shrugs on a dressing robe, belting it tightly over his sleep outfit of sweatpants and t-shirt. He puts on a long woollen coat over the dressing robe. It is Scotland and it is cold. He stuffs his feet into boots and picks up his wand.

His teaching flat at Hogwarts is one of the smallest as the Flying Instructor, but it is his and he knows his way from the bedroom to the main door like the back of his hand. He’s out into the corridor within moments.

He can sense that the tugging is coming from the gardens and he makes his way through the castle and out into the crisp Scottish air. He navigates more by familiarity than by sight even as his eyes become accustomed to the different shades of dark. The ground crunches beneath his booted heel, icy as the weather turns to winter.

He bypasses the clearing which holds the memorial stone for all those who lost their lives in the war Voldemort had waged. Cedric Diggory is the first name etched on the wall and Harry has the rest memorised. Many of the names are the same as those who lost their lives in his own world like Dennis Creevey, Remus Lupin and Tonks. There is sadly no Teddy since the pair were never a couple. Other names on the wall are unique such as Linus Lovegood, Luna’s twin, and Jason Greengrass who had been born instead of Daphne.

The list on the wall includes Albus Dumbledore, acknowledged but not celebrated.

Dumbledore’s body does not reside at Hogwarts in this world. He’d been buried with little ceremony by his brother in the Godric’s Hollow cemetery beside his sister. The scandal of Dumbledore’s actions in hiding the Potters’ son had ruined the old wizard’s reputation thoroughly. He’d eventually confessed the truth to James and Lily; that their son was alive albeit with his magic sent into chaos much in the same way that Ariana Dumbledore’s had been affected by her trauma.

Dumbledore had made the unilateral decision to send the toddler to live without magic in the muggle world with the Dursleys as Henry Potter, hoping that would prevent the transformation of the traumatised toddler into something called an Obscurus. He’d set up Severus Snape as a neighbour, poised to kill Henry should he start showing any signs of changing.

Neither James nor Lily had accepted Dumbledore’s opinion that his hiding Harry away was to keep him safe. Dumbledore had been formally charged with kidnapping but had escaped custody only to show up at the final battle. He had distracted Voldemort long enough for Neville to deal with Nagini.

Harry ignores his own role in the final battle choosing instead to focus on how Lily had come up with a potion for her son to deal with the chaos. Henry had crammed years of magical training into two short years, graduating alongside his peers. The Potters’ oldest son is a successful Auror, the apple of Moody’s magical eye, and is happily married to Geraldine with a baby on the way.

Harry wonders if his younger self can feel the same tugging he can. Maybe not. It feels like the summons is for him alone.   

Harry knows he is being drawn to Hufflepuff’s circle and he cannot help the slight trepidation which causes his heart to beat loudly in his chest. His breaths are shallow, the cold filling his lungs.

Harry hesitates by the first arch, the pumpkin lanterns casting flickering yellow beams across the flagstones. His magic tugs him forward. He quickly traverses the maze, discomforted by the prickly hedges and the echoes of another maze taunting in memories best forgotten.  When he reaches the centre he pauses at the entrance to the casting circle, his gaze immediately arrowing in on the battered trunk sitting on the marble altar.

He casts a few spells Bill Weasley had once taught him to detect if it is a trap. The trunk is riddled with magical energy but it is not booby-trapped. There is a magical lock which is coded to a single magical signature.

His.

“Well, that’s alarming,” says Sirius behind him.

Harry startles, whirling around to find Sirius simply standing there like he’d been there a while. A cat sits primly by his feet. He takes a steadying breath, proud that he’s managed to keep the shriek he wanted to make behind his teeth.

Sirius’ lips twitch as though he’s heard it anyway.

“Headmaster,” Harry greets Sirius dryly, taking in that he wore a similar outfit to his own; a heavy woollen black coat and boots. He nods at the cat. “Minerva.”

The cat transforms into the elderly Scottish professor. She is covered from neck to ankle in a tartan wool coat in a style that mimicked wizarding robes. “I take it you forgot this area is warded ever since the event which brought you here, lad?”

Harry sighs because he had forgotten. He gestures at the trunk. “It summoned me out of bed.”

“And it’s locked to your magical signature,” Sirius nods. “Like I said, that’s alarming.”

“We should open it here,” Minerva says. “I’d prefer not to take it back to the castle.”

“I’ll erect some additional wards,” Sirius adds. He waves his wand in an intricate manner and Harry senses the invisible bubble of magic pop up around the circle.

Harry walks over to the altar and taps the trunk with his wand. The lock clicks open. Harry steps back as the lid begins to rise. He isn’t surprised when he’s quickly flanked by Sirius and Minerva on either side of him, their wands out and ready.

A yellow parchment floats out of the trunk and unravels in front of Harry.

“Harry!” Hermione’s voice drifts out of the parchment. “If you’re hearing this, you’re alive and that is so wonderful!”

Harry blinks.

“Everyone originally thought you’d died in some kind of belated Death Eater attack,” Hermione’s voice continues, “but when I stepped into the attic and felt the magical residue, I called in the Department of Mysteries and verified you’d been subjected to some kind of portal transportation. It took us a lot longer than I hoped to track down the specific spell and work out how to retrieve you.”

Of course.

Harry briefly closes his eyes. He should have known. He might have drifted from his friends in the years before he was snatched, but he should have known that they wouldn’t just accept that he was gone; that they would look for him. The bonds between them had meant something.

“It has been years here, Harry, and we don’t have any idea whether time follows the same pacing in both universes,” Hermione’s voice continues. “I just turned forty…”

Harry bows his head. He’s only twenty-eight.

