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A/N: Please let me know what you think. The story is also posted on Fanfiction (same profile name and story title)

A/N: This is a rather long chapter, I'm afraid.

Chapter 1 - The Next Great Adventure

3rd August 1935

A sharp intake of breath.

The world around him was silent, save for the rustling of leaves carried by the wind and the distant call of an owl. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and morning dew. Harry's eyes fluttered open, the morning light filtering through the trees above him. His head pounded slightly, his body aching as though he had just survived a gruelling duel, then it occurred to him. He had. Yet, deep in his bones, he felt something unfamiliar. An energy thrumming beneath his skin, raw and uncontained.

He was lying on the ground, the cool soil beneath him a stark contrast to the warmth of his robes. Sitting up slowly, he took in his surroundings. The sight before him was unmistakable. He was in the graveyard at Godric’s Hollow. The familiar headstones stood solemnly around him, some covered in moss, others standing tall and untouched by time. As he turned, his gaze fell upon a single, ancient grave, one more worn than the rest.

Ignotus Peverell.

The name was barely legible, carved into stone that had been weathered by centuries. A shiver ran down Harry’s spine. Of all places, of all moments, he had awakened here, besides the resting place of the ancestor who had offered him this second chance. It felt deliberate, purposeful, as though fate had placed him here for a reason.

Panic did not set in immediately. Instead, there was a strange calmness, a sense of rightness. He had made his choice. The future, his past, was gone, rewritten by forces beyond even his comprehension. Voldemort didn’t exist yet. The war he had fought, the deaths he had endured, all of it was nothing more than echoes of a life that no longer was. And yet, he remained. The last Veilborn, Death’s Chosen, a relic of a future that would never come to pass.

He took stock of himself. His body felt different, firmer, younger and somehow more settled. Raising a hand, he felt the familiar jagged outline of his lightning-bolt scar. The faint remnants of other scars remained as well: Umbridge’s cruel handiwork on the back of his hand, the long-healed wounds from battles past. It was as though his past pains had followed him through time, a reminder of who he had been. The ring—the Peverell ring—was snug on his finger, its dark stone gleaming with quiet power. He turned his hand, watching as the sunlight reflected faintly off the worn metal. The weight of it felt reassuring, an anchor in this new reality. The Elder Wand was tucked safely into his robes, pulsing with latent magic. The Invisibility Cloak, however, was gone. It had merged with him as part of his new power, yet it still left him feeling oddly exposed.

He searched in his pockets and found the Marauder’s Map. He was relieved to find that it had made the journey with him. The comfort of one of his old possessions warmed him slightly. His hand jumped to his neck, where he was comforted to find the ring that Ginny had given him still hanging around his neck. It was nothing more than a simple black steel chain with a black ring with green inlay hanging from it. But it meant more to him than anything else. A reminder of where he had come from and who he had lost.

For a long moment, he simply breathed, absorbing the reality of his situation. He was alone in a time not his own, but he had been given an opportunity, a new life, a second chance to shape a world untouched by the darkness that had consumed his own. It was both a gift and a burden, and he wasn’t yet sure how he felt about it.

As he pushed himself to his feet, he dusted off his robes, feeling their weight settle over his shoulders. The fabric was the same as it had been during the battle; however, it was not ripped or covered in blood and grime. It seemed that even the most minor details had changed to fit this new reality. His legs felt steady beneath him, despite the lingering sense of displacement. He took a final look around, committing the scene to memory. This was the first moment of his new existence, and whatever lay ahead, he would face it with the same resilience that had carried him through every hardship before.

His gaze lingered on Ignotus’ grave for a few more moments before he turned towards the village. He knew he had no money, no connections, and no clear plan, but there was one thing he did have.

A second chance.

Squaring his shoulders, he took a step forward, leaving the grave behind.

He took a deep breath as he left the graveyard, stepping onto the cobbled streets of Godric’s Hollow. The village was small and quiet, the early morning light casting long shadows across the narrow lanes. It was a strange sight: familiar, yet untouched by war.

Not unlike the last time he had walked these streets, there were no signs of magical activity. The village was overwhelmingly Muggle, with only a few discreet traces of Wizarding presence. That meant he needed to be careful. His dark robes, though plain, stood out here, and he couldn’t risk drawing attention. He pulled the hood over his head, keeping to the edges of the streets as he walked. A few villagers passed him, but none paid him any mind, just another shadow in the morning mist.

His first priority was finding shelter. Until he understood more about the world he had arrived in, he needed to stay hidden. There were too many unknowns. What year was it exactly? Had anything changed beyond what the Peverells had told him? He needed time to think, to plan, and most importantly, to avoid attracting attention until he was ready to step into this new life.

As he stepped into the shadow of a building, a thought crossed his mind. He no longer had the Invisibility Cloak, but Ignotus had said that its magic was now within him. Could he truly vanish at will?

Focusing, he willed himself to disappear, imagining the way the Cloak had always felt when he had pulled it over himself. A strange sensation swept over him, as if the shadows that surrounded him were being called forth to conceal him.

He raised one hand and nearly jumped with shock.

Nothing.

His hands, his arms were gone.

“Fucking hell”, he muttered.

A grin flickered across his face. It had worked. The magic of the Peverell Cloak was his now. He took a cautious step forward, then another, watching as the villagers walked past him, oblivious to his presence. He waved a hand in front of his face, confirming that he was truly invisible. It felt effortless, like slipping into warm water. He walked further down the street, testing his silent steps. No one reacted.

A dog barked in the distance, and for a brief moment, the animal's eyes followed him, but it gave no further sign of noticing anything strange.

This was an advantage he hadn’t expected and one he would need to rely on. He could move freely, unnoticed. The ability to disappear at will would help him gather information, observe the world he had entered, and ensure that no one would connect him to the past—or the future for that matter.

Now hidden, he moved silently through the village, searching for a place to stay. He couldn’t risk approaching anyone directly, not yet. If he asked about the Peverells, people would become curious, and curiosity was dangerous.

Instead, he followed his instincts, moving towards a much older part of the village, where the houses were more worn and aged. He walked past familiar landmarks, the small church and the winding roads leading to homes. This area, he guessed, was the more magically populated area of the village. There was a gentle hum of magic surrounding it as he walked. He wondered, too, if the Potters still lived here in this time or if their family estate was somewhere else. He really had no idea about his family, old family, he corrected.

Eventually, he came upon a small, abandoned cottage on the far edge of town. It was overgrown, half-hidden behind ivy and gnarled trees. The windows were cracked and clouded with dust, and the door was slightly ajar, as though the house itself had long been waiting for someone to return. It didn’t look like anyone had lived there in decades, if not longer.

As he got closer, he felt a strange pull from his magic, as though it was trying to guide him inside.

Harry placed a hand on the door, and a faint pulse of magic thrummed beneath his fingers. He inhaled sharply. This place had once belonged to a wizard.

He murmured a detection spell under his breath, scanning for enchantments or protective wards: nothing, just the faint residue of long-faded magic. Whoever had lived here had left long ago, but their presence had lingered in the very walls.

With a whispered unlocking charm, the door creaked open, revealing a dust-covered interior. The air was thick with the scent of old parchment and forgotten time. Dust motes floated in the beams of morning light that streamed through cracks in the wooden shutters. The furniture was rotting and broken, and the paint on the walls was peeling. There were candle brackets on the walls, but they were hanging from their fixings. At one end of the room was a small hearth made of stone.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

He stepped inside and let his invisibility fade. The shadows unravelled smoothly like a cloak being pulled away. His body reappeared, solid and real once more. The sensation left a strange tingle in his skin, but he ignored it for now.

He replaced his wand in his robes, making a mental note to buy a wand holster at his first opportunity and walked through the house, taking in its structure. There were two rooms on the ground floor. The one he had entered was a small sitting area with a fireplace, and the second was a tiny kitchen in the back, its shelves bare. There was also a small staircase that led up to the attic bedroom. The house was simple, but its seclusion was exactly what he needed.

Now that he had shelter, Harry knew he needed to secure it. The village might be largely Muggle, but that didn’t mean he was safe. If there were wizards nearby, they could detect his magic. And if someone discovered him before he was ready, it could ruin everything.

Taking out his wand again, he walked the perimeter of the house, tracing charms into the air. He whispered protective enchantments he had learned over years of battle. A Notice-Me-Not charm shimmered over the walls, blending the house seamlessly into the background of the village.

Next, he cast Muggle Repelling Wards, ensuring that no one would accidentally wander too close. A layer of Anti-Apparition Wards followed, preventing anyone from magically arriving inside. Finally, he traced a protective charm over the doorway, a low-burning pulse of magic meant to alert him if anyone tried to cross the threshold uninvited.

The cottage felt different now, more secure, more his. The magic hummed faintly in the air, settling into the wood and stone as if it had always been there. With a final flick of his wand, he sealed the protections into place. It wasn’t impenetrable, but it would keep him hidden while he worked out his next move.

Tomorrow, he would need to plan his next steps. He needed money and a way to navigate this world without suspicion.

For now, he had shelter. That was enough to begin.

As the sun rose higher in the sky, Harry set about, with cleaning charms, removing all of the rust and dust from the surfaces. Once he was done, he took stock of his surroundings. Most of the furniture was beyond repair and would need to be removed. This was his task for the rest of the day. Taking the old, wooden furniture that looked like it could be centuries old into the small, overgrown back garden, he burnt it. After a couple of hours, it was done. All that was left was a small, wooden-framed bed in the attic room.

Running his fingers over the ring he now wore, he thought to himself. He had always been a survivor, adapting to whatever situation was thrown at him. This would be no different.

He would learn. He would wait. And when the time was right, he would step out of the shadows and into the world that had been reset before him.

For the first time in what felt like forever, he had a future to shape, and he would not waste it.

The weight of exhaustion pressed against his limbs, but despite the long day, sleep did not come easily. His mind churned with possibilities, dangers, and unanswered questions. He had no food, but strangely, he felt no hunger. Whether it was a lingering effect of his transition through time or the sheer weight of his circumstances numbing his physical needs, he wasn’t sure. Either way, he let it be. One night without food wouldn’t kill him.

The hard wooden floor provided little comfort, but compared to battlefields, prison cells, and years spent fighting for survival, this was nothing. He leaned against the wall, fingers absently tracing the Peverell ring on his hand, and let his body rest, if not sleep. As he listened to the faint rustling of leaves outside, he thought about what he had left behind—and what lay ahead. He had always fought to survive, but this was different. Now, he had to build something entirely new.

4th August 1935

Dawn broke in muted shades of gold, light slipping through the cracks in the shutters. Harry stretched, rolling the stiffness from his shoulders as he rose. His mind was clearer now. He needed resources, and that meant one destination: Gringotts.

He had avoided thinking about money the night before, but there was no denying it now. He had nothing. No gold, no identity, no proof of existence in this time; he wasn’t even completely sure what time this was. That had to change. And there was only one place in all of Britain where he might find out information and claim something for himself.

Diagon Alley.

Focusing on his destination, Harry reached for the familiar pull of apparition. Despite the strange feeling of displacement since arriving in this timeline, his magic obeyed him instantly. With a sharp crack, the world twisted around him.

He landed in a shadowed corner of Diagon Alley, concealed between the narrow space of two tall buildings. Instinct kept him still, his hood pulled low as he scanned his surroundings.

The alley looked different, fresher, in a way. The signs above the shops were similar but unmistakably different, the buildings still weathered by time but not war. The flow of people was more measured and less hurried. There was no sense of fear, no undercurrent of political tension. Wizards and witches bustled past him, dressed in robes that reflected the fashion of the time: longer, more formal, and made from heavier fabrics. A group of young boys ran past, laughing as they pointed at a display of racing brooms outside Quality Quidditch Supplies.

Harry let out a slow breath. It all looked so familiar.

Pulling his hood lower, he stepped out from the shadows and walked toward the centre of the alley. The scent of fresh parchment and brewed potions filled the air as he passed by familiar storefronts: Ollivander’s, Flourish & Blotts, The Apothecary. He was tempted to linger, to soak in the differences between this time and his own, but he had a mission. Wandering aimlessly would only attract attention.

On his way towards the large white marble bank, Harry remembered that he still had no idea what year it was. He had guessed it was summer, judging by the weather and the number of school-aged children present, but after that… no idea.

He noticed a stall selling newspapers, glanced at the front page, and nearly jumped. The date on it was 4th August 1935.

He had travelled back 65 years.

Shaking off this rather immense revelation, he stepped onto the white marble steps of Gringotts, feeling a familiar unease settle in his chest. The goblins had always been unpredictable, their loyalties bound to wealth and power rather than any moral code. He had no vault key and no known ancestry that would be recognised under normal circumstances. And yet, he had the Peverell ring. If there was anything that might open paths, it was that.

The great bronze doors loomed ahead, guarded by two goblins in gleaming armour. Harry kept his movements slow and deliberate as he approached. He did not want to appear nervous, but neither did he want to project arrogance. He was an unknown entity here, and the less attention he drew, the better.

The goblin at the desk barely spared him a glance as he entered. Harry stepped forward and, in a calm, quiet voice, said, “I need to speak with someone regarding ancestral accounts.”

The goblin looked up then, his sharp black eyes narrowing. “And what claim do you have to such accounts?”

Harry slid his hand forward, the dark stone of the Peverell ring catching the light. “I believe this will suffice.”

The goblin’s gaze snapped to the ring, and something flickered across his expression, recognition, perhaps? Without another word, he gestured for another goblin to step forward.

“Wait here. You will be seen.”

Harry nodded and stepped back, allowing himself to glance around the bank. It looked much as he remembered: towering marble pillars, chandeliers that bathed the main hall in golden light, goblins scurrying between high counters, measuring gold, weighing jewels. But there were differences too. The security measures were less severe, and the tension in the air was absent. This was a Gringotts at the height of its power, before the war.

A different goblin approached him now, older and dressed in deep crimson robes, clearly of a higher rank. “Come with me,” he said without preamble, turning toward a door leading deeper into the bank.

Harry followed without hesitation, his mind racing with the possibilities ahead. If the Peverell name still held weight in this era, he might gain access to wealth, knowledge, or connections that would help him solidify his place in this world. If not, he would have to find another way.

As he stepped through the doors, the marble halls behind him fading from view, one thing remained certain: his past life as Harry Potter was behind him. Whatever happened next, he would face it as someone new.

He had stepped over the threshold into a small room with only a small desk and a filing cabinet for furniture. The door swung shut of its own accord, and his attention was brought to the elderly goblin sitting behind a desk.

“Good day, Wizard. I am Gafrod. How may I be of service to you today?” he asked, his voice coming raspy to Harry’s ears.

“I am here to claim my family's vault.” He replied, deciding that a direct approach would likely be the best course of action.

“I see,” said Gafrod, eyeing Harry curiously. “And which family do you belong to?”

“My family’s name is Peverell.” Replied Harry, resolutely.

“Impossible. The Peverell family has been extinct for centuries. There is no living witch or wizard with that name anymore.” The goblin replied curtly.

“Forgive me, sir, but I believe you will find you are mistaken. I wear the family ring of the Peverells on my finger, and Peverell blood is in my veins,” replied Harry, politely raising his left hand for the goblin to see.

Gafrod peered curiously at the ring, his dark eyes widening when he saw the mark on the black stone.

“Moonstones and diamonds.” He breathed. “Lord Peverell, I beg your forgiveness. I was not aware. I will be pleased to allow you access to your Family Vault momentarily. Due to the nature of your request as well as your family’s history, I will need a verification of blood to confirm the action. I hope you understand.”

Harry had been prepared for this, but it still filled him with nerves. He did indeed have Peverell blood, but had it been diluted by the Potters so much that it would not show in this verification of blood? Did he have enough of a claim to gain access to his vault? Or had something changed when he had travelled back?

“No trouble at all.” He replied, trying to keep calm. “How best to do this?”

“If you would follow me down to your vault, I will ask you to cut your hand and place it on the vault door. If it accepts you, then you will have full access; if not…”

“I get the picture,” Harry replied with a grimace.

The goblin bowed and motioned Harry to follow him out of the door.

The cart ride down was a long one. He was going further down below the bank than even he had gone when accessing the Lestrange’s vault. It ducked and dived around tight corners, passing through the ‘Thief’s Downfall’ without incident, eventually coming to a stop outside of three vault doors.

“The vault of the House Peverell is the oldest wizarding account here at Gringotts,” Gafrod explained, hopping gracefully out of the cart and waiting for Harry to follow him. “Only that of the bank itself is older.”

The two of them made their way to the middle of the three doors.

“Vault 2,” said Gafrod, indicating for Harry to come right up next to the vault. From the inside of his clothes, he brought out a small, thin and, by the looks of it, razor-sharp silver knife.

“I would ask that you hold your left hand open for me so I can slice across it. Such is the magic of the knife that it will open the wound, but after fifteen seconds, it will close it again perfectly. This will give you enough time to place your hand upon the vault door and give your offering of blood. Do you understand and accept this?” he asked.

“I do.” Replied Harry, holding out his hand. The goblin took it and made a thin cut across his palm. As he did so, Harry took a sharp intake of breath at the pain but placed his hand on the door, nonetheless.

As soon as his blood made contact with the door, Harry felt the same burning power course through his body as he had when facing Voldemort. It surged up inside him, and he felt it pass through him, accepting the challenge the door offered.

“My word,” breathed the goblin who was staring in wonder at the door. “It has worked, Lord Peverell. You now have access to the Peverell Family Vault. Do you wish to see inside it now?”

“I do, you have my thanks, Gafrod.” He said, bowing to the small goblin who nodded and placed his own hand on the door, which opened with a clink and a small hiss of the moving metal.

As the door opened, Harry saw himself looking into the largest vault he had ever seen. It seemed to go on forever. On the left wall were shelves of books, each looking older and more valuable than the one before. To the right of the vault was a mound of gold galleons, smaller than the one of his account that he had used before.

“As you can see, Lord Peverell, the vault is not overflowing with gold as others here at Gringotts, but the books you can see are, themselves, incredibly valuable and, to my knowledge, unique. An inventory of the vault was made some fifty years ago by my predecessor. The total monetary value of the contents is 1248 Galleons, 2 sickles and 15 knuts. Not a small sum by any means, but certainly nothing too large either.”

“Thank you, Gafrod. I will make a withdrawal of 100 Galleons now.”

The Goblin bowed low before producing a small bag of money. “Please accept this as a token of thanks for your business, Lord Peverell. The bag is bottomless and will be unable to be opened by anyone other than yourself; also, however much you ask the bag to take out, you will find in your hands so long as there is enough within the vault.”

“My gratitude, Gafrod. This is a most kind gift. Please take ten galleons for yourself.” He replied, keen to keep on good terms with the goblin and somehow knowing that this would be a surefire way to do so. “But I must ask the bank’s discretion for the moment. I have just returned to Britain and do not want it to get out that my name has returned.

“Of course, Lord Peverell. Gringotts has a history of the highest discretion when it comes to Noble wizarding families. Now, in terms of assets, the Peverell Family also owns a plot of land where the Peverell Manor was formerly situated. The building itself is in disrepair, as I am sure you will understand, but the land is yours to do with as you wish. It is situated on the west bank of the Loch Maree, in the north of Scotland. As well as this, there is a small cottage on the outskirts of Godric’s Hollow that has been abandoned for a number of years.”

Harry almost hit the roof with surprise. The tiny little cottage that he had stayed the night in was actually his? He almost laughed at his own luck before remembering the mention of the other property.

He had assumed that all of the lands that had once belonged to the Peverell Family had been turned over to the Potters. Still, he inclined his head to the goblin as they made their way out of the vault.

Harry stepped out of the grand doors of Gringotts, blinking as the sunlight hit his face. The weight of the pouch of gold at his hip reassured him. He was no longer penniless, and more importantly, he had secured his identity. The bank had accepted the Peverell name, and with it came resources, property, and knowledge he had yet to uncover.

Now, he needed to prepare himself for the world he had entered. His robes, though functional, marked him as different. The way he carried himself and the way he spoke —small details could betray him. If he were to blend in with 1935, he had to observe, learn, and adapt. And there was no better place for that than the very heart of wizarding commerce.

For the first time since arriving in this time, Harry allowed himself to truly look at the world around him. Flourish & Blotts had an aged sign, but its windows were newer and still filled with thick tomes, some bound in rich leather, others glowing faintly with enchantments. The apothecary, its cauldron-marked door slightly ajar, released the scent of herbs and potions into the air, the tang of crushed ingredients almost overwhelming.

A few shops that no longer existed in his own time caught his eye. One displayed elegant wizarding fashions, deep-coloured robes with silver and gold embroidery, top hats, and dragon-hide gloves. Another seemed to specialise in enchanted luggage, with trunks hovering above the ground, occasionally flipping open to reveal endless compartments. He went in, bought a plain magical satchel of black leather that would magically expand when needed, and left quickly, keen not to draw attention to himself.

He passed by Quality Quidditch Supplies, noting the brooms in the window were bulkier, their twigs carefully tied in neat bundles. There was no sign of the sleek, aerodynamic designs he was used to. The sport was alive and well, but the technology had yet to evolve. An older wizard near him was animatedly discussing a recent Quidditch match, his voice rising excitedly as he reenacted a spectacular goal scored by the Puddlemere United chaser. The game, it seemed, had always been a passion among wizards, regardless of the era.

The bell above the door chimed softly as Harry stepped into Ollivander’s, the scent of old wood, varnish, and magic thick in the air. The shop looked much as it had in his own time: narrow and dimly lit, with towering stacks of wand boxes pressed precariously against every wall. Dust hung in the sunlight like fine mist, and there was a hushed reverence to the place as if the walls themselves remembered every wand that had ever passed through.

Harry let the door close behind him and took a slow breath. He wasn’t here for a wand. He already had one, an ancient one, older than any wand in this room. But he needed something else. Something that would make it easier to conceal and access the Elder Wand quickly, especially in the kind of duels he knew might be coming.

A holster.

Footsteps echoed from the back of the shop, deliberate and unhurried. An older man emerged, not Garrick Ollivander but his father, Gervaise, silver-haired and thin as a reed, with deep-set eyes that gleamed with curiosity.

“Good morning,” he said, voice soft but clear. “Looking for a wand, young man?”

Harry shook his head. “No, thank you, sir. I’ve already got one.”

Gervaise’s eyes sharpened just slightly. “Do you now? Most curious. But if not a wand, what brings you to my shop, Mr...?”

“Harry,” he answered simply. No surname, no title. Just enough truth to pass.

Gervaise studied him for a moment. He didn't seem suspicious, simply assessing the newcomer. “Very well. And what is it you’re looking for, Harry?”

“A wand holster. Something discrete. Quick-draw. Ideally enchanted.”

The old wandmaker’s eyes lit with professional interest. “For duelling, then? Or... other pursuits?”

“Both.”

A faint smile tugged at Gervaise’s lips. “Of course. Follow me.”

He led Harry to a narrow cabinet along the side wall, unlocked it with a murmured charm, and pulled out a velvet tray. Inside lay several holsters, some sleek and leather-bound, others cloth-lined or worked in dragonhide. Each bore a distinct enchantment: anti-summoning runes, moisture protection, and concealment charms.

Harry’s gaze settled on one crafted from midnight-black hide, etched with faint runes that shimmered slightly in the light. The holster felt warm in his hand, pliable yet sturdy, and when he slid the Elder Wand into it, it vanished instantly from view. it was weightless against his arm and nearly perfectly hidden beneath the sleeve of his robe.

“It bonds to your magic,” Gervaise said quietly. “Responds to intent. It’ll release instantly with a wordless command. Pricey, but very rare.”

Harry nodded. “I’ll take it.”

He paid in gold from the pouch Gringotts had given him, making sure that his ring was hidden.

“Strange times ahead,” the wandmaker murmured, as he wrapped the holster in protective cloth.

Harry offered a quiet thanks, strapped his new purchase to his arm, placed his wand inside and stepped back into the summer light of Diagon Alley. The crowds moved around him like water past a stone.

He glanced once more at Ollivanders before disappearing into the flow of the crowd.

Further down, he noticed a shop selling potion ingredients, its glass jars glistening under the dim lighting. A young apprentice argued with an elderly potioneer over the correct way to prepare asphodel root. At the same time, a few customers examined fresh dragon liver, its sheen still wet with preserved fluids. It was a different time, but business remained the same.

The people of Diagon Alley moved with a casual ease, chatting with vendors, flipping through books, and haggling over potion ingredients. There was no sign of war, no fear or tension in the air. Pureblood families walked proudly in finely tailored robes, their children trailing behind them. Shopkeepers greeted customers with familiarity, exchanging gossip as they conducted business.

Harry kept to the shadows, listening. He heard snippets of conversation: the Ministry strengthening its stance on international magical travel and a recent duel that had drawn the attention of prominent families. Nothing to concern himself with just yet.

He turned towards Madam Malkin’s Robes for all Occasions. If he were to integrate, he needed to dress the part. Stepping inside, he was met with the scent of fresh fabric and a wall lined with bolts of cloth in every colour imaginable. The soft murmur of a few customers filled the air as seamstresses adjusted hems and pinned cuffs.

A young witch, who he recognised to be a much younger version of the same proprietor that had been in his time, approached him with a practised smile. “Good afternoon, sir. Looking for something in particular?”

Harry hesitated only a moment before answering, “Something traditional. Something that won’t stand out.”

She nodded knowingly. “Of course. We have a fine selection of everyday robes. Do you prefer house colours, or something more neutral?”

“Neutral,” he replied. “Dark colours.”

As she moved to gather a few options, Harry ran his fingers over the fabric samples at the counter. This world felt distant from his own, yet here he was, standing in the middle of it, preparing to make himself a part of it.