“…and maybe you are too, maybe you are older or younger,” Hermione’s voice has a sad edge. “Whatever age you are, we’d be happy to have you home, Harry.”

Sirius places a hand on his shoulder. It is a comforting weight and Harry leans into it.

“But we know if you are our age or older, perhaps you have a life where you are and have found happiness,” Hermione’s voice is determinedly cheerful. “We don’t want to tear you away from that so we created the trunk. If you do want to come back, just get into the trunk. It will automatically lock and start the countdown to return.”

“My goodness!” Minerva mutters beside him.

“Brightest witch of my generation,” Harry murmurs proudly.

“If you are happy, just re-lock the trunk and it will self-return after one hour,” Hermione finishes. “Oh, I’ve added another box in the trunk with your things, Harry, well, what we could retrieve, and there are letters from everyone. Maybe if you don’t come back, you can leave a letter for us? I…I really hope you come back, Harry, but if you don’t, I hope you are so very happy. Well, that’s me. Always remember, there are more important things – friendship, bravery and…and love, Harry. We love you very much.”

The parchment rolls itself back up and drifts to the ground.

Minerva clears her throat. “I think you have a decision to make, lad. I’ll get a house elf to send you some refreshments.”

“And some parchment and ink, please,” Harry says, his voice roughened with his storming emotions.

Sirius and Minerva exchange a look over his head. Minerva sets off, transforming into her cat form as she scampers away.

For a long moment, there is silence.

Harry shivers despite the cold, he stuffs his hands deep into his pockets.

“It’s a big decision,” Sirius begins almost unbearably gently.

Harry shakes his head, tears prickling the back of his eyes. “No, it really isn’t.”

There’s no denying that there is a part of him which really wants to get into the trunk; wants to go back and see his friends. He wants to see the Hermione who hugged him fiercely outside the potions trap when they went to save the stone; the one who danced with him in the tent when they were hiding in the forest; the one who saved Sirius with him.

But…

His thumb strokes back over the ring protecting him.

His fiancée is not that Hermione and he loves her deeply. He has been counting down the days to their marriage in the summer. He loves her parents who have welcomed him as family; William who takes him to watch football matches, and Miriam who cooks a mean Sunday roast.

There are also the Potters. Lily and James are like a weird aunt and uncle; Henry, Heather, and Monty are a mix of not-quite-siblings but something more than cousins. He adores all of them.

And then, there is Sirius.

Sirius who is his family without question; who provided him with an anchor on no more than the word of an elf; who proves his care and compassion once again by simply tugging Harry into a firm hug, giving him comfort and solace.

A house elf pops into the bubble, ears flapping wildly. They set out a small table with parchment, quill and ink, before a click of their finger has two mugs of chocolate and a plate of biscuits appear. They pop away.

Sirius taps his wand and a warm amber ball of light illuminates the space.

Harry conjures a chair. He silently fetches the box from inside the trunk and sets it down beside him. It unlocks with a tap of his wand and he smiles at the sight of his invisibility cloak and his treasured album of photos. There are a stack of letters, more than he had anticipated. He plucks the one with Ron’s scrawl on the outside of the parchment and reads it.

It’s short but filled with a cheeriness which reminds Harry of their boyhood camaraderie. The Weasleys have grown with grandkids for Molly and Arthur. Ron himself has two children with a witch called Lucy. Bill and Fleur are still together; four kids and going strong. George is married with twins. Percy is also married with a boy Ron deems a young miniature of his father. Ginny is not married, a Quidditch star, but she had turned up with a baby four years earlier, father unknown. Charlie is the other outlier, happily still living in Romania with his dragons. Harry traces over the words and sets aside Ron’s words of hope that Harry has found his own happiness.  

There is a second letter from Hermione who talks mostly about her work at the Department of Mysteries. There is a short paragraph noting she is also married to an Australian wizard who had travelled with her to Britain when she’d returned to investigate the news of Harry’s supposed death.

He leaves the rest of the letters. He writes his own letter addressing it to both Ron and Hermione. It doesn’t take long. He seals it and walks over to the trunk. For a second he hesitates, his fingers tightening on the paper, creasing it slightly. He takes a breath. He quietly places the letter into the trunk and taps it. The lid comes down and the lock clicks shut, loud in the silence of the circle.

Harry retreats back to the table and wraps his hands gratefully around the mug of hot chocolate. He looks over at Sirius. “You don’t have to stay.”

“Headmaster’s privilege,” Sirius says simply. His warm silver eyes though show his love and care for Harry.

They sit in silence until some sense has Harry getting up from the table. Sirius follows him and the table and chairs wink away leaving the circle empty bar the floating ball of mage light.

Harry’s gaze stays on the trunk.

The air turns electric, the fabric of reality warps above the altar, lightning crackling over the space.

Harry grimaces, remembered pain making his very heart ache.

Suddenly, there is a clap and the trunk gets sucked into the portal and everything reverts to normal in a blink of an eye.

Harry shivers again. He takes a long look at the place where the portal had appeared. Everything seems fine.

The trunk is gone.

His way back to his own universe is gone.

Sirius’ hand squeezes his shoulder.

Harry turns to him, eyes clear with his heart and soul at peace. “Did I ever thank you for saving my life?”

Sirius smiles at him. “You never have to thank me for that.”

They turn as one to head out of the maze.

Seven years ago, Harry knows he would have made a different decision, but he is anchored to his life in this universe by more than a magical bond. It is the right decision to stay.

It’s odd, Harry muses, how often Halloween has been a moment of change for him. The morning of the first day of November stretches out ahead, beckoning him into the rest of his life.

fin.

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