The assistant returned with a selection of robes: rich blacks, deep greens, a midnight blue that caught the light beautifully. “Would you like any embroidery? Family crests?” she asked.

Harry shook his head. “No markings. Just simple… And a Muggle jacket, shirt and trousers.”

She nodded and led him to a curtained fitting area. He tried on the robes, noting the difference in the cut and weight compared to what he had been used to. They fit well, though, and that was what mattered.

As he inspected himself in the mirror, he realised that this was more than just clothing; it was a step toward establishing himself in this world. He would need to shape his story and create a persona that would allow him to move without suspicion.

After paying for his clothes and tucking the package into his satchel, he stepped back into the alley, the sounds and scents of Diagon Alley wrapping around him once more. He had his gold, his identity, and now, proper attire for both the wizarding and Muggle world. But there was still more to do.

As he adjusted the weight of the gold in his pouch, he let himself take in one last deep breath. This was only the beginning. He had carved a place for himself in this world, and now, he would build upon it.

The sun had long since dipped below the horizon by the time Harry returned to the cottage. Stepping inside, he placed his newly purchased robes on a chair he had conjured after his purge of the old furniture and set the pouch of gold on a similarly conjured table. The weight of it was a comfort, proof that he was no longer stranded in this time with nothing. He had a place to stay, money to survive, and most importantly, a plan beginning to form. He lit a single candle with a flick of his wand, the flickering flame casting long shadows across the bare stone walls.

The fireless hearth sat cold in the sitting room, cracked and unused, but something about it tugged at him tonight. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was something deeper. He remembered Ignotus’ words about the Codex. If this was once a Peverell house, could it be here?

He stared at the grate, its iron bars rusted and warped with age. He stepped closer, wand lit. The air grew colder, subtle but distinct. Harry crouched, brushing soot and ash aside with a conjured cloth until he found it: a seam in the stone that shouldn’t have been there.

He tapped it with his wand. Nothing.

He whispered, “Revelio.”

Still nothing.

Then, almost as an afterthought, he placed his palm against the stone, left hand, the one bearing the Peverell ring. For a moment, there was silence.

Then a soft click. A breath of cold air. And the stones began to shift.

The back of the fireplace groaned, stone grinding against stone, and slowly pulled inward, revealing a narrow staircase that looked as though it led to a cellar or basement.

Heart quickening, he set off down the narrow tunnel, and after thirty seconds, it widened into a chamber.

The ceiling arched high overhead, and the room was carved entirely from black stone, veined with silver threads that pulsed faintly under his wandlight. It was large and spacious, bigger than the cottage above. Along the far wall stood a tall, cracked mirror, framed by serpentine metal. In its reflection, his own eyes glowed faintly green.

There were no furnishings. Only a circle etched into the floor, inscribed with runes so old they looked almost like scratches. At its centre stood a small plinth with a dusty tome laid closed atop it. On the cover were three words:

“Mors Ombibus Venit.”

Harry stepped into the circle, the air tightening around him like a held breath. He had done the rite. Maybe this book was truly the key to unlocking his Family Magic.

He knelt, placing his hand over the book. The Peverell ring pulsed once, dark stone glowing faintly, and from his palm, a wisp of smoke unfurled; black and slow, coiling like a living thing. It slipped into the ashes, and for a moment, nothing happened.

Then the room darkened.

The shadows deepened and moved, not around him, but with him, like breath or blood. Smoke curled around his arms, chest, and spine. It was cold at first, then burning: pain and power in equal measure. He gasped, biting back a cry.

His mind filled with images, not memories, but sensations. And beneath it all, the soft, persistent thrum of magic, not destructive, but patient.

A voice echoed in his thoughts:

You are the key. You are the bridge between worlds. You are the Last Veilborn.

When the darkness receded, Harry was on his knees, breathless and trembling, but not broken. He felt… changed. Sharper. More real than he had in weeks.

And the shadows didn’t leave.

They lingered at the edges of his form, coiling at his feet, hidden in the folds of his robes.

When he stood, the mirror reflected not just a boy, but a Peverell. A legacy of death and defiance. Death’s Chosen.

And for the first time since arriving in this quiet past, Harry Peverell smiled.

He opened the ancient tome and drew a sharp breath. It was the codex. He had found it.

He thought about how easy it had been. He had found the cottage immediately, found the codex. Was Death guiding him?

Harry retreated back through the passage and sealed the hearth behind him. Sitting down, he considered his next move. On the wall opposite him was a long rectangular mirror. It was aged and cracked, but he could still see his reflection looking back at him.

He stood and walked over to it, inspecting his new features. He was taller now, noticeably younger yet broader —not the skinny boy he knew he had been at this age in his original time, but rather lean and muscular. Then he remembered.

His guide.

He undid the shirt and let it fall to the floor as he inspected the inky black tattoo that now adorned his left ribcage.

A raven inked in shadow, wings half-spread, talons extended and caught mid-flight. It shimmered faintly, as though not entirely on his skin, but within it.

He traced it with a finger. The mark was warm.

He didn’t know why he did it, only that it felt right. He closed his eyes and, in a quiet breath, wished:

“Nyx... come.”

The shadows around him stirred.

The air shifted, pressure rising, and with a whisper of smoke curling from his chest, the raven emerged. Not from the air, but from him. Born of the mark, shaped by will.

She burst forth in silence, wings spread wide as she took shape mid-air, her form sculpted from smoke and shade. She circled once, then landed neatly on the back of the nearby chair, her head cocked, watching him.

Harry stared at her.

He knew.

She was his. An extension of his very magic.

“Hello, Nyx,” he said softly.

The raven blinked slowly, and a strange warmth stirred in his chest, not affection exactly, but kinship.

She tilted her head to the side and cawed once, quiet and knowing.

He formed a small smile. For the first time, he wasn’t alone.

Sitting back down, Nyx resting on his leg, he stroked her feathers and thought to himself. He could not go around using the Peverell name openly—not yet. It was too old, too well-known in certain circles, and if he wasn’t careful, it might attract attention he wasn’t ready to handle yet.

He had no wish to lie to the people he might one day call friends, so he decided to just go by Harry until the time was right to reveal himself.

Next, he needed a story to explain his presence. He had no records, no schooling history, and no known relatives. That meant he needed a backstory to excuse any gaps in knowledge and keep him from unwanted scrutiny.

He settled on the truth, or at least some of it. Harry had been an orphan from birth. His parents, a pair of unknown British witches and wizards, had died before he could remember them. He had been taken to live with Muggles for a few years before being taken again by an old family friend, his godfather, who had taken him abroad to raise him in seclusion. His godfather, a reclusive but powerful wizard, had taught him magic outside of traditional institutions, giving him a unique but unconventional education.

That would explain his lack of records, his advanced magical abilities, and his unfamiliarity with modern wizarding society. It would also give him the flexibility to claim knowledge where he had it while avoiding topics he wasn’t sure about. His godfather, now deceased, had left him with little more than knowledge and a legacy.

It was a plausible story, with just enough mystery to discourage people from asking too many questions while still making sense, yet with enough reality that it would be easy to tell.

As Harry pieced together his new identity, a single name kept circling his thoughts: Dumbledore.

Even in this time, the man would still be a force to be reckoned with. He wasn’t the legendary figure Harry had known, not yet, but he was already known as a brilliant and formidable wizard. If there was anyone who might be able to help him, or at least understand the impossible nature of his situation, it was him.

But could he trust him?

The Dumbledore Harry had known had always been a man of secrets. Even when he had cared, even when he had guided, he had withheld truths for what he believed to be the greater good. If Harry told him the truth, about who he really was, about what had happened to him, there was no telling what Dumbledore would do with that knowledge. Would he help? Or would he see Harry as a threat, a variable that could change the course of history in ways he might disapprove of?

On the other hand, if he chose to stay silent, he would be completely on his own. No allies, no guidance, and no one who could even begin to understand the burden he carried. And as much as he was used to working alone, he couldn’t deny the value of having someone like Dumbledore in his corner.

He was not quite sure exactly how old he was. As his body had changed somewhat since he had been around this age, he had taken his best guess and concluded that he was 16, so he would still need to go to Hogwarts so he could enrol for the upcoming year, however, regardless of whether he told Dumbledore the truth just yet.

With a deep breath, Harry stood and moved to the small mirror hanging on the wall. He studied his reflection, the familiar green eyes staring back at him. If he was going to be this Harry, he needed to embody the persona.

His posture straightened. His expression relaxed into something more neutral, less guarded. He imagined himself as someone new, someone without the weight of a war behind him, without the expectations of a prophecy pressing down on his shoulders.

He was just Harry now. An orphan raised far from the spotlight. A wizard with no past ties. A man ready to carve out his future.

5th August 1935

The next day, he woke early and set about exploring the rest of his new home. He ventured out into the small back garden. There were weeds everywhere, and a large oak tree covered most of the small plot of land in shade, but it was his. He cleaned it up as best he could before deciding that today was the day that he would go to Hogwarts. Even if he wasn’t going to tell Dumbledore everything, he knew that he would have to enrol for next year. Packing some of his things into the small black satchel that he had bought the day before, he left the property and apparated to just outside the Hogwarts grounds.

Upon his entrance, he remembered one of the powers of the Peverell Magic that he had heard during his reading the previous night from the codex and decided that now was as good a time as any to give it a try.

He called the shadows around him and let himself step into them, reemerging on the other side of the wrought iron gates that guarded the school.

He had just Shadowalked.

Smiling to himself at how easy it had been to infiltrate the grounds of the most protected building in Britain, he made his way up to the large castle in front of him. As he walked, he stared up at what had been his first real home and grinned, remembering all of the adventures he had experienced in those walls.

Thinking that he would try to find someone inside, Harry made his way to the large, wooden front doors of the entrance hall. As he reached them, however, they swung open, and he was met by a tall, thin man with shoulder-length auburn hair and a neatly groomed beard. His piercing blue eyes, framed by half-moon spectacles, studied him with quiet intensity.

Harry let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. Even if Dumbledore no longer had the familiar twinkle in his eyes, even if his wand was held at the ready, the sight of the man was grounding. He was younger, yes, but still unmistakably Albus Dumbledore.

“Who are you?” Dumbledore demanded, his voice sharp, his posture tense. “How did you pass the wards? It is summer, and the school is locked down.”

“There is no need to be alarmed, Professor Dumbledore,” Harry replied, raising his hands in surrender. “My name is Harry, and I have just arrived. Would I be able to come in so we could discuss a few things? I swear that I mean you nor the castle any harm.”

Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You look familiar. Are you, by any chance, related to the Potters? You bear a distinct resemblance to Charlus.”

Harry’s stomach twisted at the mention of his grandfather, hoping that he would not be outed just yet. “No, I am afraid not, Professor. Would I be able to come in?”

Dumbledore hesitated, studying him with that sharp, calculating gaze. “Headmaster Dippet is not in the castle at present,” he said at last. “But I suppose we may speak in my office. However, be warned, I am not a man easily fooled, nor challenged.”

“I wouldn’t dream of trying, sir,” Harry said, inclining his head.

Dumbledore stepped aside, allowing Harry to enter before leading him swiftly through the corridors. The walk through the castle was eerily familiar, yet subtly different. The portraits he passed were occupied by figures who should have long been gone, and the suits of armour gleamed as though they had only just been polished. It was Hogwarts, and yet it wasn’t.

As they climbed the moving staircases, Harry took the opportunity to observe Dumbledore closely. He moved with quiet authority, but there was a sharp edge to him, something not yet softened by the wisdom of age. This was Dumbledore before he became the leader of the Order of the Phoenix, before he became the mentor Harry had once known. This Dumbledore was still a man with secrets, a man watching and waiting.

Eventually, they arrived at what, in Harry’s time, had been Professor McGonagall’s office. Dumbledore gestured for Harry to take the seat opposite his desk, and he did so with a nod of thanks. The room smelled of old parchment and faintly of lemon drops, though the dish of sweets was nowhere to be seen.

“Well then, Harry,” Dumbledore said, settling into his chair, his expression unreadable. “Let us start with something simple. Would you kindly introduce yourself?”

Harry met his gaze and gave a polite smile. “Of course, sir. My name is Harry. I was born in Britain, but I was raised abroad by my godfather after my parents passed away. I was taught magic under his tutelage, though it was an… unconventional education. Now that he has passed, I have returned to Britain in hopes of continuing my studies and making a future for myself.”

Dumbledore regarded him carefully. “A fascinating tale. May I ask your godfather’s name?”

Harry hesitated only briefly before replying, “He was a private man. I would prefer not to betray his memory.”

Dumbledore’s lips twitched, not quite a smile. “I see. And what is it you seek, young Harry?”

“I wish to enrol at Hogwarts as a sixth-year student,” Harry said without hesitation. “While my education has been thorough, it has not been formal. I wish to complete my studies and integrate into the British magical society.”

Dumbledore’s expression remained carefully neutral, though his eyes gleamed with curiosity. “An unusual request,” he admitted. “Transfers at your age are quite rare.”

“I understand,” Harry said. “But I am confident I can meet the academic standards required.”

Dumbledore studied him for a long moment before nodding. “Headmaster Dippet will need to approve your admission, but I suspect he will be open to the idea. However, you will need to pass an entrance examination to ensure you are prepared for NEWT-level coursework. As well as sitting your Ordinary Wizarding Levels.”

“That is acceptable,” Harry replied.

Silence settled between them, but it was not uncomfortable. Harry could feel Dumbledore’s mind working, trying to make sense of him. But Harry’s Occlumency was perfect; years of shielding his mind from Voldemort had honed it into an impenetrable fortress. Even if Dumbledore attempted to probe, which he had not, he would find nothing but an unshakable wall of calm.

Dumbledore finally leaned back slightly; his expression thoughtful. “There is something about you, young man. Something that does not quite fit. But I have always found that time reveals all things.”

Harry inclined his head, unfazed. A small grin started on the edges of his mouth. “Perhaps it will, sir.”

Dumbledore gave him a long, measuring look before his lips curled into a small smile. “Very well. I will arrange a meeting with Headmaster Dippet. In the meantime, you are welcome to stay at Hogwarts until your place is confirmed.”

Harry exhaled slowly, feeling the first real step of his plan settling into place. “Thank you, Professor. I appreciate the opportunity. I have a small cottage that my family owned, so I will not need to stay at the castle, but I appreciate the offer, nonetheless.”

Dumbledore studied him for another moment before nodding. “Of course, Harry.” He stood and gestured toward the office door. “I shall inform Headmaster Dippet of our conversation and arrange your entrance examination.” He extended his hand, and Harry shook it firmly. “I look forward to seeing what you will bring to Hogwarts. Incidentally, what is your surname? I don't believe you gave one.”

“I don't believe I did either, Professor,” Harry replied, trying his best to let his eyes twinkle in the way that the man in front of him would one day do so many times.

As he stepped out of the office and into the corridor, he allowed himself a moment of quiet satisfaction. He had taken the first step, but there was still much to do. He had a second chance, and he intended to make the most of it.

The castle felt different beneath his feet, but it was still home. And for the first time in a long while, he felt like he had a future worth shaping.

He apparated home once he had left the grounds and sat down on his spindly chair. He took out the codex and began to read it, hoping that it would answer some of the questions that he still had about his new abilities.

6th August 1935

Harry woke to silence.

Not the tense, too-still silence of a battlefield before the fighting resumed, but the quiet that came with early morning in the countryside, soft and unbothered. A breeze whispered through the cracked windowpane above his bed, cool and clean. Somewhere outside, a bird called into the dawn, and the faint rustle of trees replied. A stream babbled faintly in the distance, its sound comforting in a way few things had ever been.

He sat up slowly, the thin blanket he had conjured falling from his shoulders. The chill in the air made his breath mist for a moment before it faded. The bed beneath him creaked softly, old springs, worn linen, and a mattress that had seen better decades. It was the only real piece of furniture that he had left in the cottage after his initial purge, other than the chair he had conjured. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and stared around, adjusting to the dim morning light that filtered through grime-speckled windows.

The rest of the room was bare stone and wood, unadorned and hollow. Empty walls, no curtains, no bookshelves, and certainly no signs that anyone had lived here in years. Just an unused hearth with a cracked grate that he knew held an extra secret, a crooked little kitchen in the adjoining room, and a faint layer of dust over everything that hadn’t been disturbed in years. The place smelled of aged timber, forgotten memories, and a hint of fresh air through the cracks. Cobwebs occupied corners. A small draft from beneath the door made the single candle on the windowsill flicker, casting distorted shadows across the stone walls.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his feet brushing the cold floor. The stone was rough and unkind beneath his toes, reminding him just how far he was from the warmth and comfort of Hogwarts. His wand, the wand, rested on the sill beside his old one. It barely pulsed with magic now; it didn’t need to. Its presence was as natural to him now as breath. No one in this era would sense it for what it truly was. And if they did… well, they’d find themselves very surprised indeed.

He didn’t need to hide it. Just like he didn’t need to be Harry Potter anymore.

The world so far knew him only as Harry, a quiet, unassuming newcomer.

He padded barefoot into the kitchen, where a dented kettle sat atop the cold stovetop and a few tins of food sat stacked haphazardly on a shelf. A house-elf from Hogwarts, Gilly, he remembered, had brought him the basics after his meeting with Dumbledore. A loaf of dense bread. Butter that had already begun to harden. A jar of honey and several tins of soup. It wasn’t much, but it would do. He’d meant to return to Diagon Alley to pick up real supplies, maybe furnish the place and make it more of a home.

For the first time in years, he didn’t need to rush.

Staring out the crooked window above the sink, the trees swaying outside gently in the wind, he thought of his new home and what it meant. Godric’s Hollow stretched quietly into the hills, its cottages tucked among ancient oaks and ivy-covered stone. It was peaceful in a way he could hardly remember ever experiencing. He could almost pretend, just for a moment, that he was someone else. Someone normal.

Somewhere nearby was a house he once knew and never really knew at all. He hadn’t gone to see it yet. He wasn’t sure if he could. The thought of standing before the place where his parents died, where he had almost died, felt too raw. He wasn’t ready for that chapter. Not yet.

He looked down at his hands. Calloused. Steady. Older than they should be, on a body that felt sixteen. Power still hummed beneath his skin, quiet but ever-present. There was something about the way magic responded to him now, not with obedience, but with reverence. As if it knew who he was. What he was.

He was no longer just a survivor. No longer just a soldier.

He was a legacy now. A myth reborn.

And yet, as he stood in that quiet kitchen, with a rattling kettle and half-empty shelves, he felt more human than he had in years. The trauma still lingered beneath the surface: the faces, the losses, the choices, but here, there was room to breathe. To build something new.

Here, in this quiet, empty house, Harry Ignotus Peverell had begun to live again.

But first… breakfast.

Harry stepped out into the crisp morning air, the old wooden door of the cottage closing with a hollow thud behind him. The scent of damp earth and distant chimney smoke filled his lungs, and for a moment, he simply stood there, absorbing the stillness. Godric's Hollow was quiet at this hour, only the faint clinking of metal from a blacksmith's forge and the rustle of leaves overhead offering any sound. The sky above was a soft, pale blue, streaked with the last threads of dawn, and a thin mist curled around the garden fence like lazy fingers reluctant to leave the earth.

He took a few steps forward and stretched his arms above his head, muscles stiff from a night spent in an unfamiliar bed. The morning light felt good on his face. He breathed it in deeply, trying to centre himself. Each morning here was a fresh reminder that he was no longer at war, no longer hunted. He could walk freely, unmolested by anyone.

The path from his cottage curved around a hedgerow and joined a cobbled lane that wound gently down toward the heart of the village. Wildflowers lined the edges; their colour was soft and sleepy in the dim light. He paused where the path met the road, adjusting the strap of his new leather satchel slung across his chest. It contained his coin pouch, a short shopping list, and an empty transfigured crate he planned to expand once he arrived in Diagon Alley. Today was about outfitting his new life: furnishings, food and decoration.

He focused his thoughts on Diagon Alley. The magical current within him thrummed slightly in response to his intent like a string pulled taut. But just as he took a breath to twist on the spot, something in the distance shifted, a movement on the road ahead, subtle but enough to catch his eye.

A boy, about his age, was walking slowly down the lane in the opposite direction. He was dressed in casual Muggle clothes, jet-black hair tousled by the breeze. His gait was confident and relaxed, and he moved with the unconscious grace of youth unburdened by tragedy. There was something familiar about the curve of his jaw, the sharpness of his cheekbones, the thoughtful way his eyes flicked over the landscape.

Harry's breath hitched, and his whole body went still.

He knew that face. Not well, but well enough.

Charlus Potter.

It was unmistakable. He had seen old photographs of him in the Black family tapestry at Grimmauld Place and had glimpsed a moving portrait tucked behind layers of spell-locked archives in the Ministry during the war. James’ father. His grandfather. The man who had died just before Harry was born had no stories to pass down to him in earnest. And right now, he was walking no more than twenty feet away, utterly unaware of the grandson he would never know.

Harry froze, every nerve alight, as if someone had cast a full-body bind curse on his sense of reason. It was one thing to be told that he would live alongside people he once only knew through stories and legacy. It was another thing to see them, breathing, laughing, living normal lives.

Charlus hadn’t noticed him yet. He looked like he was headed toward the bakery, a small parcel tucked under one arm and his other hand casually buried in a pocket. His expression was calm and faintly amused, as though he’d just remembered something funny from a conversation the night before. There was warmth in his face. Harry suddenly felt the overwhelming urge to speak to him. To introduce himself. To say anything.

But of course, he shouldn’t. Not yet. He was not a Potter anymore. Not a grandson. The past must stay buried, at least for now.

And yet... curiosity tugged at him like a hook behind the ribs. Here was someone from his own bloodline, someone who might have held him as a baby had the world gone differently. Someone who had been lost too soon. It was too much to just let pass without a second glance. He had seen so much death, too much to ignore the sight of life where it shouldn't exist anymore.

Without fully deciding why, he followed, the thought of Diagon Alley forgotten for the moment. He stepped quietly off the path, heart pounding like he was back in a classroom duel. Each step felt like stepping into forbidden territory, like he was trespassing in a timeline not meant for him.

He watched as Charlus exchanged a few words with an older man passing by, his voice just out of earshot. The smile he offered in farewell was wide and easy, so very much like James' from the old photographs he had of his father. Harry felt the sting of emotion rise in his throat, unfamiliar and hard to swallow. He wasn't used to feelings like this anymore.

He had faced Voldemort. He had held Death's gaze and lived. He had watched friends die, had walked through fire, and risen from ash.

But nothing felt quite as terrifying, nor as precious, as seeing a piece of his family alive in front of him.

And for the first time since arriving in this new life, Harry wasn't sure what to do next.

Charlus turned the corner just as Harry hesitated mid-step, caught between decision and impulse. The boy, no, the young man, seemed to notice something out of the corner of his eye, because he paused, glancing back with a polite curiosity, the kind one reserved for strangers who lingered too long in your periphery.

Their eyes met.

For a heartbeat, Harry felt the world narrow. He fought the instinct to freeze, instead mustering a smile that he hoped passed as casual. He forced his gaze to drop slightly, as if embarrassed to have been caught staring.

Charlus offered a courteous nod and half-smile, then continued walking, but clearly giving Harry a chance to speak if he intended to. There was something unhurried about his manner, the kind of calm confidence Harry associated with those who'd never known war. It stirred a deep ache in his chest.

“Morning,” Harry said at last, quietly.

Charlus glanced back again, his smile widening a little. “Morning. Lovely one, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Harry agreed, his voice steadier than he felt. He took a step forward before he could overthink it, closing some of the distance between them. “Er... do you live nearby?”

Charlus nodded, tapping the parcel under his arm. “Just around the bend and up the path. My mother asked me to grab breakfast rolls before she started her day. Are you new to the village?”

Harry hesitated. “Sort of. Just moved into the cottage up the hill. Number twelve.”

“Oh, that place!” Charlus said, his eyes lighting with recognition. “It’s been empty for ages. Looks like it could use a bit of life again. You fixing it up, then?”

Harry gave a quiet chuckle. “That’s the idea.”

Charlus looked at him more closely, curious but friendly. “You planning to stay long, or just passing through?”

“Long enough,” Harry said with a small shrug. “Just trying to settle down.”

Charlus nodded. “Well, welcome to Godric’s Hollow. Quiet place, but nice. Not much to do unless you like walking through fields or helping Mrs Aubrey with her cat problem.”

Harry smirked. “Sounds like paradise.”

Charlus laughed. “Depends on who you ask. I don’t mind it. You’ll get used to the pace.”

He extended a hand. “I'm Charlus.”

Harry shook it, firm but careful. “Harry.”

“Nice to meet you, Harry. So, where are you from originally?”

“Here and there,” Harry replied with practised ease. “My family moved around a lot.”

Charlus accepted that without pressing. He glanced down at the satchel over Harry’s shoulder. “You headed into town, then?”

“Yeah,” Harry nodded. “Errands.”

Charlus grinned. “Then I won’t keep you.”

Charlus took a step back, about to turn away, then paused.

His gaze dropped to Harry’s right arm, where the edge of his jacket had shifted just enough to reveal something: a narrow strip of dark leather. The slight shape of a wand holster was tucked against his forearm.

Charlus blinked, his smile faltering for just a second. Then his expression shifted, surprise first, then a spark of understanding.

“That’s a wand holster,” he said, tone casual but eyes sharp now.

Harry didn’t respond immediately. He could lie, but there was no real point.

“Good eye,” he said quietly.

Charlus grinned. “Thought so. You’ve got the look, too. Most don’t notice it, but wizards can usually spot their own. You going to Hogwarts?”

“Yeah. Sixth year. Transferring.”

Charlus’s grin widened. “Brilliant! Then we might end up in the same classes. I’m Gryffindor. I don’t suppose you will know what house you’re in yet. It will be good to have someone my age in the village. There aren’t so many wizard families here anymore. See you around, Harry.”

Charlus offered a wave and turned, his pace light as he headed off toward the village bakery again. Harry stood rooted to the spot, heart still thudding in his chest.

He had just met his grandfather.

Harry waited until Charlus was well out of sight before preparing to disapparate. His heart was still beating faster than it should, the echo of the conversation playing back in his head. Charlus had recognised the wand holster. Of course, he had. It was subtle, but not invisible. And Charlus, even at his age, clearly had the instincts of someone raised around magic. Harry didn’t regret the encounter, but it left him unsettled, an emotional aftershock he hadn’t anticipated. There had been warmth there. A spark of something that could grow into friendship, or something more... complicated.

He didn’t linger. With a sharp twist and a soft crack, he vanished from the quiet lane in Godric’s Hollow.

The world reformed around him in the narrow, bustling passage of Diagon Alley.

It was still early, and the usual crowds had yet to swell, but shopkeepers were beginning to open their doors, sweeping out doorsteps and levitating signs into place. The smell of fresh bread and parchment hung thick in the air. Sunlight angled through the crooked rooftops, catching on gold lettering and brass door handles. A witch in vivid green robes rearranged self-writing quills in a window display, while a young boy tugged on his mother’s cloak, pointing excitedly at a rack of toy broomsticks.

Harry took a slow breath, letting the sounds of the magical world wash over him once more. There were no posters with his face, no headlines screaming about Death Eaters or disappearances. No tension lurking behind every corner. Just life, as it should be. He let himself savour it—this world, untouched, open. Here, he wasn’t the Chosen One. He wasn’t the Boy Who Lived. He was just Harry.

He pulled his list from his satchel and glanced over it. First: furniture. His cottage was liveable, barely, but he needed basics: a table, chairs, maybe a proper bed. He wouldn’t transfigure long-term items; he wanted something solid and durable. Something that wouldn’t vanish if he let his focus slip. His next stop would be provisions: parchment, ink, food, and maybe a few comforts to make the cottage feel like more than a temporary refuge.

As he passed a shop window displaying polished cauldrons, he caught his reflection. The muggle jacket and plain trousers helped him blend in with the earlier crowd, but the holster on his wrist now seemed more obvious in hindsight. He tugged his sleeve down a little more tightly, though he doubted it would go unnoticed by anyone who knew what to look for. He was still learning how to exist in this time. Still adjusting.

The encounter with Charlus lingered at the edge of his thoughts. There had been a moment, brief but unmistakable, when Charlus had seen him. Not just noticed but truly registered him. And the grin that had followed, full of potential and welcome, stirred something in Harry he hadn’t felt in years. A sense of familiarity, of kinship, he hadn’t known he’d missed until it hit him like a shock to the ribs.

Belonging.

He blinked the thought away and turned down a narrower lane branching off the main thoroughfare. The shop he was looking for wasn’t on the popular maps: Alfred Bitterstalk’s Second-hand Essentials. It was tucked between a shuttered apothecary and a boarded-up clock shop, barely marked save for a weathered wooden sign and a brass bell over the door.

He pushed it open. The smell of old wood, beeswax polish, and faintly burnt cinnamon hit him immediately. Inside, the shop was cluttered but clean. Repaired magical furniture hovered slightly off the floor, tagged with glowing prices. Chests of drawers opened and shut rhythmically as if breathing. A small writing desk sat in the corner with inkwells already enchanted, never to spill.

A stout witch behind the counter looked up from a levitating tea set. Her grey curls bounced slightly as she smiled. “Morning, love. Looking for something cosy or practical?”

Harry smiled. “Bit of both, if you’ve got it. Cottage-sized. Something sturdy.”

“Let’s have a look then,” she said, bustling out from behind the counter. “You’ve got the look of someone who wants a place to feel like home.”

“That obvious, is it?”

“To an old woman with good eyes? Clear as crystal.”

She led him to a row of charmed armchairs and started asking about preferences. Fabric, colour, enchantment strength, repelling stains—questions he’d never thought to ask. He answered them all, realising as he did how badly he wanted this: a place to come home to, something ordinary to return to at the end of the day.

He settled on a few pieces that were shrunk down and tucked away in his satchel.

By the time he got home, there wasn’t enough time left in the day to start the renovations. However, he unpacked his satchel with all the furnishings he had purchased and stacked them neatly, ready for work to begin.

The sun was setting when it came time for him to eat something. He whipped up some leftovers that Gilly had brought him and smiled. He thought he would need an elf, and he had liked Gilly when she had come from Hogwarts. Perhaps he could ask Dumbledore if he could take her on as his.

He sat in his chair in the living room, staring out the window at the peaceful sunset. For the first time in what felt like his whole life, he was content. Not worrying about looking over his shoulder or facing down an enemy, he was content.

A/N:

Act 1, Chapter 4 – Hogwarts Again

1st September 1935

The rain had eased by the time Harry arrived at King’s Cross, but the sky was still hung with that strange, silver-bruised glow that made everything look sharper. London’s morning air was thick with steam and the clatter of trains, the low murmur of crowds woven with the occasional whistle or barked instruction.

He stood for a moment just beyond the gate, his trunk placed on a trolley beside him, shoulders square beneath his dark cloak. Nyx was silent, folded safely beneath his skin, her magic dormant as the inky tattoo on his ribs.

The Muggle world moved around him, heedless of the boy in black robes with a trunk traced in runes and a shadow trailing at his heels. He caught his reflection in the wide station window. The faintest curl of smoke drifted from his collar as his magic stirred in time with his thoughts.

His name was Peverell.

And today, the world would begin to learn what that meant.

He passed through the station unnoticed, heading for the barrier between Platforms Nine and Ten. The brass archway was the same as it had always been: ordinary to the eye, humming with quiet magic if you knew how to hear it.

He didn’t hesitate, and he stepped through.

Steam hit him like a wall, warm and tinged with coal and oil. The Hogwarts Express stood proud and gleaming in the morning light, its scarlet body alive. Students milled across the platform in clusters of excited, nervous conversation. Trunks rolled, cats yowled, and owls hooted in their cages.

Harry paused just inside the boundary of the arch, letting the chaos swirl around him.

He spotted them almost immediately. Charlus, tall and windswept, already grinning, was waving at someone across the crowd. Fleamont and Euphemia Potter stood nearby, regal in deep emerald robes, keeping a respectful distance but watching their son with soft pride. Fleamont caught Harry’s eye and gave a subtle nod. Euphemia offered a small, knowing smile.

They had been kind to him. Euphemia had hugged him the second time they met. It had nearly undone him.

“Harry!” Charlus’s voice cut through the noise. “Oi! Over here!”

Several heads turned at once. The name was unfamiliar to them.

Eyes followed him as he walked.

Not just because he looked different, though he did, in his long robes and dragonhide boots, it was something else. A pressure in the air. A quiet weight that made people hush as he passed.

Harry gave Charlus a lopsided grin as he approached. “You’re loud.”

“You’re late,” Charlus shot back, clapping him on the shoulder. “Thought you’d changed your mind.”

“I don’t do that,” Harry said simply.

“Harry,” Fleamont said warmly, stepping forward to shake his hand. “Looking sharp.”

Euphemia hugged him again, briefly but sincerely. “Make sure he eats something, would you?” she told Harry, gesturing at her son. “He forgets once he's around his friends.”

“I’ll try,” Harry replied, startled by the sudden surge of affection. He covered it with a smirk. “No promises.”

Charlus rolled his eyes. “Honestly, I introduce you to one new person and suddenly he’s your new favourite.”

“You brought home someone interesting for once,” Euphemia said, arching an eyebrow.

Fleamont chuckled. “Try not to terrify the entire school on your first day,” he leaned in. “Lord Peverell.”

The title struck like a chord, subtle but echoing.

Harry inclined his head, voice soft but razor-edged. “Only if they deserve it.”

The whistle blew, long and low, a serpent’s cry through the early morning.

The crowd surged forward in waves of hugs, goodbyes, and last-minute instructions. Harry followed Charlus through the press of students, slipping into the corridor of the train with practised ease.

They moved past several full compartments of younger students already squabbling over window seats, older ones speaking in hushed tones, until Charlus paused beside a compartment halfway down the train. The door was ajar.

“Here,” he said, nodding Harry inside.

Octavius sprawled sideways on the seat, arms folded behind his head, boots kicked up like he owned the place. Across from him, Augusta looked up as Harry entered, her gaze quick to assess, but not unfriendly.

“Morning,” said Octavius, grinning. “There he is. Evans the Enigma.”

“I prefer ‘Harry,’ but I won’t argue with accuracy,” Harry said, setting his trunk down and sliding onto the bench beside Charlus.

“We weren’t sure you’d actually show,” Augusta said, adjusting the sleeves of her robes.

Harry tilted his head. “Well, here I am.”

“And that’s what matters.” Charlus pointed out, grinning as he slouched in his seat.

“I assumed you’d materialise with a dramatic swirl of fog and disappear again before we hit Hogsmeade,” Octavius added, folding his arms behind his head.

Harry smirked at the unintended accuracy of Octavius’ words. “Still not ruling it out.”

The train gave a gentle lurch as it began to pull away from the platform, the compartment rattling slightly before settling into a rhythmic sway. Outside the window, London began to blur into the countryside.

“I brought cards,” said Octavius, already digging through his satchel. “Fawley’s shit at bluffing, and Charlus cheats when he thinks no one’s looking. Fancy your chances, Evans?”

“Go on, then,” Harry said, his voice relaxed.

“Minerva’s meeting us at the castle,” Augusta said, neatly gathering her long hair over one shoulder. “She lives in Scotland, so there’s no point taking the train all the way down to London just to go straight back to Scotland.”

“Same with Poppy,” Charlus added. “She flooed to Hogsmeade with her mother this morning. Said she’d be at the gates waiting with Minerva, probably ready with a lecture if we’re even five minutes late.”

Octavius groaned. “You’d think we were first-years again the way she goes on sometimes.”

“You love it,” Augusta said without looking up.

The conversation drifted into easy banter, the kind that only came from people already comfortable in one another’s company. Harry leaned back, letting the warmth of it settle over him. There was laughter, teasing, the occasional clatter of Octavius dropping his cards or Augusta sighing dramatically at some foolish remark.

After a while, Harry stretched and stood. “I’m going to get some air. Clear my head.”

Charlus gave him a mock salute as he left the compartment. He wasn't sure where he was going but followed as his legs took him down the train. It rocked gently beneath his feet as he walked, letting the quiet hum of movement around him. There were voices behind closed doors, bursts of laughter and the occasional shout, but nothing that needed his attention.

He turned a corner and collided shoulder-first with someone coming the other way.

“Watch it,” came a cool, crisp voice. Feminine. Self-assured.

Harry took a step back, eyes scanning the girl now standing before him. She was around his age, maybe a little younger. Midnight-black hair framed a sharp, elegant face, her violet eyes narrowed slightly as they met his.

She was dressed immaculately in dark green robes, pinned with a tiny silver brooch shaped like a star.

“Sorry,” he said, instinctively and measured. “Didn’t see you.”

“You weren’t looking,” she replied, but her tone lacked real heat.

Something about her made him pause. She carried herself like someone used to being obeyed. Or feared.

He offered a nod, polite but distant. “I'm Harry.”

She arched a brow. “Is that supposed to mean something?”

Harry smirked. “Not yet.”

And with that, he carried on down the train.

She turned slowly to watch him go, one brow still raised, lips twitching in silent amusement. There was something odd about him. Not in his appearance, but in the aura that he left as he walked away.

Cassiopeia Black didn’t often find herself intrigued by strangers. Most boys either fawned or stumbled, or worse, tried to impress. This one had done none of that.

“Harry,” she repeated under her breath, testing the name like a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit. Her violet eyes narrowed, and a slow, thoughtful smile crept across her face.

Interesting.

The sky had darkened by the time the train began to slow, the last light of day slipping behind the highland hills in streaks of gold and violet. The soft hiss of steam signalled their approach, and the students stirred like birds in a shaken cage. Voices rose as the sound of trunks thumping down from the overhead compartments invaded Harry's ears.

He stood near the end of the corridor, watching through the glass as the train curved around the final bend. The lake shimmered beneath the fading sky, dark and vast and still. And beyond it, high on the cliffs, Hogwarts rose like something pulled from the bones of the earth itself.

He let the sight settle deep in his chest.

Not his Hogwarts. But still... home.

Charlus came up beside him, tugging on his gloves. “Never gets old, does it?”

Harry shook his head, faintly smiling. “No. It doesn’t.”

The train gave a final shudder as it pulled into the Hogsmeade station. Lanterns swung on iron poles, casting flickers of warm light across the platform as the doors clattered open. First-years were already being gathered at the far end by a tall, spare-looking man in dark brown robes, a thick moustache bristling beneath his nose.

“That’s Derwent,” Charlus said, catching Harry’s glance. “Gamekeeper. Stiff as old parchment, but he’s fair. He handles the boats while Professor Dumbledore waits at the gates. His niece is in our year. Ravenclaw.”

“Boats,” Harry repeated, eyeing the line of them bobbing at the edge of the lake. “Right.”

He followed the others off the train, the night air sharp against his skin, crisp with lochwater and pine. The older students were already forming into groups, heading toward the Thestral-drawn carriages waiting just beyond the path. No one looked twice at the creatures. No one else could see them. But Harry could.

They dipped their heads in greeting as he passed, and he nodded back, quietly.

He caught sight of Augusta and Octavius waving him over. “Come on, Evans,” Octavius called. “We’re riding in style.”

“Go ahead,” Harry told Charlus, who hesitated beside him. “I’ll catch up.”

He wanted the moment. Just a breath.

As the carriages rolled forward, Harry lingered at the edge of the platform, looking up at the castle.

“Right,” he murmured, setting his shoulders.

The carriages creaked into motion, wheels crunching over gravel as the students made their way up the sloping path.

Hogwarts loomed ever closer.

And somewhere beyond its gates, the Sorting Hat waited.

A question on its brim, a name on its tongue.

And a secret tucked beneath the skin of a boy who should not exist.

The Entrance Hall was just as Harry remembered. A vast, echoing chamber flooded in candlelight. The flagstones gleamed underfoot, polished by centuries of footsteps.

First-years stood in a nervous line near the base of the staircase, damp from the boat ride and whispering behind their hands. Harry lingered at the edge of the older crowd, unnoticed for now. His trunk had been sent ahead; his wand rested comfortably in its holster.

He caught sight of Minerva and Poppy near the far wall, dressed in their uniforms and chatting quietly with a few other upper-year prefects. Minerva looked sharp, her hair pulled back in a tidy braid, eyes scanning the room with a watchful precision. Poppy looked more relaxed, smiling at something a younger student said before pointing them toward the right corridor.

Professor Dumbledore appeared from the stairwell, his voice carrying easily over the noise. “First-years, with me. The rest of you, into the Great Hall.”

The older students began to funnel through the wide doors into the dining chamber. Charlus appeared beside Harry just in time, nudging him with an elbow. “Ready?”

“Born ready,” Harry said, though his voice was low.

The Great Hall opened before them like a cathedral of stone and starlight. Four long tables stretched the length of the room, already half-filled with returning students. Candles floated overhead; their flames steady in the still air. The staff table gleamed at the far end, empty save for a few professors.

As they walked, voices began to ripple down the tables. Heads turned. Whispers spread.

“Who is that?”

“Who is it next to Potter?”

“I don’t recognise him.”

Harry kept his eyes ahead. As the others made their way to the Gryffindor table, chatting and sliding into their usual seats, Harry lingered at the back of the Hall. He stood, hands loosely clasped behind his back, watching the Sorting Hat with a quiet intensity.

At the front of the Hall, the Hat sat alone on its stool, its brim slack and empty-eyed. The first-years filed in slowly, eyes wide as they stared at the floating candles and sea of robes.

A hush fell as the Hat twitched.

A seam opened wide, and it began to sing.

It was a song of legacy, of pride, of the four Founders and the values they held. A verse for courage, a verse for wit, a verse for loyalty, and a final one that warned: Beware the ones who wear many faces, for not all shadows hide in the dark.

Harry felt that line settle into the base of his spine.

The names began.

Each child stepped forward, trembling, hopeful. The Hat made its choices, some quickly, some with more consideration. The room applauded as each new member joined their table.

Eventually, the Deputy Headmaster stepped forward with a final roll of parchment.

“We have one more, who is transferring to Hogwarts in his sixth year,” he called, voice echoing. “Harry Peverell.”

Every head turned.

The Hall was silent.

Harry rose, cloak whispering behind him, and walked down the centre aisle with steady steps. The candles flickered overhead. His shadow stretched long behind him, dark and silent.

The Sorting Hat gave a little twitch as he reached the stool. Harry sat.

The brim fell over his eyes.

“Well now,” came the voice in his ear, ancient and amused. “What are you?”

Harry didn’t respond.

The Hat chuckled. “Not a first-year, certainly. A new student, but older than the others. Older than your body. You carry the dead with you. Oh yes. I know that feeling.”

There was a pause.

“Oh... oh, my,” it whispered. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Harry smirked inside the brim. "Ah, but I am."

"Indeed," the Hat replied. "Your mind seems older than your body... wait a moment... You really shouldn't be here."

"It is a long story," Harry answered, becoming aware of just how long this was taking.

"One for another time, perhaps. I see you, Harry Potter, or is it Peverell? I see you for who you once were, who you are now and who you could be in the future. But where to put you? I think the obvious choice would be Slytherin, yet you have admission here and could probably do without the connotations that come with that particular house."

"If possible."

"Then perhaps Ravenclaw. You have a mind that is far beyond where it should be, but no. There is loyalty, too, but I don't think Hufflepuff is the right fit. It appears as though we are here, once more, young traveller. GRYFFINDOR!”

Arcturus Black sat near the centre of the Slytherin table, spine straight, hands folded neatly on the polished wood. His robes were immaculate, green and silver trim crisp against black fabric.

The Great Hall was alight with candlelight, the ceiling above echoing the starlit sky. The chatter around him was low but buzzing with anticipation. First-years were being led in by Professor Dumbledore, and already whispers were starting among the upper years.

His cousin, Cassiopeia, leaned slightly toward him. “Did you hear? There’s a boy with Charlus Potter. Looks like a transfer. I bumped into him on the train. Said his name was Harry.”

“I saw him,” Arcturus murmured.

Cass gave him a sideways glance. “Interesting.”

Arcturus didn’t respond. His eyes were fixed on the figure in black at the back of the Hall, standing apart.

The Sorting Hat’s song echoed through the Hall, and when the final verse faded, the one about those who wear many faces, Arcturus felt the tension ripple through the Slytherin table like a drawn breath.

Then the names began. Child after child. Familiar names, unknown ones. All of it was a slow procession, expected and unremarkable.

Until the last name.

“Harry Peverell.”

A silence fell.

Arcturus went still.

That name had not been spoken aloud in generations.

He watched as the boy who had stood at the back moved down the aisle. Every step was controlled, fluid. His cloak whispered around his ankles, shadow trailing unnaturally long in the torchlight.

Peverell.

Cassiopeia leaned in again, voice low. “No one told me the Peverells were still alive.”

“They’re not,” Arcturus replied.

He didn’t look at her. He couldn’t take his eyes off the boy now, lowering himself onto the stool.

The Hat sat silent for a long time once it touched his head.

When the Hat finally placed him in Gryffindor, Arcturus leaned back slowly, his expression unreadable, though his thoughts raced behind his composed façade.

He watched the boy head over to the Gryffindor table, sitting down next to Potter. He carried himself like someone older than he looked, like someone who had survived things Arcturus could only guess at.

Something about him didn’t fit. And that made him dangerous.

Arcturus smiled faintly.

Dangerous was interesting.

Harry sat at the Gryffindor table, the Sorting Hat’s words still echoing faintly in the back of his mind. I see you for who you once were, who you are now and who you could be in the future.

He could feel the stares pressing down on him like a huge weight. Every few seconds, someone murmured his name followed by speculation, theory or disbelief.

Across the table, Charlus beamed at him, proud and oblivious to the tension in the air. Augusta and Octavius looked more thoughtful, trading a glance before turning their attention to their plates. Minerva had arched a brow at him when he sat, but said nothing. She was watching, too.

The food appeared with the usual flourish: roast meats, steaming vegetables, bowls of potatoes, platters of bread, fruit and sweets. The scent of it rolled across the Hall like a warm tide, and the students erupted into conversation and laughter.

Harry reached for a roll, more out of reflex than appetite, and forced himself to chew slowly.

A voice cut through his thoughts. “Enjoying your food, Peverell?.”

Harry looked up. Minerva sat across from him, her expression sharp.

“I am thank you,” he replied evenly.

“Evans,” Augusta said sharply, eyes narrowing. “Why use it at all?”

Harry just looked over at Charlus, who was still grinning ear to ear. "Charlus thought it would be funny."

“You little shit.” Laughed Octavius.

“You’re not what I expected,” Poppy said after a moment.

“I get that a lot. I'm sorry I didn’t tell you,” he replied, genuinely. “I just wanted to make an entrance,” he finished with a wink to Charlus.

Octavius laughed, slapping Harry on the shoulder. “Well, you certainly did that. Welcome to Gryffindor, Peverell.”

The Gryffindor common room was ablaze with warmth and chatter, a riot of red and gold as students poured through the portrait hole, still buzzing from the feast. Firelight danced across the old stone walls, casting flickers of movement that seemed to echo the energy in the air.

Harry stepped in last.

He paused on the threshold, eyes scanning the room as memories clawed at the edges of his mind.

“Oi! Harry!” Charlus waved him over to a set of armchairs near the fireplace. Octavius was already sprawled across one, legs thrown over the arm, while Augusta stood beside another, arms folded but not unfriendly.

Minerva sat primly on the edge of a cushioned seat, watching him with a hint of reserved interest. Poppy leaned on the back of her chair, her eyes kind but curious.

Harry joined them slowly.

Octavius gave him a grin. “Alright, now that we’re away from the staff... Peverell? Really? I think we’re all wondering… what’s the story?”

He looked at each of them, his voice calm, measured.

“I grew up outside the magical world. Lost my parents when I was a baby. Lived with Muggles and not pleasant ones. Eventually, I was found by my godfather, who taught me everything he knew, but he died recently, so I decided to start somewhere new.”

They were listening now, not pressing. Just quiet.

“I didn’t come here to cause trouble,” Harry added. “Just to have a change of scenery.”

Augusta gave a short nod. “Fair enough.”

“Thanks for trusting us with that,” Poppy said gently.

Minerva offered a rare smile. “You’re not the only one with complicated beginnings.”

Harry returned the smile, just slightly. “Didn’t think I was.”

The fire crackled. The laughter of younger students rose and fell in the background as the group of sixth-year Gryffindors eased into conversation.

The Slytherin common room lay nestled deep beneath the lake, all green light and cold elegance. Lamps flickered against stone walls, casting dancing shadows across the silver-inlaid floor. The water beyond the windows shifted restlessly, distorting the world with every ripple.

Arcturus Black sat in the high-backed chair nearest the hearth.

Cassiopeia reclined on the couch beside him, legs tucked beneath her, her gaze sharp even in idleness. Dorea sat opposite, her nose in a book, utterly oblivious to the outside world.

"What do you think, cousin?" Cassiopeia asked after the silence had stretched for long enough.

"I think that the game has changed," he replied. "You said you bumped into him on the train? Tell me. What is he like?"

She pondered for a second before responding, "I didn't speak with him for long, but he appears confident, charming and charismatic. But there is something else there, too. A grief beneath the surface that he has had for a long time."

"I see," was his response. He stared into the fireplace and thought. After a minute, he looked up. “He didn’t react when they called his name.”

"What?" Cass asked.

"He walked up to the hat through a crowd of strangers like it didn't mean anything, like it didn't rattle him at all. That’s fucking dangerous.”

“Gryffindor,” she said. “Clearly not as clever as you think.”

“No,” Arcturus said. “That’s what makes it worse. He chose it.”

“How would you know that?” she asked, brow furrowed.

“You think that someone who knows nothing about Hogwarts or the sorting ceremony, or the houses for that matter, would go through the sorting ceremony like it was the most natural thing he had ever done, without him knowing exactly what he was doing?” asked Arcturus mockingly. “No. He knew what he was doing, and he chose Gryffindor. I would stake my life on it.”

His cousin said, turning to him. “You think he’s a threat?”

"I think he is an unknown. And unknowns are dangerous."

The fire in his office had burned low, casting long shadows across the bookshelves and alchemical instruments that lined the walls.

Albus sat behind his desk, fingers steepled beneath his chin, gaze distant.

“Peverell,” he murmured aloud to the empty room, as though saying it might somehow make it more believable.

Fawkes stirred on his perch and gave a soft trill, but otherwise remained still.

Albus leaned back, the old chair creaking beneath him. He had seen many strange things in his life, but there was something about the boy that unsettled him in a way none before ever had.

He hadn’t known what to expect when the Hat had paused so long. That in itself had been telling. The Hat was rarely indecisive.

But when it had shouted Gryffindor, Albus had felt almost relieved. If he had been honest with himself, he would have bet most of the galleons he had ever earned that the boy would be in Slytherin, but the Hat knew best.

He had watched the boy from the staff table, watched how he stood apart, how he moved like someone far older than his face suggested. It wasn’t arrogance, it was simply composurere. And yet, the questions remained.

Who had raised him? Where had he learned to carry himself like that?

And why was he here now?

He stood and crossed to the window, looking out over the dark grounds.

Albus had no answers yet. But he would find them.

And until he did, he would be watching.

2nd September 1935

The first light of dawn crept through the high tower windows of Gryffindor Tower, casting soft gold across the sleeping dormitory. It filtered through the deep red curtains of Harry’s bed, painting thin lines across the floor.

Harry was already awake.

He hadn’t slept much. Dreams had come in pieces with too many voices, too many faces from a world he had left behind. When the light began to shift, he let the dreamscape dissolve and sat up, bare feet meeting the cool stone.

His trunk was at the foot of the bed, its runes humming faintly beneath the polish. His wand rested on the nightstand, exactly where he had placed it the night before. Nyx stirred under his skin, a faint pulse of awareness and shadow, but remained hidden.

Behind him, the other boys in the dormitory began to stir.

Charlus was the first to sit up, rubbing at his face blearily. “Fuck me, you’re up already?”

“Didn’t sleep much,” Harry murmured, slipping on his boots.

Octavius groaned from the next bed over, one arm flung over his face. “You’re not normal. It’s unnatural, being awake before the sun.”

Harry smirked faintly, reaching for his shirt, but as he did, the fabric shifted, revealing a glimpse of twisting black ink across his ribs.

Octavius blinked. “What’s that?”

Harry tugged the robe into place without urgency. “Just a tattoo.”

Charlus leaned over from his bed, peering at Harry with growing understanding. “It’s a mark,” he said quietly. “A binding of family magic.”

Octavius looked between them. “You mean like bloodline stuff?”

Harry gave a small nod. “Something like that.”

He didn’t push, just nodded once, his expression unusually thoughtful.

The three of them dressed in relative silence, the usual banter softened by a lingering curiosity. By the time they descended into the common room, the chatter of younger years had begun to rise.

The castle stirred with them: portraits yawning, staircases shifting into place, enchanted torches blooming to life with golden light.

The common room was warm and bright, the fire still crackling gently in the hearth. A few early risers had claimed corners to have last-minute discussions before the chaos of the term began, but most were still climbing out of bed.

Harry, Charlus, and Octavius settled near the portrait hole, waiting.

It wasn’t long before the girls appeared. Minerva, precise and composed; Poppy, tying her hair back with one hand and yawning into the other; Augusta, already muttering about timetables.

“All here?” Minerva asked, glancing between them.

Charlus gave a lazy salute. “Present and mostly conscious.”

“Then let’s go,” Augusta said briskly.

They left together as a group, a tight knot of Gryffindors moving down the staircases, laughter and sleepy grumbles mixing with the rustle of robes. They drew a few curious glances as they passed.

Harry said little, but he walked among them easily now.

By the time they reached the Great Hall, the enchanted ceiling mirrored a soft morning sky: pale blue streaked with gentle wisps of cloud. Golden light spilt through the high windows, warming the ancient stone.

Breakfast was already laid out. Platters of eggs, toast, sausages, fruit, porridge, and pastries stretched down each table. The scent of fresh tea and roasted coffee filled the air, mingling with the quiet murmur of early conversation.

They claimed their usual stretch of the Gryffindor table. Charlus dove into the food with renewed energy, while Octavius poured himself a comically large mug of tea, muttering something about early mornings.

Minerva took a small bowl of fruit and a scone, already scanning her timetable. Poppy chatted cheerfully with a younger student beside her, while Augusta sat with quiet focus, buttering toast like it was a strategic act.

Harry poured himself a cup of tea, picked up a piece of toast, and listened to the gentle bustle around him.

The corridor outside the Defence classroom was already crowded when the Gryffindors arrived. Slytherins leaned against the stone walls, their green-trimmed robes immaculate, expressions ranging from amused to bored to vaguely predatory. Ravenclaws stood in small, focused groups, quietly discussing strategies or theories, their blue-trimmed robes neatly pressed. A few Hufflepuffs lingered nearby, their demeanours calm and steady, exchanging reassuring nods and smiles.

Harry scanned them quickly, his eyes catching on a Slytherin who stood apart from the rest.

He had sharp features, a pale intensity to his grey eyes, and a posture that screamed authority without much effort. There was something familiar about the set of his jaw, the shape of his cheekbones —

Sirius.

Not exactly, he was too rigid, but the resemblance was there.

Octavius muttered under his breath, “Well, this’ll be fun.”

Before Harry could respond, a sharp clicking of heels cut through the noise.

Professor Eloric Thorne arrived with the kind of presence that silenced a room. His robes were jet-black, trimmed in a steel grey that matched his eyes. His hair was cut short, and his gaze, when it swept across them, was cool and discerning.

“Inside. Quietly.”

They obeyed without question.

The classroom was spare and practical with tall windows, clean stone, and a row of enchanted duelling dummies lining the far wall.

“Seats are not assigned,” Professor Thorne said as they filed in.

Harry took a seat in the second row, and Charlus slid in beside him. The others filled in nearby. Harry noted some Ravenclaws seated at the front, quills already poised to take notes, and a small cluster of Hufflepuffs took the seats at the back.

He felt the presence before he heard the voice — that slight shift of air, the hum of attention focused his way.

“Look here,” a voice came. “A name from the grave. History should stay in the ground, Peverell.”

Harry didn’t turn. “And yet here I am.”

Professor Thorne didn’t look up from his desk. “Focus. You’ll have time for petty rivalries when you’re bleeding on the duelling floor.”

A few quiet chuckles followed. Most from the Slytherin side.

Harry allowed himself a small smile, not at the statement but at the familiarity of it all.

This was a game he knew how to play.

Professor Thorne stood at the front of the room, arms clasped behind his back. His gaze moved slowly across the class, and the murmurs faded into silence.

“Defence,” he said, his voice cutting clear. “It is not a subject. It is a discipline. A mindset. Few spells are taught in this lesson that could not fall under a different subject, but here, it is how you use them.”

“Today, we will not be learning anything new, but you will all show me how much you have let your guards down over the summer holiday”, he continued.

He turned and pointed toward the back wall, where a half-circle of duelling dummies had begun to animate, their limbs flexing, their heads tilting, each armed with a standard duelling dummy wand.

“You’ll face one dummy. One at a time with no preparation or warning. You step forward, and it will attack. You will respond, and I will observe.” He raised an eyebrow. “Any volunteers?”

Silence.

Then Harry stood.

Professor Thorne didn’t react. “You must be the new student, Peverell?”

“Yes, sir,” he answered, walking calmly toward the duelling space.

A flick of Thorne's wand sent one of the dummies lurching forward, fast. Faster than Harry had expected.

It struck out with a slashing hex before Harry could draw his wand. Yellow light hissed through the air.

Harry ducked the beam easily, settling into his stance. He didn’t draw his wand with flair but simply pivoted and flicked his wrist, deflecting the next spell, a stunner, cleanly, followed by a snap of his wrist and a concussion hex that knocked the dummy a step back.

The class leaned forward as one, all eager to observe the new member of their year.

Another spell came, a disarmer this time, and Harry stepped into it, twisting around it, wand still low. Then he lifted it, fast and precise, sending a wordless Cutting Curse that sliced into the dummy’s wand arm with enough force to sever it completely.

The classroom froze.

Harry stepped back into place, keeping his breathing steady.

Professor Thorne gave a single nod.

“Next,” he said.

Harry returned to his seat as murmurs spread through the room, something that he was becoming more and more accustomed to.

Arcturus Black sat motionless as the whispers spread around him.

He’d watched the boy move with surgical precision. Not flashy but cold and efficient. Every step calculated, every spell controlled. There hadn’t been a single flourish or wasted motion.

Casting like that did not come from schooling. It came from experience.

His eyes narrowed.

As Harry walked back to his seat, Arcturus tracked every step. The measured posture, the way his eyes never swept the room, never demanded attention.

In front of him, he heard Abrades Malfoy let out a low whistle. “Well, shit. Someone's been trained.”

Patroclus Rosier leaned in. “Didn’t even speak the incantations.”

Arcturus ignored them. His mind was already spinning.

He didn’t recognise the style. It wasn’t any duelling form that he had ever seen, nor the rough aggression favoured by Aurors. It was more raw and stripped down. The kind of magic you used when survival was at stake, not merely judges' points.

“Who taught you that?” he murmured under his breath, audible only to himself.

Professor Thorne’s voice cut across the room. “Black, you next.”

Arcturus blinked once. Then rose.

He walked to the duelling circle, spine straight and steps smooth.

The dummy activated.

Its wand flicked with surprising speed: a chain of attacks: hex, stunner, disarm and a binding curse all in quick succession.

Arcturus didn’t flinch. His wand work was crisp, each counter a whisper of elegance. He blocked the first, dodged the second and then ducked under the third and fourth. He stepped left, pivoted, and answered with a silent Expulso that cracked like thunder and flung the dummy backwards into the wall.

Arcturus lowered his wand and returned to his seat without a word.

He looked over and could have sworn he saw a slight nod of the head in his direction. Usually, Arcturus would have scoffed at this form of subtle praise, but having seen what the new student could do, he took no insult. Quite the contrary.

The rest of the class followed.

Charlus stepped forward with a grin that barely masked his nerves. The dummy struck first, but Charlus met it with solid, textbook counters. His shield charm was strong, and his retaliation was sharp. He favoured power over precision, a battering-ram approach that eventually brought the dummy down in a crash of sparks and smoke.

Minerva stepped forward next. Quiet. Focused. She didn’t waste time. Her style was efficient, almost surgical. She layered defensive charms instinctively, weaving them together before launching a precise sequence of offensive spells that disarmed, bound, and silenced the dummy all at once. It never even managed a second volley.

Thorne gave her a single nod.

The platinum-haired Malfoy was cold and clean. His footwork was flawless, his counters crisp. He didn’t move like a boy. He moved like someone trained by a tutor who drilled him until perfection was the only acceptable result. He dispatched the dummy with a calculated barrage of hexes and shields, ending with a severing charm that left no doubt of his pedigree.

A few others followed. A thin, dark-haired Slytherin boy was precise but passive, more comfortable defending than attacking. Another Slytherin with sharp features and a confident smirk had flair but lacked control. A tall, imposing Slytherin girl relied too much on brute force. A sturdy, calm Hufflepuff boy who bore a striking resemblance to Neville Longbottom held his ground. Still, he clearly preferred support spells: shielding and slowing the dummy before landing a well-placed stunner. Octavius got clipped by a stinking hex early but recovered with a flash of raw improvisation that earned a rare raised eyebrow from Thorne.

When the last student stepped back, the classroom fell into a quiet that felt heavier than it should have.

Professor Thorne stood, hands behind his back, his gaze sweeping the room like a blade.

“Some of you showed promise. Most of you need discipline. All of you need work.”

Chairs scraped as students gathered their things.

Then: “Peverell. Stay.”

Harry paused, glancing at Charlus, who gave him a curious look but moved on.

The room emptied, the last footstep fading as the door clicked shut.

Thorne regarded Harry in silence.

“You’ve fought before.”

Harry said nothing.

Thorne stepped closer; his tone low, unreadable. “That spell redirection wasn’t textbook. And the way you broke the dummy’s rhythm, that’s not school-taught magic. That’s a survival instinct.”

A long pause stretched between them.

Then Thorne’s voice lowered, quieter than before. “Where did you learn that?”

Harry met his gaze. “Somewhere I’d rather forget.”

For a moment, Thorne didn’t speak.

Then he gave a single nod.

“You’ll sit in the front row from now on. I’ll be watching you closely. I want to see what you can do.”

Harry inclined his head once.

Thorne turned away, but his voice followed: “Don’t waste my time, Peverell. And don’t hide your edge. It is beneath you to conceal what you can do.”

Harry left the room in silence, the weight of Thorne’s words following him out into the corridor.

The Gryffindors waited a few paces down, just past the archway that led to the next stairwell. Charlus leaned against the wall, arms crossed, a thoughtful look shadowing his normally easy expression.

Minerva stood beside him, sharp-eyed and silent as ever, while Octavius, sprawled on a bench with dramatic exhaustion, was the first to speak.

“Well, that wasn’t terrifying at all,” he said, waving a hand like he was warding off residual trauma.

“Tell me about it,” muttered Octavius.

“Where the fuck do you think he learned it?” asked Augusta, just as the classroom door opened and Harry stepped out.

They all turned.

Charlus straightened. “What did he want?”

Harry shrugged. “Just a talk.”

“That wasn’t just a talk kind of ‘stay behind,’ mate,” Octavius said, sitting up. “That was a ‘why do you fight like a fucking Auror’ talk and a highly trained Auror at that. Which, by the way, is the exact thing we were all just talking about.”

Minerva studied him. “You didn’t learn that from school.”

Harry met her gaze calmly. “I had a different education.”

“That,” Octavius laughed, “is the most ominous non-answer I’ve ever heard.”

“Leave it,” Charlus said. “He doesn’t have to explain himself.”

Harry glanced at him, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

Minerva didn’t look away. “Thorne respects you. You’ll be watched and closely, I would bet.”

Harry gave a quiet nod. “I know. He may have mentioned that.”

“I nearly got flattened,” Octavius piped up, clearly wanting to change the subject. “I don’t think Thorne even fucking blinked.”

“You recovered well,” Charlus offered. “Improvisation under pressure is worth more than perfect form.”

“Tell that to my bloody pride.”

Charlus grinned at that, then turned to Harry. “Come on. Let’s get to Charms.”

Charlus had barely settled into his usual seat in the Charms classroom when he remembered that Harry didn’t have one.

The room was bathed in soft morning light pouring through tall, arched windows. Floating chandeliers hovered above, casting golden warmth over polished desks arranged in a wide crescent. The air was laced with a subtle lilac scent, a charm Professor Wessex favoured to keep minds sharp and focused.

The Gryffindors had arrived early. Minerva sat on Charlus’ right, already aligning her parchment and ink with military precision. Augusta was nearby, seated with the same deliberate grace she carried into every classroom. Octavius lounged behind them, his feet kicked out and his grin already half-formed.

Harry lingered just inside the door, taking in the space. His green eyes flicked over the students as they filtered in.

Charlus noticed it.

“Oi,” he called, tipping his head toward the seat beside him. “You look like you’re casing the room. Sit down before Wessex thinks you're planning a break-in.”

Harry smirked faintly and moved to join him, his stride quiet and unhurried.

The other Houses had begun to arrive. Ravenclaws filed in with a measured calm, led by Clara and Edgar. Behind them came the Hufflepuffs: bright-robed, talkative, and brimming with early-term energy. Robert offered a cheerful wave to Minerva. Meredith and Marcus were already discussing their summer assignments in low voices.

Then, just before the bell, Poppy entered, hugging a thick folder of notes to her chest. Her hair was slightly windswept, and her cheeks were flushed from rushing. She veered toward the Gryffindor cluster and offered Harry a small, familiar smile.

“Morning,” she said, catching her breath.

“Running late?” Harry asked.

“Always,” she said, sliding into the seat beside Minerva. “Healer Clarkson is good, don't get me wrong, but she does talk a lot. How was Defence?”

“Defence was… lively,” Charlus said, grinning sideways at Harry.

Minerva gave a small huff. “Controlled violence isn’t the same as a proper introduction.”

“You didn’t see it, Poppy.” Octavius chimed in. “It was fucking glorious.”

“Does every other word that comes out of your mouth have to be obscene?” asked Minerva, exasperatedly.

Octavius shrugged, winking at Minerva, who rolled her eyes.

Poppy turned to Harry again, expression amused. “You planning to cause a stir in every class today, or was that just your opening act?”

“Let’s call it improvisation,” Harry replied.

Across the room, more students were taking their seats. Wilhelmina Burke entered with Cantankerous Nott, both Slytherins exuding a quiet, cold authority. Arcturus followed, composed, unreadable, his gaze flicking briefly to Harry before moving on.

Then the room fell silent.

Professor Wessex swept in like a winter wind, her robes an immaculate charcoal-grey, embroidered with silver at the cuffs. Her hair was pinned in a flawless twist, and her expression brooked no distraction.

“Wands away,” she said without preamble. “We begin with revision. I expect minds sharper than your spellwork.”

She flicked her wand, and the board behind her began to write on its own, fine lettering in smoky ink:

Charms are not force. They are finesse.

Wessex’s eyes scanned the room, lingering a second longer on Harry than necessary, but she said nothing.

Charlus sat up a little straighter, quill in hand, but he wasn’t watching the board. He was watching the class, the way people glanced at Harry, the stiffening of posture when Arcturus took his seat, the subtle shuffle of notes and breath as Wessex paced like a storm cloud.

Wessex turned sharply. “Mr Potter.”

Charlus blinked. “Yes, Professor?”

“Demonstrate. Any charm from last year’s syllabus. No incantation.”

He stood slowly, his heart ticking a little faster. Not fear. Not quite. Just the weight of expectation.

He flicked his wand, and a parchment lifted from the desk with a steady, clean movement, hovering perfectly level as he charmed it into folding once, twice, then again, forming a tight, neat box. Simple and solid. He let it float back down.

Wessex nodded. “Functional. Lacks flourish, but correct. Sit.”

He did, hiding the exhale in a smirk.

“Miss McGonagall,” Wessex called next.

Minerva rose with barely a sound and conjured a soft blue light at the end of her wand. It pulsed once, split into three, and arranged itself into an equilateral triangle mid-air.

“Precise and consistent,” Wessex said. “Sit.”

One by one, the names were called. Clara Derwent manipulated a string of floating ink in spirals. Edgar Vance summoned a book from the other side of the room, letting it fly easily towards him before coming to an abrupt halt. Meredith’s levitation charm shimmered slightly, and Wessex’s lips thinned.

Then came Harry.

Charlus tried not to look too obviously interested.

He rose, calm as ever. He lifted his wand with no excess movement and called a sheet of parchment from across the room, but it didn’t just float. It glided, slow and smooth, curling mid-air into the shape of a raven. Its wings spread and beat once, twice before it settled neatly on the desk.

The silence lasted a beat longer than it should have.

“Impressive control,” Wessex said, voice even. “Not showy but with a flourish. Sit.”

Charlus leaned slightly toward him as he sat. “You are planning to keep that up all year, aren’t you?”

Harry gave him a sidelong glance. “I haven’t decided yet.”

Charlus grinned. He didn’t say it aloud, but he liked this: the tension, the weight, the way everyone in the room was a little more on edge than usual.

Maybe this year wouldn’t be so boring after all.

The clatter of cutlery and the soft murmur of conversation washed over Harry like static as he stepped into the Great Hall alongside Charlus, Minerva, Augusta, Octavius, and Poppy. Their footsteps echoed briefly against the stone before dissolving into the din of midday chatter. The scent of roasted meats, fresh bread, and stewed vegetables hung in the air, carried on a warm draft from the enchanted serving platters.

It felt like Hogwarts. But the Hogwarts he remembered had been war-worn, fractured. This one buzzed with life and curiosity. Conversations paused as they passed. A few Ravenclaws leaned in to whisper. Hufflepuffs glanced up and down the line of Gryffindors, eyes snagging on Harry.

They found space together at the end of the Gryffindor table. Charlus flopped down first, already reaching for a plate of roast potatoes. Minerva sat with brisk precision, Augusta beside her with far more grace. Octavius kicked out his legs beneath the bench, and Poppy slid into the space beside him, already buttering a roll.

Harry hesitated only a moment before taking the seat between Charlus and Minerva.

“Not bad for a first morning,” Octavius said, tearing into a roast chicken leg. “First day finished and no detentions. That’s got to be a record.”

“No detentions yet,” Minerva said, not looking up from her neatly arranged plate. “Some of us still have Transfiguration.”

“Some of us look forward to it,” Augusta added, her tone faintly amused.

Charlus glanced at Harry. “So… Defence and Charms. What’s the verdict?”

Harry stabbed a roasted carrot with his fork. “Defence was what I expected. Charms… less so.”

Poppy looked up. “You didn’t like Wessex?”

“No, I did,” Harry said. “She’s precise but unforgiving. The kind of teacher who doesn’t waste time. I appreciate that.”

“She likes control,” Minerva said approvingly. “I imagine she liked your raven.”

Charlus laughed. “Liked? She almost smiled. That’s as close to glowing praise as you’ll get.”

Octavius leaned across the table. “Still can’t believe you made it, flap. Mine barely hovered. Are you trying to outshine everyone or just showing off for the Slytherins?”

“I don’t need to show off,” Harry said mildly. “They’re watching either way.”

Charlus smirked. “It looked like you've done it a thousand times.”

Minerva gave Harry a sidelong glance. “You have, haven’t you?”

Harry didn’t answer immediately. It was true. He had learned a lot of his delicacy with a wand from performing intricate spells like that. "It's good practice for control."

The conversation shifted after that to something a little looser. Octavius started regaling Harry about a prank gone wrong last year, involving a reversed levitation charm and a very angry librarian. Poppy leaned in to correct the details, and Charlus chimed in with exaggerated flourishes.

Harry sat back, letting the rhythm of it carry him for a while, enjoying the camaraderie of his newly growing group of friends.

Albus Dumbledore stood at the front of the Transfiguration classroom, the soft ticking of the enchanted clock marking the final seconds before the bell. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, striking dust motes that drifted like aimless stars.

The students filed in with a low buzz of post-lunch energy. The Gryffindors entered first: Charlus Potter, always loud and good-natured; Minerva, quiet but fierce-eyed, parchment already out before she sat. Octavius Prewett radiated casual confidence, and Harry Peverell, the unknown, moved like a shadow in sunlight. Not shy, but reserved and ever watchful. His presence pulled at something in Dumbledore’s mind that he couldn't quite place.

Next came the Slytherins. Arcturus Black — composed and calculating — took his usual place with the stillness of a predator waiting for the strike. Patroclus Rosier followed, his expression unreadable, but his attention flicked briefly toward the Gryffindor table.

Then Ravenclaw: Clara Derwent, quiet and poised; Edgar Vance, thoughtful, already reaching for his notes.

And finally, the Hufflepuffs, Robert Longbottom, broad-shouldered and mild-mannered, and Quentin Bellamy. Ten students in total. A small class, but Transfiguration was a particularly difficult subject, especially at NEWT level.

Dumbledore raised a hand.

“Today,” he began, “we resume with elemental transfiguration: wood to water. You will attempt both direct conversion and form retention. If your object liquefies but retains its shape, you succeed.”

He waved his wand, and small carved cubes appeared on each desk.

The class got to work.

Dumbledore moved slowly through the rows. Clara’s cube dissolved too fast into a shapeless puddle. Edgar’s held shape for three seconds before collapsing. Robert Longbottom was improving with what he practised; the surface rippled but held its mass. Quentin Bellamy over-focused and cracked the block in half.

Minerva had already succeeded, of course. Her cube now shimmered like liquid crystal, perfectly contained. Octavius had a bubbling mess and looked far too proud of it. Charlus had managed a vaguely wet block and was scowling at it like it had insulted his choice of clothes..

Then he looked at Peverell.

His cube hadn’t moved, and his wand was still.

Dumbledore paused, watching.

Harry closed his eyes for a brief moment, then flicked his wand in a motion so minimal it might have been mistaken for a twitch.

The cube darkened, then it shimmered. And became water, still in the shape of a cube, there was no rippling, no sloshing, just a perfect cube of levitated water.

Dumbledore said nothing, but his hand gripped the edge of the desk a little harder as he watched.

It was too smooth, too perfect. No sixth-year should have managed that level of focus, of mastery. Even Minerva, for all her brilliance in the subject, had not achieved such stability.

Harry looked up, meeting his gaze.

“Impressive,” Dumbledore said at last, voice cool. "Most impressive, my boy."

“Thank you, Professor,” Harry replied evenly.

He would need to learn more about this boy. He resumed his pacing, but his focus remained on Harry Peverell.

The rest of the class progressed. Minerva began assisting Clara in refining her control over water shaping. Arcturus Black, working alone as always, produced a near-perfect suspended droplet shaped like a cut gem. It not quite the exercise, but an impressive demonstration of theoretical understanding applied practically.

Potruclus Rosier’s transfiguration was crude but effective, accompanied by a faint hiss as steam rose from the altered cube. Dumbledore made a mental note: strong intent, lacking subtlety.

He stepped behind Octavius, whose cube had transformed into something vaguely jelly-like. “Fascinating,” the boy muttered.

“It is meant to be water, Mr Prewett,” Dumbledore said without looking down.

“Is it not? Just... more committed?” Octavius replied.

Charlus snorted beside him.

Dumbledore chuckled softly himself, the corners of his eyes crinkling with brief amusement.

As the final minutes approached, he returned to the front of the room.

“Begin returning your materials to their original state. Controlled reversal is as important as transformation.”

Most students fumbled a bit more here. Clara overcorrected and sent her water cube splashing into her notes. Robert’s cube reformed but in lopsided splinters. Minerva returned to the woods as if time had simply reversed.

And Harry, again waiting until the others had begun, seamlessly reversed the transfiguration as perfectly as if Albus himself had done it.

Dumbledore tapped his wand once against the edge of the lectern. The bell chimed a beat later.

“Dismissed,” he said. “Next week, we begin inorganic elemental fusions. Please prepare accordingly.”

Chairs scraped and books were packed. As the students filtered out, Dumbledore’s gaze tracked only one.

Harry didn’t rush but made no move to linger either. He simply nodded politely and exited.

Dumbledore folded his hands behind his back.

For now, Dumbledore would watch. Let the boy reveal himself, as all things eventually did.

But deep in his bones, Albus felt the tremor of something vast shifting.

The castle had quieted in that odd way it always did during free periods. The corridors near the Gryffindor tower were empty, save for the sound of footsteps on stone as Harry followed Charlus, Octavius, and Poppy up toward the Fat Lady’s portrait.

“Sunset Fizz,” Charlus said, and the portrait swung open.

The common room was warm and golden, fire crackling in the grate even though the air was not cold enough to need it yet. Armchairs and deep cushions were scattered around in that charming Hogwarts chaos that seemed random but never quite was. Afternoon light filtered through the tall windows, catching the motes of dust in the air.

“Finally,” Octavius said, collapsing onto the couch with theatrical relief. “No essays. No lectures. Just blessed, blessed nothing.”

Harry hovered for a moment before choosing a seat across from him. Charlus dropped into the chair beside him, stretching his legs out toward the fire. Poppy took the remaining armchair, tucking one leg beneath her and setting a book aside.

“Minerva and Augusta have Arithmancy,” Charlus said, leaning back. “Which means we’ve got you all to ourselves.”

Octavius rubbed his hands together. “And so many questions.”

Harry arched a brow. “Should I be worried?”

“Absolutely,” Poppy said with a grin. “We’ve got a backlog.”

Charlus gave a lopsided smile but said nothing. He already knew more than most, so he let the others ask.

Octavius leaned forward. “Alright. You duelled that dummy like it owed you money, charmed the paper as easily as breathing, and transfigured a cube so perfectly, I thought Dumbledore would shoot through the fucking roof. Who taught you?”

Harry’s expression shifted. There was a flicker of something darker before it softened.

“Someone who didn’t believe in half-measures,” he said. “He taught me everything he knew.”

Poppy’s brow creased slightly. “Were they family?”

Harry hesitated. “Not by blood but in every way possible, he was the only family I ever knew.”

The fire crackled.

Octavius, mercifully, took the cue and pivoted. “Alright, enough of the brooding. Time for the real interrogation.”

Harry blinked. “That wasn’t it?”

“Favourite food?” Octavius asked, leaning forward with exaggerated seriousness.

Harry blinked again, then said, “Treacle tart.”

Charlus let out a whoop. “Yes! Finally, someone with taste!”

“Favourite colour?” Poppy joined in, grinning.

Harry gave a long-suffering sigh. “Black.”

Octavius groaned. “Ugh. So bloody predictable.”

“Favourite magical creature?” Poppy added, undeterred.

Harry considered for a moment, then said, “Raven.”

Octavius scoffed. “Ravens aren’t magical.”

Harry’s lips twitched into a small, almost amused smile. “This one is.”

He glanced toward the staircase. The common room had emptied while they talked, leaving only the fire for company. Satisfied, Harry pulled up his shirt, exposing the inky-black tattoo that covered his ribs.

“Nyx... Come,” he commanded.

The skin shimmered.

A pulse of shadow peeled away from his chest, flowing like smoke, and then Nyx emerged, her wings outstretched, and feathers dark as midnight. She circled once overhead, then landed on the back of his chair, talons quiet against the wood.

Charlus let out a low whistle. “Bloody hell.”

Octavius leaned forward, wide-eyed. “Alright. I take it back. That’s definitely bloody magical.”

Nyx cocked her head, watching them in silence.

Poppy stared at the bird. “She’s beautiful. What is she?”

Harry reached up to run a hand gently along her sleek feathers. “Her name’s Nyx. She’s... connected to my magic. My Family Magic.”

Charlus shook his head in wonder. “You’ve been full of surprises since the minute we met.”

Harry gave a faint smile. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

“You know what, Peverell? I think you might be right,” laughed Octavius, giving Nyx a wary look as Harry called her back within himself.

The fire flickered, and the laughter came easier now.

As Poppy wiped a tear from laughing too hard at one of Octavius’s more outrageous embellishments, Harry leaned forward a little, eyes curious.

“So,” he asked, “who else should I know about in our year?”

Charlus glanced at him, then exchanged a look with Poppy. “You mean besides us?”

Harry nodded. “I’ve got names from class rosters, but that’s not the same. I want to know who to look out for, who to avoid.”

Octavius lit up. “Ah, the real gossip. Alright then, where to start?”

Poppy grinned. “Well, Clara Derwent and Edgar Vance: both Ravenclaws. She’s sharp and organised, he’s quieter but clever. They’re always studying.”

“Robert Longbottom and Quentin Bellamy in Hufflepuff,” Charlus added. “Robert’s solid and dependable. Bit of a Quidditch nut. Quentin’s more of a wildcard, good at Charms, surprisingly devious when he wants to be.”

“Arcturus Black,” Poppy said with a slight frown. “You already know who he is.”

“Difficult to miss,” Harry said evenly.

Charlus snorted. “And always watching. Like he’s sizing you up for something.” He paused, then added more thoughtfully, “We don’t exactly get along—not on paper, anyway. But there’s respect there.”

Poppy raised an eyebrow. “Respect?”

Charlus nodded. “There was an incident in our fourth year. A cursed stairwell collapsed during a storm. Arcturus and I were the only ones on that floor when it gave. We had to work together to stabilise the collapse and get a Ravenclaw first-year out. He was calm under pressure. That kind of thing leaves a mark.”

Octavius blinked. “You never told me that.”

Charlus shrugged. “Didn’t seem important. We still disagree on a lot. But I trust him in a crisis. And he knows it.”

Harry considered that. “Useful kind of information to have.”

“Maybe,” Charlus said.

“There’s Patroclus Rosier, too,” Octavius said, his tone darkening just slightly. “Not as bright as Arcturus, but loyal to the old blood types. Best to keep your distance.”

“And Abraxas Malfoy,” Poppy added. “His influence is everywhere. Prefect, Heir to his House. He is sly, well-mannered, and talented — much more so than he lets on.”

Charlus made a face. “He’s the picture-perfect pure-blood. Charming, ambitious, and raised on legacy and blood status. But unlike most of that mould, he’s actually got talent... and none of the whining. Arcturus might respect talent, but Malfoy? He plays the long game. Cold, calculating. He’s cruel when he thinks it’ll get him ahead and subtle about it. And he remembers slights like no one I have ever met.”

Octavius laughed. “Oh, he absolutely fucking does. Still won’t talk to that Ravenclaw who beat him in the duelling competition.”

Harry nodded, absorbing it all. “Thanks. I like to know the pieces on the board.”

Charlus raised his goblet in a mock toast. “Welcome to the game.”

The Slytherin common room lay cloaked in its familiar, aquatic gloom. Green light rippled across the vaulted ceiling, cast through the lake’s enchanted glass. Outside, a shoal of fish passed in near-silence, their movement echoing across the walls in watery shadows. Candles floated in low orbits above each seating cluster, their flames unwavering. It was a quiet evening — post-dinner, post-discussion — the castle sinking into one of its many lulls.

Arcturus sat in his usual chair near the hearth, high-backed and just slightly set apart. The fire burned low, casting reddish-gold highlights through his dark hair as he leaned into one hand, gaze fixed on the flames. One leg crossed over the other, polished boots catching the light.

The soft creak of fabric and wood warned him before she spoke.

“You’re brooding again,” said Dorea, dropping into the chair opposite him with the casualness only a fourth-year could muster. She tucked her legs up beneath her and flicked her dark braid over one shoulder, eyes bright with mischief. “What happened? Did Rosier steal your favourite quill?”

He smiled at her just as Cassiopeia arrived a moment later, more poised, with a kind of effortless grace that turned heads even in their own House. She sat beside Dorea, though she didn’t speak right away. Her violet eyes were already on Arcturus, narrowed slightly in thought.

Dorea squinted at him. “You're quieter than usual. Did something happen? Is it about that new Gryffindor everyone's whispering about?”

Arcturus let the question hang unanswered. The fire popped once, sending a burst of embers into the grate. The sound echoed in the space between them.

Cass spoke next, her voice low and certain. “Peverell?”

He looked at her, just briefly and nodded.

Cass nodded. “The Gryffindors can’t stop talking about him — Potter, especially. But I’m not in your year, so out with it.”

Dorea frowned. “I’ve only seen him in the Hall. He sits with Potter and Prewett, the loud one, who is always waving his arms about. Doesn’t talk much, though. Kind of looks like he hasn’t slept in a week, yet never looks tired.”

He sat back slightly, folding his arms across his chest. “He’s precise. Every spell is cast with intention. Not a flick more power than needed.”

Cass tilted her head. “So you watched him.”

“I watch everyone, as always,” Arcturus replied. “But he stood out.”

Dorea leaned forward, resting her chin on one hand. “You think he’s trained?”

“I know he is.” His voice had a quiet finality to it. “I saw the way he moved. The wand control. He used no incantations unless absolutely necessary. He disarmed the duelling dummy in Defence with surgical precision, literally disarming him. It was brutal. Transfigured a cube into a liquid that held its shape longer than even McGonagall could manage. I saw Dumbledore watching him like a fucking hawk.”

Cass exhaled softly. “So, he's talented.”

Arcturus nodded. “But not reckless. That’s what’s odd.”

“Maybe he’s just... intense?” Dorea offered. “Didn’t Potter say he was homeschooled?”

“Potter says a lot of things,” Arcturus said, the corners of his mouth curling upwards. “Most of them are loud.”

Cass smirked.

“But none of it explains where Peverell came from. Who taught him? How does he have so much finesse?

And then there are the rumours about his family. The Peverell family were not just a recipient of Death’s gifts, but chosen by Death itself. They were his champions, guides of souls across the threshold, ferrymen of the dead. Some believed they could speak with spirits, that they lingered at the veil not to call the departed back, but to usher them onward. Most dismissed it as romantic nonsense. Ghost stories.”

“I never took you to believe in ghost stories, Archie,” said Cass, laughing.

“You didn't see him today,” replied Arcturus, calmly.

The silence that followed was not uncomfortable, but it was weighted with unsaid implications.

Eventually, Cass broke it. “So what will you do?”

“Nothing,” Arcturus said. “For now. I’ll watch him. See what else he reveals.”

Cass gave a slow nod, lips pursed in thought.

Dorea made a face. “You’re both far too dramatic. Maybe he’s just shy. Or weird. Not everyone’s plotting world domination from the Gryffindor table.”

Arcturus smiled.

“Maybe,” he said. “But I’ve never known power to come without a purpose.”

Cass shifted, leaning back against the cushions. “If he is something more… it’ll come out eventually. It always does.”

Arcturus didn’t reply. His eyes had returned to the fire, but he wasn’t seeing it anymore.

Harry Peverell.

Whatever he was, he wasn’t ordinary.

And Arcturus would find out what lay beneath the surface, whether it was a threat, an ally, or something far more complicated.

A/N: Thank you everyone for reading the story. 

A/N: Sorry to everyone who was waiting for an update for so long. This story is also published on the FFN site and, if I am being honest, I forgot to update it on here too. 

Act 1, Chapter 6 – A Name Returns

8th September 1935

The sun rose pale and golden through the tall common room windows on Sunday morning, casting long shadows across scattered parchment and half-drunk mugs of cocoa. Harry woke early, but lingered for a while before defending the stairs. There was no need to rush today as the castle was always still on Sundays.

He spent the morning in the common room, curled in an armchair with his Charms textbook open and a steaming cup of black tea on the table beside him. Charlus, still in his pyjamas, eventually dragged himself down the stairs, groaning about the transfiguration essay that he still had to write, while Minerva and Augusta appeared not long after, already dressed and trading notes on the same essay.

Poppy joined them mid-morning, and by then the common room had begun to fill with the soft rustle of quills, the occasional exasperated sigh, and the low hum of quiet conversation. Octavius snored in the corner until Minerva transfigured his blanket into a tartan rug that bit him, quite viciously on the arse, to thunderous applause and laughter from all around. Charlotte appeared just before lunch, hovering near the edge of the group, before slipping into a seat beside Poppy with a quiet greeting.

Around midday, they collected their things and headed down for a rather cheerful lunch.

After they had eaten, Harry slipped away from the others with a half-assed excuse that, thankfully, went unquestioned by the others.

The halls were cool and empty, his footsteps muted on the flagstone floors as he made his way up the seventh-floor corridor. He walked without needing to think, letting his feet take him to the Room of Requirement.

Inside, the space was dimly lit, shaped like a wide circular chamber with dark stone walls and a high, vaulted ceiling.

He shed his outer robe and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, feeling Nyx stir against his skin, feathers whispering beneath his collarbone before she emerged and took a silent perch on a nearby beam.

Harry began to train.

Shadow poured from the tip of his wand like smoke through water. He shaped it into blades and shields, loops and spirals, testing his control with delicate forms. He summoned his magic in pulses, controlled bursts that danced like ink under glass.

Hours passed as he trained. He began to work wandlessly, holstering the Elder Wand and pushing his magic outward, through his palms and fingers. There was not as much fine control this way as was similar to basic spell casting. Still, he found something comforting in the knowledge that he could use his family magic in one hand, and with enough steady concentration, perform more typical magic with his wand in the other.

He duelled illusions he conjured from smoke—faceless, shifting foes that struck hard and fast. He broke them apart and built them again.

By the time he left the Room, the sun was setting in streaks of amber and rose across the sky. He walked back to Gryffindor Tower in silence, sweat cooling against his back.

The common room was quieter now, the chaos of earlier replaced by a peaceful buzz. Charlotte was curled up with a book beside Poppy. Charlus waved him over, patting the seat beside him.

Eventually, the fire burned low, and yawns began to overpower words. One by one, the group began to drift away, with Minerva and Augusta heading upstairs together, Poppy helping Charlotte gather her things and giving her a soft smile before they disappeared toward the girls’ dormitory. Octavius muttered something about dreaming of flying cauldrons as he climbed the steps.

Charlus stood, stretching with a groan. "Tomorrow’s going to be rough. Double Thorne just after breakfast."

"He's not too bad," Harry replied dryly.

The two of them made their way to the boys’ stairs. As they reached the door to their dorm, Harry glanced back down into the now-empty common room, the last embers flickering in the hearth.

They stepped inside, the door closing quietly behind them, and he sank into bed, not even taking off his glasses due to the exhaustion of his training earlier, before the darkness swallowed him

9th September 1935

Monday began in a blur of yawns, toast, and lukewarm tea.

Harry woke to Charlus cursing the alarm charm he’d forgotten he’d set, and by the time they reached the Great Hall, most of the good food had already been eaten by their earlier schoolmates. The long tables buzzed with the slow return of routine. A few, similarly tardy students shuffling through schedules, swapping timetables, and groaning about Monday morning classes.

Their first lesson was Defence Against the Dark Arts at nine o’clock. Professor Thorne wasted no time, launching into a brutal demonstration of shield-breaking hexes that left Clara Derwent needing to be taken to the Hospital wing. Harry watched closely, and when it was his time to demonstrate, he punched right through Thorne's shield, smashing the light blue dome to pieces.

Charms followed straight after. Two hours under Professor Wessex's watchful eye were far more pleasant. Harry conjured a functioning, articulated ink quill with a flick of his wand during a silent casting exercise. Minerva gave him a sidelong look, as if she was still impressed and somewhat sceptical about his advanced ability. Wessex paused, blinking at the precision of his work, then made a pleased noise and carried on without comment.

Lunch was a blur of chatter in the Great Hall, Charlus still groaning and massaging his shoulder, which had been hit by one of Thorne's demonstrations earlier.

Their afternoon was taken up by Transfiguration. Minerva was in her element while Augusta tried her best to keep up with the Scottish prodigy. Harry kept pace—transforming his quill into a perfectly formed raven figurine, which he then animated, setting the bird off to fly around the classroom. He noticed that Dumbledore was looking at him differently after their Magical Theory lesson on Friday. There was still a trace of suspicion in the older man's gaze, but now, it was softened by a calm and almost serene expression that Harry knew well from his old mentor. He expressed his praise of Harry's work before doing the same to Minerva's quill that now sat on her desk, a perfect replica of the Animagus form she would one day take. He made a mental note to question her on this, as he was unsure if she had started the process yet, and, always being fascinated by the Animagus transformation, but not having any time in his previous life to attempt it, thought it might be a nice thing to do with his once-head of house.

Between lessons, he found himself more surrounded than he'd expected. Charlus was impossible to shake, and where Charlus went, so did Octavius and Augusta. Minerva was slightly quieter but always seemed nearby, sharp-eyed and efficient. Poppy drifted in and out like a calming breeze, occasionally linking arms with Charlotte, who now gave Harry small, tentative smiles whenever their paths crossed. The future matron had apparently taken a shine to the young little first year, and Harry was overjoyed to see the little girl start to come out of her shell more. He remembered all too well the nervousness of the beginning of his first year and vowed to do as much as he could to help her acclimatise.

By the time afternoon settled in, he found himself outside taking some fresh air and walking the path between the greenhouses and the lake. The autumn light dappled through swaying branches, and fallen leaves crunched underfoot.

He paused there, for just a moment, watching students scatter like birds relaxing in the September sun.

When he returned to the common room that evening, Charlotte was nestled in her usual corner, reading her Herbology Textbook. Charlus was sprawled across a couch doing absolutely no homework, while Minerva paced with a sheaf of notes and muttered hex theory under her breath. Octavius had transfigured Poppy’s essay into a paper snake that slithered across the floor until she returned it to its original state with a flick and a glare.

As the evening wore on, an owl tapped against the common room window—an elegant tawny, bearing a scroll sealed in glossy green wax. Minerva crossed the room to retrieve it, raising an eyebrow as she scanned the name.

"Harry. It’s for you."

He took the scroll, noting the embossed 'S' pressed into the wax. He broke the seal and unrolled the parchment.

Mr Peverell,

You are cordially invited to attend a small gathering of select students hosted by Professor Horace Slughorn this Wednesday evening at seven o’clock, in the Potions Office.

Attendance is by invitation only. Dress robes are not required, but a polished appearance is encouraged.

I look forward to seeing you there.

Warmly, Professor H. Slughorn

Charlus let out a low whistle. "Slug Club. Knew it wouldn’t take him long to sniff you out."

Augusta smirked, pulling a matching letter from her own bag. "Looks like I’m going too."

A second owl arrived not ten minutes later, this one for Charlus, who groaned as he read the invite. "Fantastic. I thought I might have missed that this year with your arrival. Tea and subtle career manipulation. My favourite."

"Don’t look so down, Charlus," Augusta said dryly. "He’s connected to half the Ministry. His connections might be useful one day."

"Still looks like a perfumed walrus," Charlus muttered.

Harry folded the letter neatly and tucked it into his robes. He said nothing, but he was already wondering what Slughorn hoped to find, and what he thought he already knew.

10th September 1935

Tuesday dawned grey and damp, the kind of weather that clung to the skin and made the castle’s stone floors seem even colder.

Classes passed in a steady rhythm. Potions in the morning, where Harry brewed a Calming Draught that came out slightly too viscous for Slughorn’s taste, and Ancient Runes in the afternoon, which he found far more satisfying. He sat beside Minerva, who said little but nodded once when he translated a complex Norse passage without hesitation.

After classes, Harry headed to the pitch for his first official Gryffindor practice.

Anthony had them in the air quickly. No lengthy pep talk, just formation drills for the Chasers and accuracy practice for the beaters. Archie Hall, the keeper, was in front of the hoops, practising his saves against some enchanted quaffles which left Harry, circling above them, searching for one of the practice snitches. The wind was biting, and visibility was low, but Harry quickly adjusted to the conditions, spotting a glint of silver at the other end of the pitch, which he promptly caught, nearly scaring Archie off his broom.

Charlus jogged over, broom in hand, at the end of practice. “You’re going to make everyone else look bad if you keep flying like that.”

“Then keep up,” Harry replied, but there was no heat in his words.

The walk up from the pitch was slow, their boots crunching on the gravel path as the last streaks of sunlight stretched across the grounds. Charlus was still riding the high of the training session, as he talked about line formations, seemingly to himself as Minerva was only half listening.

As they reached the Castle, Harry broke off, heading the other direction from the other two.

“You’ll be late for dinner if you wander off now,” Minerva said as they reached the entrance hall.

Harry shrugged, tugging his cloak off his shoulder. “I need to do something.”

Charlus arched a brow. “Don't knacker yourself out, Harry."

“I’ll be fine,” Harry said, already turning away. “I just need… a few hours.”

He slipped through the quieter corridors, his pace steady but relaxed. The warmth from flying was fading now, replaced by the familiar ache behind his ribs, which came after the adrenaline settled.

The stretch of seventh-floor corridor came into view — long and quiet, torchlight flickering against ancient stone. He passed the tapestry once, then twice, letting the familiar rhythm settle into his breathing.

The door appeared on the third pass, as usual, and he didn't hesitate to step through.

The space was simple but elegant with high ceilings, soft candlelight, and walls polished smooth like black ice. The duelling floor gleamed in the low light, just as it had the previous week.

And at the far end of the chamber, already waiting, like she belonged there, was Cassiopeia.

He said nothing, letting the door seal shut behind him.

She didn’t turn when he entered. Instead, she stood near the centre of the Room, perfectly still, wand resting at her side. Candlelight caught in the silver trim of her sleeves, flickering across the obsidian floor like reflections on still water.

Harry stepped in without a word.

“You showed up,” she said, her voice light but unreadable.

“I said I would.” He replied, shrugging off his Quidditch outer robe, leaving him standing in his jumper and trousers.

She turned, slowly — her gaze landing on him.

“You look tired,” she said, eyes flicking to his shoulder. “Or is that just your face's natural resting position?”

Harry’s brow arched faintly. “Did you rehearse that?”

She shrugged, "You’re not special enough for rehearsals. I am surprised you showed up; however, considering how you flew in practice. You must be exhausted."

“Mm.” He let his wand slide into his hand. “So you were watching.”

“I was bored,” she said. “And you were rather dramatic.”

“Comes naturally,” Harry replied. “Can't help it, I'm afraid.”

Her lips twitched. It was not quite a smile, but something very close. “You must be mad, the way you fly, Peverell. It looked to me as though you didn't care if you hit the ground.”

“I didn’t,” he said, giving a noncommittal shrug.

She cocked her head to the side as if she was eyeing him up. “Is that why you came, a death wish? Or were just hoping I’ll be gentle like last time?”

“Oh, that was you going gently?” he asked, stepping into position. "I would love to see you at your full effort."

She moved to mirror him, her hand tightening around her wand slightly.

“Try not to fall apart mid-duel,” she said, voice soft as silk. “I’d hate to ruin the mystery.”

Harry met her eyes across the quiet space. “Don’t worry. You’ll still have questions after I beat you.”

Then he smiled. “Ladies first?”

Cassiopeia's mouth curved slightly. “How chivalrous.”

She moved first, firing a clean stunner to test his guard.

He deflected it like it was nothing with a casual flick of his wrist.

Cass narrowed her eyes and sent a tripping jinx his way, low and fast, attempting to make him adjust his footing. He didn’t. He just stepped aside, not even bothering to counter.

Cass’s fingers tightened slightly around her wand. She cast again, more intensely now. A three-spell chain, one after the other. Stun. Knockback. Cut.

He handled them all with ease.

She felt something twist in her gut at the realisation that he was toying with her.

Her next curse cracked across the floor where he’d just stood a second previously, his shield springing into existence to shield him from the debris.

Then he cast.

A flick of his wand, and her foot locked to the floor.

Only for a moment. Barely more than a heartbeat, causing her to stumble forward slightly. She snapped her head up, expecting a follow-up, but he simply stood there, his impossibly green eyes boring into her and a passive look on his face.

She snarled under her breath and sent a retaliatory curse that slammed against his shield hard enough to light the wall behind him.

And still — still — he barely reacted.

Then came the grin, curling the corner of his lips as he stood, letting his shield drop and taking a step towards her.

And then, the bastard winked.

Cass saw red.

She didn’t think.

The spells came sharp and biting, with curses and hexes designed to hurt her opponent and his annoyingly perfect eyes and his irritatingly handsome face.

He blocked them all.

She cursed inwardly to herself, as he moved like the fatigue from his Quidditch practice didn’t affect him.

She watched as he gave a small chuckle, which caused her to seethe in anger because the laugh was neither smug nor mocking. It was far worse.

It was out of amusement.

She pushed harder, sending a fire-whip curse that skidded across his silver shield. Another spell cracked the tiles at his feet. Her braid came loose as she ducked a sudden counter, and she barely registered the sting of hair in her face as she came up casting again.

But it didn’t matter.

He was done playing.

His disarming spell was fast, efficient and terribly accurate.

And before she could even think of shielding or dodging, her wand was gone, flying through the air towards him, clattering against the floor as it landed.

Cass stood frozen, chest heaving, lips parted slightly as the burn of effort throbbed down her arms.

Harry didn’t gloat.

He just stood there, wand still raised, breathing calmly. Frustratingly so.

And that damn grin was still there.

“Yield?” he asked.

She didn’t answer. She couldn't answer, not with her pride, her pulse, and whatever this was still hammering through her blood.

Harry held her gaze.

Her anger wasn’t loud. It was cold, simmering beneath the skin, barely held in check. It didn’t bother him. If anything, it fascinated him.

She was beautiful like this, her hair fallen out of her braid and her cheeks tinted red.

A breath later, she bent and picked up her wand, fingers curling tight around the grip.

“You’re enjoying this,” she said, not quite looking at him.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “And what if I am?”

She straightened, jaw clenched. “You were playing with me.”

He tilted his head slightly. “You make it sound like I didn’t take you seriously.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did,” he said quietly. “That’s why you lost.”

Cass drew in a sharp breath. “Arrogant prick.”

Harry smiled. “That’s more like it.”

She turned to walk away, but didn’t make it to the door before he added, “You fight better when you are angry.”

She froze.

“I fight fine,” she said over her shoulder, voice clipped. “You’re just—”

“Better?” he offered.

She looked back at him then, really looked. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed, and her mouth parted slightly like she couldn’t quite decide what to say next.

“Merlin, you’re infuriating,” she snapped.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Harry said, tone teasing, eyes still on hers as he flicked his wrist and holstered his wand.

Cass stared at him for a beat longer, then turned sharply and strode toward the door.

But her hand paused on the handle.

“What are you even doing here, Peverell?” she asked, without turning around. “Really.”

Harry watched her for a moment.

And then replied, “I'm still figuring that out.”

She nodded, then turned, leaving without another word.

Harry exhaled slowly.

He stood alone in the quiet room, the grin she’d put on his face lingering a moment longer.

Then it faded.

He sat down on the edge of the duelling platform and ran a hand through his hair.

The way his pulse was still high despite the duel being over, the way he’d smiled without thinking, the way his eyes had followed the swing of her cloak as she walked away.

Shit.

The grin left his face as though he had been slapped.

His hand dropped to his lap, curling loosely around the edge of the platform.

Ginny’s ring, the one she’d given him, sat cold and quiet against his chest beneath the fabric.

He closed his eyes for a long moment.

She was gone. And this wasn’t about replacing her. It couldn’t be.

But the guilt curled up all the same.

He hadn’t felt anything like this in weeks.

And now he did, and it felt like betrayal.

11th September 1935

Wednesday came crisp and clear, the sky a sharp blue over frost-kissed lawns. By now, the rhythm of lessons had taken hold, and Harry moved through them with ease.

After classes, he returned to the dorm to change, slipping out of his uniform in favour of some smarter robes.

Nyx watched from the windowsill as he adjusted the cuff of his sleeve.

“Don’t give me that look,” Harry muttered.

She blinked once, cocked her head to the side, before gliding down towards him and dissolving back into his side.

Charlus appeared in the doorway, already dressed in dark green. “Ready for your first taste of elite Hogwarts socialising?”

Harry arched a brow. “Should I be worried?”

“Nah. It's not as bad as you might think. He will flatter you endlessly and try to pry any information he can out of you, but the food is good at least.”

They left together, footsteps echoing through the stone corridor as the sun dipped low beyond the windows.

The Potions classroom had been utterly transformed.

Where once there were rows of cauldrons and long, battered workbenches, now stood a shining mahogany table, polished until it gleamed in the soft candlelight, lined with high-backed velvet chairs. Floating orbs of golden light bobbed gently above the centrepieces and trays of enchanted delicacies steamed gently to one side. The scent of spice, plum wine, and fresh ink curled through the air, invading his nose with force.

Professor Slughorn stood near the head of the table, cheeks flushed with excitement. "Ah! Mr Peverell, Mr Potter, Miss Fawley—wonderful! Do come in, do come in. I trust you’re all quite ready for a little evening indulgence, hmm?"

Harry entered alongside Charlus and Augusta, expression unreadable as his sharp green eyes took in the room. Arcturus Black was already seated near the far end, cloaked in sleek charcoal-grey robes that suited his cool precision. He looked every inch the Lord of House Black. When Harry entered, Arcturus offered the slightest nod of acknowledgement, which Harry returned in kind.

The room was filled with sixth- and seventh-years, alongside a handful of poised fifth-years who had clearly been invited early. Some students greeted Harry with curious nods, a few with wary glances, and others with open intrigue.

Slughorn, ever the extrovert, launched into his routine with well-practised ease, gliding from student to student like a rotund social butterfly. He praised Augusta’s uncle—the current Minister for Magic—with dramatic flourishes and winked at Charlus as he extolled the Potters’ reputation in the Department of Law Enforcement.

Harry remained mostly silent, sipping spiced pumpkin juice and letting the professor’s rambling bounce off him. He answered when spoken to, but his quiet seemed to trouble Slughorn more than open defiance might have. Eventually, the man bustled over with an exaggerated air of excitement.

"Mr Peverell, I must say, it’s an honour. An old name, a powerful name, resurfacing in such intriguing times."

Harry glanced up at him mildly. "Names don’t mean much on their own."

Slughorn chuckled heartily, apparently unfazed by the cool tone. "Quite right, quite right! But some names carry history. The Peverells. One might say that your reputation is mythic."

From the far end of the table, a cool voice interrupted. "Myths belong in books."

Abraxas Malfoy sat back in his chair, legs crossed with calculated poise. His platinum hair gleamed under the candlelight, and his expression bore the lazy disdain of someone convinced of his own superiority.

Slughorn raised both hands in mock alarm. "Play nice, boys, play nice."

Harry turned to look at Malfoy directly, his tone calm but unwavering. "That would require everyone at the table to be playing."

Charlus let out a low whistle. Augusta remained impassive, sipping her drink.

Abraxas tilted his head slightly. "Rumours spread quickly when ghosts start walking the halls again."

"Then perhaps you should stop chasing them," Harry replied, his voice still calm and collected. "You never know what might happen if you do."

A brief silence settled over the table. The tension hummed beneath the surface like a held breath.

Arcturus glanced between them, his expression unreadable, but did not speak.

Slughorn, sensing the need to divert, clapped his hands with theatrical cheer. "Now, now! Let’s talk ambitions! Mr Peverell, have you given any thought to your future in magical Britain?"

Harry tilted his head just slightly, pausing before he replied. "I have a few ideas. Nothing I’m ready to speak about just yet," he said, then added, "I think it’s important to understand the shape of the world before deciding where to stand in it. Some things are still settling for me."

That earned a few thoughtful looks. Some students nodded, and others exchanged quiet murmurs. Slughorn looked mildly disappointed, but covered it quickly, turning the conversation toward a seventh-year discussing her future internship at the Department of International Magical Cooperation.

The rest of the evening passed in a stream of well-groomed conversation. Potion trends, Ministry gossip, and debates about bloodline politics filled the space. Harry spoke only when he had something worth saying. He observed carefully, memorising names, noting who deferred to whom, who was more vocal and who was more observant.

Arcturus remained mostly silent, but his gaze often flicked toward Harry with something akin to calculation. Harry didn’t return the stares, but he noticed the Lord Black.

By the time Slughorn dismissed them, the candles had burned low, the desserts mostly picked over, and the warmth of the room had faded into something more measured and cool.

As they made their way back toward Gryffindor Tower, Charlus elbowed Harry lightly.

"You’ve got a real talent for making people uncomfortable."

"Only the ones who need to be," Harry said quietly, a feint grin settling over his features.

Augusta smirked. "Malfoy’s going to be fuming for days."

The satisfaction in Harry's voice was unmistakable as he replied, "Good."

13th September 1935

Thursday morning broke cold and sharp, the sky outside the Great Hall a pale sheet of winter grey, clouds dragging low like smoke clinging to the towers. The firelight flickered against the enchanted ceiling, casting strange shadows across the long rows of tables.

Harry sat at the Gryffindor table, surrounded by the now-familiar rhythm of his friends. Charlus on one side, already reaching for the marmalade; Augusta across from him with the morning's edition of the Daily Prophet unfolded in front of her. Minerva sat beside her, buttering a scone with mechanical precision. Octavius, still half-asleep over a bowl of porridge, yawned loudly, and Poppy quietly stirred sugar into her tea. Charlotte, meanwhile, sat at the ned of the group, next to Poppy, keeping her thoughts to herself.

A wave of sadness had washed over Harry at hearing about Charlotte's upbringing. He knew that Muggle orphanages, especially in the 1930s, were not places where anyone should be raised. Tom Riddle was evidence enough for that. But here Charlotte was, a pleasant and well-mannered little girl who was enraptured by her new surroundings. He had spent enough time with her now to realise that she was talented, hardworking and kind, despite the circumstances of her upbringing.

Once again, his protective side reared its head in the direction of the little first-year.

Harry reached for a slice of toast he had no real intention of eating.

Charlus was in unusually high spirits, humming a song under his breath as he stacked sausages like bricks on his plate. Augusta, by contrast, was fully alert, her eyes scanning the Daily Prophet for any headlines.

Then came the sound of the post owls.

A storm of feathers swirled overhead, their arrivals like a gust of wind sweeping across the tables. Letters dropped into laps, packages onto plates in front of waiting students. Harry barely looked up until a sleek, slate-grey owl swooped low and released a thin envelope onto his toast.

The parchment was heavy, with a seal that was dark blue and bore the insignia of the Ministry of Magic.

Charlus leaned over, eyebrows raised.

Harry broke the seal with deliberate care. Inside, a single sheet of parchment was folded crisply.

Opening it, he read the missive aloud.

To Mr H. I. Peverell,

By order of the Wizengamot of Magical Britain, you are hereby summoned to appear before the full council of the Wizengamot on Saturday, the 14th of September, at 10 a.m., in Courtroom Ten at the Ministry of Magic.

The purpose of this summons is to verify matters of identity, ancestral inheritance, and the potential reactivation of the Peverell seat on the Wizengamot. If everything is in order, you will be required to stay for the remainder of the meeting.

Attendance is mandatory. You are advised to come prepared to present magical proof of lineage, family claim, or documentation supporting your right to the ancestral seat.

You will be provided a Portkey by Headmaster Armando Dippet for direct transportation to the Ministry of Magic.

May your conduct reflect the dignity of your alleged House,

Secretary to the Wizengamot, Revena Yaxley

Charlus whistled low. "Subtle as a Bludger to the head."

Augusta had already turned in her seat, expression unreadable. She folded the newspaper neatly, tucking it beside her plate. "I told you this would come sooner rather than later."

Harry folded the parchment with slow care and slid it into the inside pocket of his robes. "It doesn’t change anything."

Augusta’s voice was softer this time. "It changes everything. But that’s not always a bad thing."

Charlus looked between them, clearly trying to read the tension. "You’re going, right?"

Harry nodded once. "It doesn't appear that I have much choice in the matter."

Around them, the whispers had already begun. Faces turned as those who had overheard Harry quickly turned to their neighbours, repeating what they had heard.

By Saturday morning, his name would no longer be a rumour. It would be a record, out in the open for everyone to see.

The door to the Room of Requirement melted open before him. Inside, the chamber was quiet.

Cassiopeia stood at its centre, waiting just as she had on Tuesday.

She didn’t turn when he entered—just twirled her wand between two fingers like a conductor waiting for the first note.

Harry stepped in without a word, letting the door seal behind him.

They faced each other, ten paces apart. There was no greeting for him this time as he watched her raise her wand.

Her spells came swiftly and controlled, a considerable change to how their previous duel had ended.

She tried to push him into a fight he clearly didn’t want, yet it ended the way it always did.

A simple disarming spell to the chest saw her wand plucked from her grip by a ribbon of light, spinning through the air until he reached out and caught it.

She just looked at him, brows slightly drawn as he held it in front of him, offering it back.

"You’re off." She said, walking forward slowly.

Harry blinked. "What?"

"You didn’t care," she said, voice cool but not cold. "That wasn’t a duel. That was... I don’t know what it was... going through the motions perhaps?" Her grey eyes narrowed, calculating. "You’re distracted."

Almost reluctantly, he said, "I was summoned to the Wizengamot."

That gave her pause.

Her tone shifted. "Already?"

Harry nodded. "This morning. I am to appear in front of them on Saturday."

She stopped in front of him, brushing her fingers against his as she took her wand back.

"You’re worried."

"I'm... It's not so much the hearing more..."

"You don’t like being told who you are."

That tugged the corner of his mouth. "No. I don’t."

She moved past him, settling on the nearest bench with a grace that seemed effortless. Her posture was relaxed, but her eyes never left him.

"You’ll win," she said. "You know that, right?"

"I'm not sure."

Cass tilted her head slightly. "Are you not who you say you are?"

He shook his head. "I am. I wasn't talking about winning the case. That is only the start of the battle."

She was quiet for a moment. Then: "How so?"

"The moment they see me for what I am, I won't be Harry anymore. I'll be Lord Peverell. I will be just a name to them. Something they can try to control and manipulate."

Cass was quiet for a heartbeat, then said softly, "I know what that's like."

Harry glanced at her, studying the line of her jaw, the way her hands folded in her lap.

"I've been told who to be since I could walk," she continued. "My uncle wanted a prize to be sold to the highest bidder for his own political gain. My cousins? They're the only ones who ever looked at me and didn’t see a pawn to be used."

"Arcturus."

"And Dorea." Her voice softened on the latter. "But even Arcturus… sometimes I think he doesn’t see how deep the knives go. How heavy it gets, when you're meant to shine for a House instead of just... living."

Harry was silent for a moment, "I get that."

She turned toward him, expression unreadable. "There is something off about you, Peverell. You seem too old to be a student, even though you look the right age. There is a weight behind everything you do and say. It is as though you have bled to get here and now find yourself out of place."

"I have."

Cass frowned slightly, voice dropping. "And yet, you are too young to have seen war."

Harry shrugged, a loose, careless movement. "You learn fast if you want to live."

She studied him, something troubled flickering behind her eyes.

"When was this?"

He gave a small, sardonic smile. "Not here, but I fought, I killed, and I watched others die."

After a moment, she asked, very softly, "Did you win?"

Harry turned his head slightly, meeting her gaze, his face half-covered in shadow.

"No one did."

Cass's fingers tightened slightly around her wand, but she said nothing.

They sat together in the silence which stretched long, heavy, but not awkward.

Cass turned her head slightly, voice low enough that it barely stirred the air between them. "What keeps you fighting, then?"

Harry's fingers flexed once against the bench.

He didn’t look at her when he answered. "I don't know how to stop."

Cass didn’t press. She simply sat there a moment longer. Seemingly lost in thought.

Harry shifted first, rising slowly to his feet. Cass followed a heartbeat later, her wand slipping back into her sleeve with practised ease.

They walked from the chamber side by side, the hush of the Room folding shut behind them like the closing of a book.

Harry matched her pace without thinking, falling into step beside her as they made their way through the quiet castle.

After a few silent strides, he spoke, voice low but formal. "May I escort you back to your common room, Miss Black?"

Cass shot him a sidelong glance, one brow arching with playful incredulity. A glimmer of dry humour lit her eyes.

"How gallant, Lord Peverell," she said lightly. "Though I would have you know that it is Lady Black."

"My sincerest apologies, my lady," he returned, a grin lifting the corners of his lips.

"And how exactly do you plan to escort me if you don't even know where my common room is?" she asked.

Harry smirked, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. He caught her eye, letting a lazy confidence slip into his voice.

"Who says I don't?"

Cass laughed, a soft, genuine sound that made the empty corridor feel a little less cold as they walked, their steps echoing off the stone.

As they turned the last corner toward the entrance to the Slytherin common room, a figure came into view, leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed.

Arcturus Black.

He raised a brow at the sight of them approaching together, but if he was surprised, he didn’t show it.

"Cousin," he said smoothly, giving Cass a slight nod before his sharp grey eyes flicked to Harry. "Peverell. Out for a midnight stroll?"

Harry met his gaze with the same easy calm. "Just seeing Miss Black safely back to her door."

Arcturus's mouth twitched, the barest hint of amusement. "How gallant."

Cass snorted softly. "He takes it very seriously. Even called me 'Lady Black.'"

"Did he now?" Arcturus drawled, clearly entertained at the exchange.

Harry only smiled faintly, offering no further explanation.

Cass stepped toward the entrance, murmuring the password. The stone wall slid aside with a low rumble.

She glanced back at Harry before she and her cousin disappeared into the common room, the stone sealing quietly behind them.

"Late night," he said quietly, voice amused.

Cassiopeia arched a brow as she pulled her robe tighter around her shoulders. "Since when do you monitor curfews?"

Arcturus smiled faintly, though it never quite touched his eyes. "Since I started noticing you weren’t coming back alone."

Cass rolled her eyes and stepped past him, further into the common room.

The space inside was near-deserted. A few black and green cloaked figures hunched over books in shadowed corners, their whispered conversations blending with the low crackle of the fire.

She shrugged off her robe and draped it over a chair, fingers lingering longer than necessary on the worn fabric. Arcturus moved past her, dropping into a chair by the hearth with the effortless self-possession only a Black could manage.

She didn’t sit immediately. Instead, she paced a slow, thoughtful line before the fire, the flames painting restless gold across her dark hair.

The leather of Arcturus's chair creaked as he shifted, resting one ankle over his knee.

"You don't usually invite your sparring partners to walk you back," he said dryly.

Cass turned to face him, folding her arms. "He insisted. It felt rude not to accept."

Arcturus tilted his head, studying her with sharp, thoughtful eyes.

"Or maybe," he said, a note of quiet amusement threading his words, "you don’t mind when it’s him."

Cass narrowed her eyes, but her cheeks warmed all the same. She dropped into the chair opposite him, a little too heavily to be graceful.

"I’m not thirteen, Arcturus," she said, dry. "You don’t need to interrogate me over a boy."

Arcturus smirked. "True. But it’s not every day I see you willingly spend time with a boy you can’t beat in a duel."

Cassiopeia scowled at the fire, unwilling to meet his gaze. "He’s... different."

She leaned back into the chair, which creaked softly under her. Her voice dropped lower, almost like she didn’t want anyone else to hear.

"He looks at me," she said, softer now, "and he sees me. Not as a Black, just as a person."

The words sat between them, heavy but clean, like stones laid carefully one atop another.

Arcturus leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. Then, with a dry edge to his voice, he added, "Of course, it doesn’t hurt that he’s easy on the eyes, either."

Cassiopeia started, turning to glare at him, a flush creeping into her cheeks.

"You’re insufferable," she said, heat prickling under her skin.

Arcturus smiled, slow and irritatingly knowing. "Family trait," he said.

She huffed and looked away, but the corner of her mouth twitched upward despite herself.

Arcturus sobered slightly.

"I’m not warning you off him," he said after a moment. "I actually like him. He’s sharp, and he knows when to keep his cards close to his chest, but be careful, cousin. He is a powerful wizard and a complete mystery. Do not let emotions replace sense."

Cass frowned at the fire again, the playful mood slipping back into seriousness.

"I won’t," she said quietly.

Arcturus rose, and as he passed her chair, he squeezed her shoulder briefly.

"You are a Black. You’re not meant to be anyone’s shadow," he said, voice low. "Don’t let yourself become one."

Without waiting for a response, he headed for the boys' staircase, his steps light and unhurried.

Cass remained by the fire, the flames reflecting in her dark eyes.

She thought of Harry — of the way he had looked at her tonight with those eyes of his. There had been no judgment or questioning, merely a vague sense of curiosity.

14th September 1935

By Saturday morning, the tension inside the castle had shifted.

Abraxas Malfoy had taken to strutting through the halls with a kind of rehearsed grandeur, like an actor preparing for a spotlight he believed already belonged to him. His smirks were sharper, his words laced with feigned innocence and venomous implication.

Harry merely ignored him.

When Saturday morning arrived, the dormitory was quiet as a grave. The sky outside was a pale silver, early light brushing the windows like frost. Harry rose before the others, dressing slowly and methodically, keeping his thoughts away from the looming hearing.

He stood before the long mirror mounted beside his bed, fastening the clasp on a set of finely tailored dark grey robes, the best he owned. Until now, they had stayed folded in the trunk at the foot of his bed. Today, they were different. He’d altered them the night before with a few careful enchantments. On the left breast, embroidered with silver thread that shimmered faintly in the right light, was the coat of arms of the Peverell family.

A circlet. A line. A triangle. The Hallows, stylised and stark against the dark robes.

Charlus woke just as Harry was adjusting the cuffs. He yawned and stretched, but when he saw Harry, his face slackened.

"You’re really doing it, then. My father’s attending, by the way. He said it’s the first time he’s seen the Wizengamot this stirred up over a single name in decades."

Octavius, now awake too, added, "Mine too. He’s trying to play it cool, but he’s curious. Wants to see if the Peverell heir has as much bite as his bark."

Harry let out a dry breath. "Comforting."

Charlus stepped out of his bed, eyes drifting to the crest on Harry’s chest. "You look the part," he said, softer now.

Harry studied his reflection for a moment longer. He didn’t want to walk into that courtroom looking like a boy caught in a storm. He needed to look like he belonged there. He took a long, quiet breath, then he turned away from the mirror, towards the door.

The corridor outside the Headmaster’s office was quiet and deserted, the paintings along the stone walls peering as he passed.

Charlus and Octavius walked beside Harry in silence, their usual banter stripped away by the gravity of the moment.

When they reached the base of the stone staircase, which hid behind the gargoyle, Charlus stopped.

"Guess this is where we leave you," he said, trying to keep his voice light but not quite managing.

Harry didn’t say anything. He just looked at them, at his first real friends in this world, and gave a quiet nod.

Charlus frowned, then stepped in and gripped his shoulder. "You’ve got this. They’ll try to make it about blood and legacy and whatever else they like to polish their wands thinking about. Just be respectful and act like you belong there because you do."

Harry let out a soft breath. "Thanks. Both of you."

They nodded and stepped back, leaving him at the foot of the winding staircase.

Professor Dippet was waiting at the top. He wore deep indigo robes with a silver lining. His expression was calm, but his eyes carried something gentler—something closer to pride.

"Mr Peverell," he said, gesturing for Harry to enter the office behind him. "You are punctual, as always."

Harry stepped inside.

Dippet approached him with slow steps. "Before you activate the Portkey, I would like to say something."

Harry waited.

"Legacy is often spoken of as if it is something you inherit," Dippet said. "But I find that the strongest legacies are built, not given. The name Peverell may carry weight, but today, the man who bears it will decide what that weight truly means."

He held out the brass compass, now glowing faintly with magic.

Harry took the compass, feeling its hum beneath his fingers.

He nodded once. "Thank you, Headmaster."

And then, without another word, he felt the jerk around his navel and was gone.

The rush of Portkey travel snapped off in a breath, and Harry landed with a thud on the cold, polished black tiles of the Ministry Atrium. The floor shimmered faintly beneath his boots, enchanted obsidian swirling with pale gold veins that caught and bent the light. He straightened slowly, breath fogging in the oddly chilled air.

The space around him loomed, vast and echoing and impossibly tall. Pillars carved from marble rose into the arched ceiling, their capitals adorned with intricate patterns and shifting mosaics.

At the heart of the Atrium, the Fountain of Magical Brethren stood, its water flowing in gentle arcs, glinting silver beneath the magical lights. The statues glistened brightly, but there was a hollowness to the expressions they wore.

Harry adjusted his robes, fingers brushing the embroidered Peverell coat of arms stitched above his heart. The silver triangle, circle, and line shimmered briefly in the low light.

Ministry employees filtered past in small clusters, their footsteps echoing off the tiles. Some offered lingering glances, eyes flicking from his face to the crest. A few stared openly, recognition flickering across their features.

His stride was steady as he set off towards the security desk, but his pulse beat just a little faster beneath his ribs.

Nearing it, a wizard stepped into his path. Robes of charcoal grey, parchment in one hand, wand sheathed at his hip. He was an older man with thinning black hair and sharp features.

"Mr Peverell?" he asked, voice clipped and professional.

"Yes," Harry answered calmly.

"You’re expected. Courtroom Ten. This way, please."

Harry followed without hesitation.

As they approached the row of golden elevators tucked beneath the far end of the Atrium, the gates rattled open and they stepped inside. The doors clanged shut behind them, the brass grate humming softly as the lift began to descend with a subtle jolt.

They dropped quickly. Harry watched the numbers flicker past. Level Four, Level Five, Level Six... The torches outside the grated walls became fewer and dimmer the farther they travelled.

At Level Nine, the lift ground to a halt. The doors creaked open with a metallic groan, revealing a dim corridor lined with stone and bracketed torches.

"This way," the official said, stepping out.

Harry followed, without preamble.

They reached a final set of tall, black double doors, their surface etched with faint silver runes that pulsed at the edges of perception.

The man turned. "Wait here. You’ll be called in shortly."

Harry gave a small nod of thanks as the man stepped through the doors and vanished into the chamber beyond.

And so he waited.

Act 1, Chapter 7 – Out in the Open

14th September 1935

The doors to the Wizengamot chamber swung open.

The chamber was vast, its walls carved into a perfect circle, and flickering blue flames hung suspended in mid-air, casting a pale light over everything below. The floor beneath Harry was polished obsidian, inlaid with interlocking runes and concentric silver circles that seemed to flow away from him live dark waves on an body of water.

Harry looked around, noticing that, instead of benches like in the courtrooms, the members of the Wizengamot each sat in their own chairs, which ringed the chamber in concentric circles. Each seat was a unique, carved from deep wood or ancient stone, decorated in the colours and sigils of the House that they bore the Lord or Lady of.

In his time, the Ministry had been primarily controlled by the office of the Minister for Magic, but here, it was the Lords of the Ancient and Noble Houses that held sway. He had learned that during the first war against Voldemort, the Minister at the time, Millicent Bagnold, had been granted emergency powers which had limited the influence of the Wizengamot. When Fudge had been elected following her retirement, he had not reinstated the old way, causing even more of the highest Lords to flock to Voldemort’s side in the hopes that he would return their lost power.

As he looked around, he spotted Fleamont Potter sitting a couple of seats to the left of the Chief Warlock’s raised platform. Harry gave a subtle nod to the Potter Lord before letting his eyes drift over the rest of the chamber’s occupants.

Each seat bore the colours and sigil of its House. He saw the red and gold of the Potters with their gryphon crest; the burgundy lion of House Longbottom beside it. On the opposite side of the Chief Warlock’s dais sat a man with sleek silver hair and pale grey eyes — unmistakably a Malfoy. This must be Septimus, Abraxas’ father.

Harry’s knowledge of the Noble Houses mainly came from reading a copy of Nature’s Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy, which he’d found during one of his summer visits to Flourish and Blotts. He had known it would be useful to understand the hierarchy of the old families when his identity eventually became public, and that it would be detrimental to his life here if he did not.

As he continued scanning, his eyes caught on a familiar figure he hadn’t expected to see.

Arcturus Black sat in the seat directly behind Septimus, the black and silver Grim sigil of House Black prominent on the marble. He knew that Charlus and Octavius could not attend, being only heirs and not yet Lords, but Arcturus, as Harry had learned after his arrival at Hogwarts, had inherited the title of Lord Black following his father Orion’s death the year before.

Their eyes met, and a flicker of mutual respect passed between them. Harry recalled Sirius’s bitter descriptions of his grandfather, calling him “just like all the other cunts in my family,” but so far, Arcturus had not lived up to that scorn. He had spoken to Harry only the previous week about his indifference to blood purity, and while it had surprised him at the time, Harry had seen no reason to doubt him since.

He recognised other crests: the Greengrasses, Notts, Selwyns, Bones, Abbotts, Goldsteins, Boots, Lestranges, and Prewetts. Octavius’ father offered him a slight nod, and though they had never met, Octavius had told Harry that his father was a good-natured man, recently fallen on hard times, but still loyal to his principles. Evidently, Octavius had spoken of him to his father.

Some chairs bore the sigils of extinct Houses — vacant but still respected by the Wizengamot. He saw the familiar crests of the four founders of Hogwarts and even the black cobra of the Gaunt family, despite knowing that Marvolo Gaunt still lived. One more caught his eye as he scanned the room, and he soon fixed his eyes on a seat, not far from Fleamont’s position, that bore the triangular mark of the Peverells, complete with an onyx raven in flight. Its seat, carved from deep black stone and veined with silver that pulsed almost imperceptibly, stood empty and untouched.

He strode forward with quiet confidence, the soft echo of his steps the only sound in the chamber.

From his seat, the Chief Warlock — a stern, hawk-eyed man with a sharp jaw and a thick iron-grey moustache — rose to his full height. His ceremonial robes, trimmed in deep navy and silver thread, shimmered faintly beneath the chamber’s enchanted light as he lifted his wand. With a single flick, a chime rang through the air, silencing the room.

"Let the record show," he said, his voice clipped and resonant, "that the Wizengamot of Great Britain is now in session. We are convened today to hear the claim of revival pertaining to the extinct line of House Peverell, as well as some legislative issues which will come after."

He lowered his wand, eyes scanning the gathered Lords before finally settling on Harry, standing alone towards the door.

"Let the claimant step forward."

Harry obliged.

The click of his boots against the rune-marked floor echoed through the chamber, and the silver veins of the chamber’s foundation pulsed faintly beneath his feet. He walked not toward the centre as was probably expected of him, but directly to the seat itself.

As he approached, the room's ambient noise dropped to a hush that seemed to press against the skin. The Lords watched in silence, some with narrowed eyes, others with cautious curiosity. Fleamont’s expression was unreadable, and Arcturus Black watched closely, leaning back with the easy poise of a predator.

Septimus Malfoy’s voice cut through the silence.

"This is absurd."

Harry paused mid-step, still silent.

Malfoy rose slowly from his seat, every inch the aristocrat — silver hair immaculate and his posture a clear challenge. The serpent-headed cane he held tapped once against the floor.

"We are expected to believe that a boy, not yet of age, wearing a name plucked from a children's story, can walk into this chamber and lay claim to one of the oldest and most sacred titles in magical history without question or evidence to support it?" He turned to the Chief Warlock, though his words were meant for the room. "Let us not confuse theatre with legitimacy. The Peverell Family has been extinct for centuries, and this boy is nothing but a liar and a fraud."

The silence that followed was taut.

Harry didn't respond, simply smiling at the Malfoy Lord before turning back to face the chair. Harry could hear the whisperings as he drew up next to it and knew that Malfoy's words must be addressed if he were to leave here with his dignity intact.

The Chief Warlock cleared his throat. "Lord Malfoy raises a point that must be addressed. This court requires—"

Harry turned slightly and inclined his head toward the Chief Warlock.

"If I may, Chief Warlock."

The elder wizard paused, then gave a single nod. "You may."

Harry turned fully, his eyes falling on Septimus Malfoy.

"I am sure that many of you have heard the rumours surrounding my family," he began, addressing the room but keeping his gaze fixed on the pale eyes of Malfoy. "And for centuries the line has been thought to have died and fallen to the pages of history or even myth, as you said."

He held Malfoy’s gaze without flinching.

"Though I would like nothing more than to ignore your childish interruption, Lord Malfoy, I find myself somewhat aggrieved at your accusation of fraud."

Malfoy’s lips thinned as Harry let the words settle around the chamber, revelling in the uncomfortable shuffles from some of the inhabitants.

"You called me a liar, Lord Malfoy. You said that my lineage was dead, and yet here you stand, shaking in fear at the prospect that I might sit."

The silence that followed was total as Malfoy stood again, his voice rising with wounded pride. "This is a farce! You cannot let this stand — we require proof, we require documentation, tradition, witnesses—"

But his voice faltered as Harry turned away from him, and without another word, he stepped forward and placed his hand upon the armrest of the obsidian chair.

The moment his skin met the stone, a hum of magic permeated the air of the chamber, charging it with something akin to static electricity. The silver veins in the seat flared with life, runes igniting in sharp, geometric precision. Shadow spilt from the base of the chair like smoke drawn through light, curling and coiling in a slow spiral around Harry’s boots.

Malfoy’s protest turned into a strangled noise as he sank slowly back into his seat.

Harry, calm and composed, lowered himself into the chair. "I think you will find, Lord Malfoy, that rumours of the Peverell's extinction have been greatly exaggerated."

A soft chuckle came from somewhere to his left, and turning, he found Albus Dumbledore sitting back in his seat, a look of bemusement on his face and the characteristic twinkle shining maddeningly. He nodded at his Head of House, who smiled back kindly. Harry found comfort in his support, especially given the rather frosty start to their relationship. But as the months had dragged on, Harry had seen more and more of the Dumbledore he knew and trusted.

The Chief Warlock finally stirred. He stepped forward to the edge of his platform, hands folded over the head of his staff.

"The Chair of Peverell has accepted the claimant. In accordance with the laws and rites of legacy, the formal Ceremony of Recognition shall commence. The Court will observe the proper sequence, and silence shall be held, the ancestral magic acknowledged, and the rite of declaration completed in full. State your name, your lineage, and your claim to the seat you now occupy."

Harry remained seated for a breath longer, then, with deliberate grace, he rose, feeling the runes beneath the chair flicker once more, faint silver light tracing a slow circle around his feet.

"My name is Harry Ignotus Peverell."

A murmur spread through the rows.

"I am the last living descendant of Ignotus Peverell of Godric’s Hollow. Many in this room will know of the Potters, who also descend from Ignotus through his granddaughter, Iolanthe, who married into the Potter family. That marriage was thought to have ended the Peverell name, but that is not the case."

At this, there was an outbreak of whispering around the chamber. Harry locked eyes with Fleamont, who gave him an encouraging nod.

"Mathon Peverell was her younger brother. Erased from the records, but his line continued in obscurity, choosing exile over assimilation. It is from that line I descend. That legacy was hidden for generations, protected and passed down until it reached me. The name is mine by right, not taken, not assumed and certainly not fabricated. It was given, carried, and returned here in full knowledge of its weight. The blood of Peverell has not faded. It has endured in silence for centuries in shadow, and now, finally, it is back in the open."

The Chief Warlock inclined his head. "Very well. The chamber has heard your lineage. Now you may produce any proof you have to claim the seat."

Harry blinked once, then tilted his head slightly, his voice dry with just a touch of mockery. "What would you prefer, Chief Warlock? A signed letter from Ignotus himself, or perhaps for Death to come and speak on my behalf?"

A ripple of laughter stirred through the chamber. He caught Fleamont winking at him before he mouthed, "Careful."

Harry nodded and turned back to the Chief Warlock, who had raised an eyebrow and looked at him with an expression of mixed amusement and trepidation.

The Chief Warlock raised a single brow. "I would settle for something less... far-fetched, Lord Peverell."

Harry offered the barest hint of a smirk, then turned slightly in his chair, one hand resting casually on the armrest as he gestured toward the seat beneath him.

He sighed theatrically, throwing his arms to his side in mock apathy.

"Very well," he muttered, almost lazily. "Nyx...come."

He felt the stirring of his familiar inside his chest as the raven, sleek and ink-black, materialised, trailing shadows as she coalesced and took flight, circling his head until she settled on the back of his chair, her eyes gleaming like chips of onyx.

Gasps echoed through the chamber. Several Lords leaned forward in their seats. A few recoiled slightly, as if Nyx's presence stirred some instinctive discomfort they couldn’t name.

There was no mistaking her for an ordinary familiar as she cawed loudly, tilting her head to one side and staring out over the gathered Lord and Ladies, the sound echoing like a bell through the circular chamber.

"A conjuration?" came the voice of Lord Nott, thin-lipped and wary. "Or some carefully rehearsed illusion?"

"She is no conjuration," came another voice, this one from Fleamont. "I have seen her before and can assure you that this is no illusion. This is part of the Peverell Family Magic."

The Chief Warlock raised a hand, steadying the rising murmur.

"Lord Peverell," he said slowly, measured, "explain what we are seeing."

Harry reached up, lightly brushing a hand over Nyx’s side. "She is my familiar. As Lord Potter said, she is a part of the Family Magic of House Peverell and is said to have been gifted to our line centuries ago as a guide and companion."

He looked around the chamber, eyes cold. "There are several other ways that I could have proven to you that I am who I say I am, but I do not think you would like the other aspects of my magic. They have a way of... reacting quite violently, so to speak. I do notice that not once has anyone asked to see my Lord's Ring, which I wear proudly and would have sufficed as irrefutable evidence, unless someone here knows a way to forge one? No? I did not think so. Chief Warlock, I have been summoned here to lay claim to a seat in this chamber, which is mine by right. I understand that certain procedures and laws must be followed in such claims, but I believe I have provided sufficient evidence to support my claim."

He did not back down from the stares that were thrown his way, either from curiosity or threatening glares. He was tired of living in the shadows, and they had summoned him here. Let them see the last Peverell in all of his glory. Let them call him arrogant. Let them whisper about blood and precedent. He had seen the world their kind built and had buried too many good people beneath its rot. He had spoken to Cassiopeia about not wanting to be controlled; now, here was his opportunity to prove that to himself and to those around him that he could not be controlled.

He sat back down in his seat, letting his words fill the silence that followed them.

The Chief Warlock cleared his throat. "Lord Peverell," he said, his voice carefully neutral, "you’ve given the Court much to absorb. Your words... have not gone unnoticed."

Harry said nothing.

"You claim the name, the seat, and the blood," the Chief Warlock continued. "And the Chair has accepted you. It has recognised Lord Harry Ignotus Peverell. Your bloodline has been claimed, your identity declared, and your magic demonstrated."

He looked around at the assembled Lords. "By the ancient laws that govern this chamber, and by the will of the assembled Houses, the claim is accepted. The seat of House Peverell is no longer vacant. Let the name be no longer recorded as extinct."

He struck his gavel once, and the silver veins in the chamber flared softly in response.

Harry simply inclined his head once, in cool recognition of what had been done.

"We proceed to the next matter on the docket," he announced, his tone clipped, already trying to restore the rhythm of the day’s business. "Several ongoing legislative reviews remain, including the proposal from House Nott concerning the classification of Muggleborn wand rights—"

Harry’s eyes narrowed.

Of course.

Lord Nott cleared his throat and began to speak, launching into a prepared argument in favour of stricter oversight and licensing for Muggleborn wand use outside of educational settings.

Harry let the words wash over him in the same sanctimonious phrasing he’d heard before in a thousand different forms. Lord Nott's message was framed to be that of safety, of concern for the Statute of Secrecy, but Harry knew, from years of living in the Magical World, that what it was truly about was control.

"Curious," Harry said, loud enough to cut through the chamber.

The room stilled as he spoke. He saw Lord Nottingham glare at his interruption, but he sat, nonetheless.

"Correct me if I am wrong, Lord Nott, but are Muggleborn already not permitted to use magic outside of Hogwarts? Is this measure already not in place? Forgive me, but it sounds like your proposal is not only damaging to our society but also completely fucking useless.

Nott’s mouth hung open slightly, momentarily thrown by Harry's brazen language.

"But please," Harry continued, voice cool, "do go on. I’d like to hear how exactly regulating schoolchildren helps preserve our grand traditions."

The sarcasm landed like a slap.

A few Lords stifled laughs while others turned to glare. Lord Nott looked like he’d bitten through a particularly sour lemon.

Harry leaned back slightly, tapping a finger against the arm of his chair.

"No? Nothing to add? I’d hate to think your passion for magical purity was limited to safe targets who have no seat or voice in this chamber."

The Chief Warlock cleared his throat again, but Harry didn’t look at him.

He just kept watching Nott.

It was Fleamont Potter who broke the silence next, his voice light, almost cheerful, but unmistakably clear in the echoey chamber.

"Well," he said, hands folded neatly before him, "that was rather spirited, wasn’t it? Lord Nott, you must forgive me — I was under the impression we were here to strengthen the realm, not to shrink it."

Harry turned to look at him and saw a mischievous gleam in the Potter Lord's eye.

"Of course," he went on, smiling pleasantly, "if it turns out that the greatest threat to our society is an eleven-year-old with a wand, then perhaps we are in more dire need of reform than I thought."

The jab was gentle in tone, but razor-sharp in its edge.

Fleamont gave no sign he noticed. He simply offered Lord Nott a genial nod, then leaned back in his seat as though he hadn’t just gutted the man with a compliment.

"Typical Potter softness," came a sneer from the right flank: Lord Septimus Malfoy, his voice silken with disdain. "First, we elevate a ghost of a House long dead, now we’re wringing hands over the rights of mudbloods."

The word struck like a lash as gasps could be heard throughout the chamber. Some members stood and began to shout at Malfoy, who simply smiled a malicious smile and turned his attention to Harry, who returned the look with a calm indifference that seemed to infuriate the Malfoy Lord even more than his words had done earlier.

"How strange," he said, voice cool and crisp as soon as the Chief Warlock had quieted the room. "I came here today expecting to meet the very top of British Wizarding society. I expected educated debates from educated people, looking to serve the interests of the people they represent. Instead, I find a bunch of squabbling infants who think that throwing around insults is somehow able to help them get their point across."

"You speak of lineage, Lord Malfoy." Harry went on, "You speak of traditions and history yet, from what I understand, your own house is descended from a bunch of French pig farmers who had to leave their homeland because they were too weak to stand up to their betters."

Malfoy jumped to his feet. "How dare you. I will not be talked to like that by some upjumped child who has somehow swindled this chamber into accepting that he hails from an extinct house. My family-"

"That is twice now, Lord Malfoy", Harry said, leaning back with casual ease while cutting Malfoy off completely, "that you have called me a liar. I suggest you reconsider. This chamber has already heard and accepted my claim, and while I was willing to let the first time slide, and even possibly the second, as I somehow insulted you with the truth, but make no mistake, Lord Malfoy. I will not let it go a third time."

The silence that followed was brittle, not from fear, but from a sense of restraint.

The Chief Warlock rose slightly from his seat, staff angled against the dais. "Enough," he said, voice firmer now, reverberating with quiet command. "This chamber will hold its peace. Disagreement is expected. Petty squabbles are not. We are Lords and Ladies of magical Britain, not children throwing hexes in a corridor."

Harry raised both hands in mock surrender, a disarming smile tugging at his lips.

"Of course, Chief Warlock," he said smoothly. "Wouldn’t dream of disturbing the decorum of such an enlightened assembly."

A few choked coughs from the left flank might have been laughter, but Malfoy, who was clearly just about to respond to Harry before being interrupted by the Chief Warlock, looked murderous.

"Please," he added, "do continue. I'm fascinated by what counts as progress in this chamber."

The Chief Warlock made no reply. He simply signalled for the proceedings to resume.

The rest of the meeting passed in a strained facsimile of order. A handful of minor proposals were presented, mostly inconsequential matters that had been scheduled before Harry's arrival. Few dared raise their voices again.

Harry listened, silent and unreadable, as the court tried to continue around him. He said nothing further, but his presence was like a blade laid across the table.

When the session finally adjourned, Lords began to file out, some with tight expressions, others casting backwards glances at the newest addition to their ranks. The seat of House Peverell remained occupied, its inhabitant thinking deeply.

Harry stood slowly, smoothing the front of his robes.

To his left, beneath the tall stone arches, Fleamont Potter stood in easy conversation with three other Lords. Bones, Longbottom, and Prewett.

He walked over.

The conversation paused as he approached. Bones stepped forward first, extending a hand.

"Lord Peverell," he said. "David Bones. You’ve stirred more than the dust in this chamber today. I must admit I was very entertained."

Harry took his hand with a firm nod. "I’ll take that as a compliment, Lord Bones."

"Julian Longbottom," said the broad man beside him, also holding out his hand. Harry took the preferred limb and shook it. "You speak bluntly, Lord Peverell. It has been a long time since someone upset the balance to that extent.”

"Cassius Prewett," said the red-haired Lord with a crooked grin. "And for what it’s worth, I enjoyed watching Malfoy squirm."

Harry gave a brief smile. "I’ll admit that part wasn’t entirely unintentional."

Fleamont chuckled behind them. "You see? I told you he’d make things interesting."

Bones’ tone softened slightly. "You’ve made quite a mark, Lord Peverell. But don’t mistake silence for safety. Most of them are only quiet because they haven’t figured out how to come at you yet."

Harry met his gaze. "Let them take their time. I’m patient."

Longbottom nodded approvingly. "You’ll need to be. And precise."

Fleamont glanced toward the doors. "I think someone is waiting for you, by the way."

Harry followed his gaze. Beyond the archway, standing alone in the corridor, was Arcturus Black.

Harry stepped through the archway, the soft echo of his footsteps trailing behind him as the last of the Lords vanished down the corridors. Arcturus stood in a pool of filtered torchlight, posture composed, robes neat, and expression carved from careful stone.

"Lord Black," Harry said by way of greeting.

Arcturus gave a short nod, arms still crossed. "Lord Peverell. You handled yourself well."

Harry tilted his head. "You sound surprised."

"I’m not," Arcturus replied, almost too quickly. Then, with a faint twitch of his mouth: "Most men twice your age would’ve cracked under Malfoy's tirade, but you sent him home with his tail between his legs."

Harry studied him for a moment, then shrugged lightly. "They gave me a seat. I thought I might as well say something while I was sitting in it."

Arcturus glanced back toward the chamber doors. "You might have made an enemy there, Lord Peverell."

"Good," Harry replied, nonchalantly. "I would hate to be boring"

The corners of the young Lord Black's mouth turned slightly as he gave a nod. "They won't let this slide, Peverell. They are too proud to let insults slide."

Harry met his gaze. "And are you one of them?"

Arcturus shook his head. "Despite what my father might have wanted, no. I despise the lot of them. They might suck up to me because of my name, but they are generally a bunch of sycophantic cunts."

Harry snorted. Arcturus, while being very different in some ways from Sirius, was no less a Black it seemed.

"You surprised me today, Peverell."

Harry smiled faintly. "High praise."

Arcturus gave a slight smirk. "Don’t let it go to your head."

Harry chuckled under his breath. "I’ll try to keep my ego at bay."

They turned together and began walking, their footsteps falling into a natural rhythm. The corridors of the Ministry were quieter now, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows against polished stone.

"You’ve read them well already," Arcturus said after a moment. "The Lords. You knew exactly where to hit."

"I’ve seen men like them before," Harry replied. "They just wear different robes."

The lift awaited at the end of the corridor, golden cage gleaming faintly in the gloom. They stepped inside, and the gates clanged shut behind them.

"That was well-aimed, by the way," Arcturus added as they began to rise. "The jab about Malfoy's family. Not many people know that little fact."

Harry gave him a sidelong glance. "I know my history, Lord Black."

"So it would seem." he replied evenly. "It almost makes me worried about what skeletons you might know about in my family's cupboard."

Harry chuckled as they rose upwards towards the atrium.

"I suspect that most of them are already out in the open. Your family does have a certain reputation."

Arcturus nodded gravely. "It is one that I am trying to simultaneously dismantle and keep at the same time."

Harry laughed, causing Arcturus to turn.

"Something funny?" he asked, a hint of a smile playing on his features.

"Just reminds me of my Godfather. He had an issue very similar to yours."

"Your godfather?" Arcturus asked.

"The man who raised me after my parents died." HArry explained, not exactly sure why he was telling this story but there was something about Arcturus Black that he respected and, surprisingly, actually liked. "He came from a dark family but fought very hard to regain some of its respect. He was the best man I knew, despite his flaws."

"I would very much like to meet him, one day," Arcturus said.

Harry smiled sadly. "He died a year or so ago. It was the reason why I returned to Britain, in fact. Nothing was keeping me away anymore."

"I am sorry for your loss, Lord Peverell." Replied Arcturus, in a much softer voice than Harry could have ever thought possible from the usually stern man.

"Please, enough of the titles," he said. "I find this Lord shit very tedious.

His companion let out a bark of laughter, and Harry was momentarily shocked at how similar it was to his godfather's.

"You and me both, Peverell. I must admit, you are nothing like what I expected."

"Oh?"

"Your family's reputation, Peverell, is particularly dark. I don't mean in terms of dark magic," he added quickly at Harry's sour look. "I mean that it is so shrouded in mystery that people are scared of it. The raven you made in Dumbledore's first theory lesson, for example. It was beautiful, do not get me wrong, but there was a coldness surrounding it that made me think a Dementor was near."

"It is the unknown we fear when we look upon death and darkness," Harry said, quoting words that Dumbledore had told him so many years ago.

"Wise words," Arcturus replied, seemingly impressed.

"You're not exactly what I imagined either." Harry offered as the lift shuddered to a halt and the doors opened onto the expansive atrium.

Arcturus gave a short, dry laugh. "Good. I would hate to be predictable."

The same grey-bearded official who had met Harry earlier stood waiting near the fountain, posture formally stiff but eyes darting with curiosity as he noted the two young Lords arriving together.

"Lord Black. Lord Peverell," he greeted.

They nodded in return.

As the man turned to retrieve the portkey, Arcturus spoke again, "If you ever need a second voice in that chamber... you’ll have mine, Peverell."

Harry blinked, completely taken aback. "That… would be appreciated. Bloody hell, Black, I was not expecting that.

Arcturus merely chuckled. "As I said, I would hate to be predictable, and in any case, I fucking hate Malfoy and his lapdogs. Might be fun for a couple of school kids to make them squirm."

They laughed as they took the little brass disc that was offered and, together, they vanished with a firm jerk from just below their navels.

The Gryffindor common room was warm and buzzing with late-evening chatter when Harry stepped through the portrait hole. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the scarlet and gold banners. Students were gathered in little knots, heads bowed over parchment, playing wizard’s chess, or nursing cups of cocoa charmed to steam gently in the cool September air.

But five pairs of eyes found him the moment he entered.

Charlus was up first, vaulting over the back of the couch with a mix of worry and anticipation. "You’re alive. That’s something, I suppose."

Octavius leaned around the armrest beside him, expression half-concerned, half-thrilled. "Did you hex Malfoy? Please tell me you hexed Malfoy."

Minerva, seated cross-legged on the rug with a thick book in her lap, looked up with narrowed eyes. "How did it go? We haven’t heard anything. Not a word."

"Which is absolutely maddening," added Poppy, who sat beside Augusta on one of the chesterfields, her arms folded with precise irritation.

Augusta gave Harry a firm, assessing look. "So, what happened?"

Across the room, Charlotte was chatting with her dormmates, who seemed to have been treating her nicer lately. Harry wondered if it had been all the time that she had been spending with them. He locked eyes with her and smiled warmly at her. She returned the smile but with a questioning eye, clearly trying to see how the hearing had gone.

Harry stepped further inside, letting the portrait hole swing shut behind him.

He made his way over to the centre of the room, shrugged off his cloak, and draped it over the back of the nearest chair. The Peverell ring glinted faintly on his finger.

He turned back to them, the firelight catching the faint smirk on his lips.

"Well," he said at last. "They didn’t throw me out."

Charlus let out a breath of relief and flopped back onto the couch.

"But I think I might’ve broken a few egos on the way in."

There was a pause.

Then Minerva snapped her book shut.

"Start talking. All of it."

And so, Harry did.

So he began, settling into the armchair across from them. He explained briefly the set-up of the chamber, mostly for Poppy and Minerva’s benefit, as Charlus, Augusta and Octavius all had family who sat on the council. He explained that he had simply sat on the chair, which caused most of the naysayers to shut up. Once he got to the part about having to ‘prove his magic’, he was interrupted.

"You brought Nyx into the Wizengamot?" Poppy asked, aghast.

"She brought herself," Harry said, chuckling slightly. "She certainly knows her timing. Anyway, the claim was accepted. The seat is mine now."

There was a brief, stunned silence.

Then, Charlus whooped and tackled him sideways off the chair.

"You magnificent bastard!"

Harry laughed, half-choked. "I need my ribs, Potter—"

Minerva shook her head, but her lips twitched. "You really are impossible."

"He’s going to be unbearable for at least a week," Poppy muttered fondly.

Augusta, still composed, gave a single approving nod. "Well done."

Harry looked around at all of them, his friends who had supported him and accepted him into their group willingly. He still missed Ron and Hermione and probably always would, but there was no point in denying that without this group of people around him, his life would be a hell of a lot harder.

Arcturus stood at the edge of the astronomy tower balcony, hands clasped behind his back, his breath forming faint clouds in the night air.

Below, the lights of the castle flickered, blurred in the haze of autumn mist. The sky was dark, speckled with stars, and far beneath him, faint echoes of laughter drifted up from the direction of Gryffindor Tower. That was where he’d be, no doubt, surrounded by friends, basking in the warmth of victory and the comfort of company.

House Peverell had returned.

Arcturus let the silence stretch, the weight of the day settling around him like the chill.

He had expected the Ministry hearing to be dull and predictable. He had known that the first item on the docket would be Peverell’s claim and had been curious how his classmate would react to the scrutiny of the Lords. He had wondered what he would do, but it was fair to say that Harry hadn’t played the part that was written for him. He hadn’t grovelled or postured at their glares or questions; instead, he had walked into the lion’s den, and when the moment was right, he had struck with precision and a few choice words.

It had been, Arcturus admitted to himself, very impressive.

There was something in Harry Peverell that Arcturus had felt beside him in the lift, between words. It was not light or dark, merely something unknowable.

He didn’t know what Harry would become, but he knew he was watching the start of something that would not be forgotten by history. He was watching someone who could change the game.

And Merlin, this game needed changing.

He let out a slow breath, watching it curl in the cold.

He’d been alone in this for too long, holding back the worst of the Black legacy with one hand and trying to build something new with the other.

Maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t alone anymore.

A faint smirk tugged at his mouth, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

The sound of approaching footsteps broke the quiet.

"You’re not usually this brooding unless something’s gone terribly wrong… or terribly right," came Cassiopeia’s voice.

He allowed himself a half-smile as he glanced over his shoulder. "You missed the show, cousin."

Cass stepped beside him, arms folded as she leaned on the stone railing, eyes scanning the stars. "You mean the hearing? Harry mentioned it on Thursday."

“So he is Harry now?” he replied, smirking at her.

She shot him an ‘Oh, shut up’ look before continuing, “I heard you and him walked out together?”

"So did everyone else," Arcturus replied. "They just walked out ahead of us."

"You don’t usually linger," she said, shooting him a sidelong glance. "What happened?"

He was quiet for a moment.

"He didn’t flinch," Arcturus said at last. "Not once. Malfoy tried to corner him, and he buried him with ten words. Nott began to spew some drivel about Muggleborn wand rights, and he shut it down so quickly it didn't even make it to a vote. Bloody hell, he didn't even say anything when he entered, just walked right up to the Peverell seat and took it."

Cass blinked. "The chair accepted him?"

"Immediately."

Cass let out a low whistle. "Merlin."

"He’s not one of us, cousin," Arcturus said. "He doesn’t play the game, but bugger me if he doesn't know how to use it."

She looked at him curiously, maybe even slightly nervously. "And what do you think of him?"

He didn’t answer immediately.

Then: "I think... he’s different. He is honest. Not naive, he just says it how he sees it without posturing."

Cass turned her head slightly. "You think he’s one of the good ones?"

Arcturus gave a slight, thoughtful nod. "I think he wants to be. And that might be enough."

She studied him for a moment longer, the sharpness in her expression softening just slightly.

Then her lips twitched. "So, how did he look in those robes, then?"

Arcturus rolled his eyes, but the smirk returned. "Like he knew exactly how to weaponise the aesthetic."

Cass laughed softly. "I knew he’d pull it off. There’s something about the way he stands. It's like the room should explain itself to him."

"It usually does," Arcturus said, the corner of his mouth lifting again.

The world was fire, smoke and screams.

Harry’s feet pounded the ruined stone of the courtyard, each step echoing the crash of spells all around. Streaks of magic tore apart the night sky above Hogwarts.

He turned. Ginny was there, eyes blazing, wand a blur, and her hair flying like a banner behind her. A curse shot towards her, and he screamed her name, sprinting toward her, but it was too late. It was always too late.

The world spun.

Fred and George lay in the rubble. Kingsley was already gone. Bill’s scream was cut off as Bellatrix laughed and sent another curse flying.

He fell to his knees beside her, shaking.

“Why won’t it stop?” he whispered, though no one could hear him.

“AVADA KEDAVRA!”

A green light flew towards him, but it didn’t reach him.

The shadows rose around him and exploded outwards, destroying everything they touched.

The Death Eaters were swept away in silence. One by one, their bodies vanished into the dark, formless void.

He stood alone with Ginny in his arms.

"You will never be able to save her, Harry," came the high, cold voice of Tom Riddle. "You can never save anyone, can you? Your blood-traitor best friend and his mud-blood whore, your pathetic parents. Everyone who has ever loved you is dead, Harry, because you were not strong enough to save them. Do you think this time will be any different?"

He sat bolt upright in his bed, gasping for air as his sheets twisted around his limbs like ropes.

Charlus was there instantly, shaking his shoulder. "Harry? Bloody hell, are you alright?"

Octavius stumbled over, his hair mussed with sleep. "You were screaming. It sounded like you were being—"

"I’m fine," Harry rasped, though the sweat soaking his skin said otherwise.

Charlus sat on the edge of the bed, hand firm on his shoulder. "That didn’t sound fine, mate."

"It was just a dream," Harry muttered. But the words rang hollow. He heard Voldemort's words, running circles in his mind:

"You can never save anyone, can you... Do you think this time will be any different?"

Charlus didn’t press him; he just shifted closer, hand still resting on Harry’s shoulder.

Octavius glanced between them, then filled a glass with water from his wand and passed it to Harry.

Harry took it with a nod of thanks; his fingers trembling as he drank.

After a few minutes, Charlus leaned back slightly. "You don’t have to talk about it, Harry, not unless you want to. But we’re here. Alright? Always."

Harry looked up at his friends and saw the meaningful look in their eyes, and nodded, their support meaning more to him than he could ever tell them.

15th September 1935

Dorea Black had never liked being the centre of attention. She was a quiet soul, content to observe while others fought over the attention.. While her name carried weight, she wore it lightly, refusing to let it define her as it did with some of her classmates. Her achievements were impressive, certainly, but she didn’t boast about them. And even when asked about them, she often downplayed them with a quiet shrug and a polite smile.

Her two favourite people in the world were her brother, Arcturus, and her cousin, Cassiopeia. Both were older, both far more fearsome in their own way, and yet they never treated her like a child. They listened when she spoke and asked her for her thoughts on things others would have dismissed as girlish trivialities. With them, she always felt… seen.

She hoped, quietly, that she was kind. She noticed things others missed: bloodshot eyes, sad expressions, the look of hurt that hid behind the eyes. It was one of the reasons why she wanted to become a Healer. It had been her dream ever since she had started school, and would occasionally sneak away from her common room to help Healer Clarkson, who was in charge of the Hospital Wing.

When her father was alive, she knew that the expectations for her would be to marry well and bear children, but her father had died last spring. And with him went the last of the old expectations. Arcturus was now Head of the Family, and he, at least, might let her dream.

She turned the corridor too sharply and slammed straight into someone solid.

Very solid.

She stumbled back, heels skidding slightly on the polished stone—

Strong hands caught her by the arms, steadying her before she could hit the ground.

“Careful there.”

Her cheeks flared with heat as she looked up. Broad shoulders, a composed, polite expression and hazel eyes framed by windswept hair.

Charlus Potter.

Of course, it was Charlus bloody Potter.

“I—” Dorea blinked rapidly, cursing her suddenly uncooperative tongue. “Sorry. I wasn’t—”

“Looking where you were going?” he said, a flicker of a smile softening the words. “No harm done, my lady. Are you okay?”

He let go of her arms once she’d found her footing, stepping back just enough to give her space. His tone was still respectful, but a touch more relaxed now.

“I’m alright,” she said quickly, smoothing her robes even though they weren’t rumpled. “Thank you, Mr Potter,” she replied.

Charlus gave a short nod. “Glad to be of help.”

A short silence followed before he asked, “Are you heading somewhere in particular? I could walk with you... to prevent any further hallway mishaps, of course.”

“I was going to the library,” she said, clutching her satchel a little tighter.

“Ah. Would you allow me to escort you there then?” he asked. “Only as far as the doors, of course.”

She nodded slightly. “Thank you, Mr Potter. That would be agreeable.”

They walked together, the echo of their steps filling the corridor. Charlus didn’t overwhelm the silence with idle chatter, but the air between them wasn’t stiff with awkwardness either.

As they neared the library, he glanced over at her.

“If it’s not too forward to ask,” he said, more conversational now, “are you settling back into the term alright?”

“I am,” Dorea replied, managing a small smile. “Thank you for asking.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

They stopped just outside the library doors. Dorea hesitated, brushing her hand across the strap of her satchel.

“Well,” Charlus said, his tone lighter now, “I shall leave you to it. Try not to knock over any more students, my lady. But if you insist upon it, I would not be opposed to being your victim again. I should hate for someone less respectful to have that opportunity.”

She blinked, surprised by the gentle teasing. A shy smile touched her lips. “I’ll do my best. Thank you again, Mr Potter.”

Charlus returned the smile, gave her a polite nod, and turned down the corridor. Just as he was about to turn the corner, he turned. “It is Charlus to you, my lady.”

She watched him go, heart still thudding far too loudly in her chest.

Only once he was gone did she step into the library, her cheeks flushed and her lips caught in a rather giddy smile.

The hush of the library wrapped around her like a warm blanket, dimming the buzz still echoing in her chest. Dorea walked softly between the rows of high-backed chairs and tall shelves, trailing her fingers along the spines of books she knew by heart. Her usual seat, tucked against the arched window, bathed in soft light, was mercifully empty.

She sat down and opened the top of her satchel, pulling out her notes on Healing Theory and a thin reference tome on medicinal transfigurations. The words swam slightly as she stared at the page, unable to make them out clearly.

It wasn’t the words on the page that held her attention. It was Charlus’s voice. The way he’d said Miss Black with such effortless courtesy. The way his hazel eyes had softened, just slightly, when he realised she was alright, the faint trace of humour in his words and then: “It’s Chalus to you, my lady.”

She hadn’t thought he even knew who she was. Most sixth-years didn’t pay her much mind, not beyond the usual nod of acknowledgement due to her surname. But Charlus had remembered, had smiled and had even offered to walk with her.

She tucked a loose curl behind her ear and tried again to read the first line of the passage.

Footsteps approached from behind, and a moment later, her cousin slid into the chair across from her without saying a word, placing her book on the table with a quiet thud.

Dorea didn’t look up immediately.

After a minute or so, she leaned forward; her tone mild. “You’ve read the same line four times.”

Dorea blinked, lips parting slightly. “Have I?”

Cass tilted her head. “You have that look. The one you get when your mind’s not in the room.”

“I’m just tired,” Dorea offered quickly, a little too quickly as she noticed that Cassiopeia had narrowed her eyes just a fraction.

“Mm. Tired. With pink cheeks and that dazed little smile?”

Dorea flushed deeper and turned a page unnecessarily.

Cass watched her for a few more seconds, then slowly leaned forward again, setting her book aside.

“Right,” she said, voice low but sharp. “So here’s what I know: you walked in here with flushed cheeks, smiling like someone handed you a love letter, and you’ve been pretending to read for the last few minutes.”

Dorea tried to protest, but Cass held up a hand.

“Don’t bother denying it, cousin. I know you. Something’s happened — something that’s gotten under your skin, and I’ll wager it wasn’t a conversation about textbooks.”

Dorea shifted in her seat, suddenly fascinated by the corner of her page.

Cass didn’t let up. “Was it a boy?”

Dorea’s silence said more than any denial could.

Cass narrowed her eyes, more curious than judgmental now. “Interesting. You never blush for just anyone. Who was it? Don’t make me guess; I will work it out.”

Dorea didn’t respond. She wasn’t sure she could.

Cass sighed. “I could start naming names,” she said, tone deceptively casual. “Zabini? No, you’d never give him the satisfaction. Mulciber? Please — you’d sooner duel him than date him. Travers? You’d roll your eyes before he finished a sentence.”

“Cass,” Dorea murmured, hiding behind her book and hands tensing slightly on the page. That was all the confirmation she needed.

“Oh, now that is interesting,” Cassiopeia murmured, watching her like a Kneazle watches a twitching curtain. “Well then. I’ll figure it out. And when I do, you owe me an explanation and a full retelling.”

Dorea gave a faint, exasperated sigh and finally glanced up.

“You don’t let anything go, do you?”

“Not when it’s this much fun,” Cass replied brightly, already pulling her book back toward her.

Dorea sighed, tucking her legs under the chair and trying to sound dismissive. “It wasn’t anything. I just… bumped into someone.”

Cass’s eyes narrowed immediately. “Bumped into someone,” she repeated. “That’s what you’re going with?”

Dorea didn’t answer.

Cass sat back, folding her arms. “You bumped into someone, and now you’re flushed, distracted, and smiling like a girl in a romance serial. Did he catch you?”

Dorea bit her lip.

Cass’s eyes gleamed. “He caught you.”

“It was barely a stumble,” Dorea muttered, now regretting ever coming to the library. “And he was just… polite.”

Her cousin leaned in. “Polite, huh? Well, he clearly made some kind of impression. Come on, Dorea, give me something.”

“It was nothing,” Dorea repeated, voice soft. “Really.”

Cass didn’t press again, but her gaze stayed sharp.

“Well,” she said, cracking her book open again, “if it was nothing, it was the most interesting nothing I’ve seen all week.”

Dorea sighed again, then lowered her voice. “It was Charlus Potter, alright?”

Cass froze. Her eyes slowly lifted from the page. “Charlus Potter?”

Dorea winced. “Keep your voice down.”

Cass blinked once, then leaned forward, whispering with exaggerated slowness. “You bumped into Charlus Potter?”

“He caught me before I hit the floor,” Dorea muttered, refusing to meet her cousin’s eyes.

Cass’s mouth curved into a delighted, near-feral smile. “Oh, Dorea. Of course he did. That explains the dazed look. Merlin, he’s… well, he’s Charlus Potter.”

Dorea buried her face in her hands.

But she wasn’t done. “He’s a sixth-year, Heir to House Potter, probably one of the best-looking boys in the school, and he heroically saved you after you tripped, landing in his arms?”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“I bet it absolutely was like that,” she said, eyes glittering with mischief.

Dorea groaned softly.

Cass grinned, evidently very pleased with herself. “Well, this just got interesting.”

Dorea peeked at her through her fingers. “Says the girl who goes quiet every time Harry Peverell walks into a room.”

Cass’s smile faltered slightly before she gave a light scoff. “That’s entirely different.”

“Oh, is it?” Dorea arched an eyebrow, regaining some of her composure. “He’s mysterious, handsome and very dangerous — your type exactly.”

Cass narrowed her eyes, but her tone stayed dry. “Touché. But we’re not talking about me.”

“We never are,” Dorea muttered.

Cass’s grin returned, smug as ever. “You started it. And don’t think this conversation’s over. The way you look, you might as well have bumped into a fairytale."

Dorea gave her a flat look. “Says the girl who conveniently disappears every Tuesday and Thursday evening.”

Cass’s expression didn’t shift, but Dorea saw the tiniest pause in the turning of her page.

“I don’t disappear,” Cass said lightly.

“You do. Always around the same time. And you always come back with your hair just a little undone and slightly out of breath.”

Cass gave a soft, knowing smile but said nothing.

“It's with him, isn't it?” Dorea pressed, a little triumph flickering in her voice. “You duel him, don't you?"

Cass let out a slow breath through her nose, then finally looked up. “If I did, which I’m not confirming, it’s none of your concern.”

Dorea smirked. “I’m just saying, you seem very interested in what I get up to when you’re secretly staging a battlefield rendezvous with Death’s favourite sixth-year twice a week.”

Cass’s expression soured slightly, and she slumped back in her chair, arms crossing.

“He never loses,” she muttered. “It’s infuriating.”

Dorea blinked. “Wait, seriously? Every time?”

Cass shot her a dry look. “Every. Single. Duel. I’ve tried misdirection, tempo shifts, baiting counters and nothing bloody works. It’s like he knows what I’m going to do before I do it.”

Dorea bit her lip, trying and failing to hide the growing grin. “And yet, you keep going back.”

Cass’s eyes narrowed, though a faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “I’ll beat him eventually. Just you wait.”

The library was quieter now, the candles beginning to gutter in their sconces as curfew neared. Dorea packed away her notes slowly, offering Cass a final warning glance as her cousin grinned over the top of her book.

“I’ll see you at breakfast,” Dorea said, adjusting the strap of her satchel.

Cass waved her off with exaggerated innocence. “Sweet dreams, Miss Black. Try not to swoon in any more corridors.”

Dorea rolled her eyes and slipped into the hall.

The castle was dim and still, the stone corridors echoing faintly with her footsteps. She kept to the middle path, robes tucked close, her mind already drifting toward tomorrow’s schedule — until the sound of voices ahead stilled her pace.

She ducked into the shadow of a suit of armour, breath shallow.

“—he made a fool of my father.”

Dorea held still.

“Did you hear what they’re saying about him?” the voice continued, voice low but vibrating with cold fury. “Like he’s someone to respect. Like, he deserves that seat. That bastard walks into the chamber, and suddenly he’s a bloody legend.”

A second voice murmured something which she couldn't quite catch.

The first voice cut him off. “I don’t care. I’m not letting this go. He humiliated my family. No one does that without consequence. I’ll make him pay. Just wait.”

There was silence, and then came the sounds of feet moving away from her.

Dorea exhaled slowly, fingers tight around the strap of her satchel.

She slipped from the shadows once the coast was clear and continued toward the dungeons. Her mind was racing, heart thudding in her chest.

Arcturus needed to hear this.

And so did Peverell.

The wind curled around the Astronomy Tower, carrying with it the scent of rain and the metallic tang of stone long exposed to the elements.

Harry stood with his hands braced on the cold parapet, his head bowed slightly, letting the cold night seep into him. His school robes were loose around his shoulders, the collar undone, and the Peverell ring glinted faintly on his finger in the moonlight.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been standing there, but it was long enough for the guilt to settle in his bones like frost.

Ginny’s face flashed in the back of his mind. The warmth of her laughter, the fierce glint in her eyes when she argued with him, the way her hand had clutched at his, even as the world fell apart and Voldemort's high, cold voice reminding him that he hadn't been able to save her.

"You’re brooding," a voice from behind him said lightly, as if announcing the weather.

Harry huffed a breath, a ghost of a laugh. "Was it that obvious?"

She moved to stand beside him, close enough that he could feel the heat of her presence. She leaned her elbows on the stone, mirroring his posture, her hair loose around her shoulders and tangling in the breeze. “My cousin comes to this very same spot when he needs an escape.”

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. She was grinning that sharp, knowing grin she wore when she was three steps ahead of everyone else.

"What’s got you so wound up?" she asked. "You just humiliated half the Wizengamot and claimed a seat that’s been vacant for centuries. You should be basking in your own legend."

Harry didn't say anything, just continued to stare out into the distance.

She was quiet for a moment, the playful edge dimming.

"Arcturus told me a little," she said, softer now. "About the hearing."

Harry held his silence but nodded.

"I loved someone," he said finally, voice low and rough. "Back where I came from."

Cassiopeia didn't reply but moved ever so slightly closer to him.

"She died in my arms," he continued, voice cracking slightly. "During the last battle. I... I couldn’t save her."

She turned her body slightly, facing him more fully. Her expression was stripped of its usual sharpness.

"I'm sorry," she said.

Harry managed a tight smile. "It was a long time ago."

"Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt."

For a while, they stood there in silence, the wind tugging at their robes.

Cass leaned in with a sly smile. "You want to hear something that’ll cheer you up?"

Harry gave her a curious glance.

"Dorea practically fell into Charlus Potter earlier," Cass said, her voice light with mischief. "Full-body collision. And the way he caught her, well, the way she told it. Merlin, Harry, you’d think he’d just saved her life."

Harry blinked once, the corners of his mouth twitching despite himself.

"She was so flustered," Cass continued gleefully. "Blushing like mad. And he, of course, was as charming as ever."

Harry huffed a laugh, real this time.

Cass leaned closer, her eyes glinting conspiratorially. "He caught her, very heroically, I might add, and then proceeded to charm the poor girl into a complete daze."

Harry shook his head, a genuine smile tugging at his mouth. "I’ll have to tease him about it."

"Please do," Cass said, delighted. "She’ll never forgive me if I don't at least pass it on."

Harry turned to lean his hip against the stone, facing Cassiopeia fully now. She stepped forward until they were nearly touching. He could see every detail in her face, the way her cheeks dimpled and her violet eyes glittered.

Merlin, she was beautiful, he thought as the silence between the two of them stretched longer.

Cass’s lips quirked slightly. "You could be very dangerous, Harry Peverell."

"So they keep telling me," he said dryly.

She smiled. "Good," she said. "It's about time someone shook this world awake."

The breeze caught a strand of her hair and tossed it across her face. Without thinking, Harry reached out and brushed it back, his fingers grazing her temple.

Their eyes met once more, and for a moment, the world narrowed to the space between them.

And suddenly, without warning, a wave of guilt washed over him, battering him from all sides. It was like being caught in a hurricane without any means of escape.

He stumbled back, breath catching, but he could not take his eyes off her.

She didn't look hurt, but there was more than a bit of sadness in how she returned his look.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, feeling a tear fall down his cheek.

She didn't mock him, didn't tease him; she simply took a step forward and pulled him into an embrace.

"It's ok, Harry," she said. "It's ok."

She held him for what felt like hours as tears streamed down his face.

The overwhelming guilt that had accompanied him since Ginny's death overwhelmed him, pushing any other thought from his brain.

He let out a slow, shuddering breath and pulled himself together.

She let go of him and took a step back. There was no look of pity in her expression, merely a quiet promise that she was there for him.

"Thank you," he managed as he wiped away the tears that were staining his face. "I'm sorry I-"

"Harry," she said, cutting him off. "I don't know what you have been through or what your life has been like, but I am here for you."

He nodded quietly.

She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, the spot where her lips touched him burning slightly at the contact.

"Goodnight, Harry," she said, turning away from him and heading for the door, leaving him alone.

He could still feel the ghost of Cass’s kiss tingling on his cheek.

He shouldn’t want this, not yet. Not when Ginny’s laughter still echoed at the edges of his memory, bright and defiant against the darkness that threatened to swallow him whole.

He pushed off from the parapet, gathering the tattered edges of his composure around him, and made his way down the spiralling stone steps.

Chapter 8 – The Start of Something More

October passed in a blur of grey mornings, brutal lessons, and the low hum of the weather, which was slowly but surely worsening.

The aftermath of the Wizengamot session had not faded, it would seem, as whispers seemed to follow him through the corridors like rats to cheese. He noticed that the general reaction to him had changed slightly, with some students now treating him with a respect that bordered on reverence, while others seemed even more wary of him.

In truth, Harry found that he didn't care much. He was no longer a twelve-year-old boy, cowering away from rumours of being the heir of Slytherin, nor was he a temperamental hot head, quick to anger at being called a liar by the Daily Prophet. He knew that as soon as his confirmation from the Wizengamot had spread throughout the school, he would once again be the subject of scrutiny, but he felt, thinking of the friends he had surrounding him, that he was in a much better position to deal with it now.

Quidditch had been an unexpected thrill. He had been sceptical about try-outs, but as soon as he had pushed off into the air, he had felt the thrill again. The idea of flying competitively again, of feeling the wind tear past him, the ground a blur beneath his broom, had lit something bright and eager in his chest, something he hadn't realised he missed so much.

From the first practice, it was clear that this wasn’t just another duty to shoulder. It was something he loved. His house had needed a seeker, and Harry had needed the sky, so all in all, it was a perfect match. Quidditch had once again become something of an escape for him. When he flew, the weight of grief and loss melted away. There was only the snitch, his broom and the breathless rush of speed. The team had warmed to him quickly, and with their first match of the season fast approaching, he felt confident in their victory.

And then there was Cassiopeia. Twice a week, without fail, they met to duel in the Room of Requirement. Since their evening spent at the top of the Astronomy tower, there had been an understanding between them. It did nothing to disperse the growing tension between them, which, more often than not, culminated in more than just spells being sent at each other. They teased each other mercilessly, and Harry soon felt himself able to open up to her in ways that he had not been able to with anyone else.

The only problem with their arrangement, and probably the only reason why nothing further had happened between them, was that twice a week, without fail, as soon as he dropped Cassiopeia outside of the Slytherin common room, the wave of self-hatred and guilt washed over him like a tsunami, throwing his emotions all over the place.

The only reason why he had not cracked, he suspected, was due to his Occlumency shields being almost permanently turned up to the max to keep his troublesome mind at rest.

He would spend hours sitting awake after their duels, silently wishing that he could tell her, that he could explain why he couldn't, why he shouldn't run over to her and kiss her with reckless abandon. For that was precisely what he found himself wanting to do.

At least teasing Charlus had offered some distraction.

After discovering his little secret meeting between his friend and the person who would one say be Harry's grandmother, he had waited for the opportune moment and struck. At breakfast three days later, just as Charlus was mid-sip of pumpkin juice, Harry had said, far too innocently, "So, Charlus, how’s your courtship of Lady Dorea proceeding? Planning to duel her brother for her hand after you so heroically saved her dignity?"

Charlus had choked so violently that half the table had ducked to save themselves from having his drink sprayed in their face.

"You’re an arse," Charlus had spluttered, face scarlet.

Harry had only smiled innocently, "True. But at least I’m not head over heels for a girl who simply bumped into me."

The teasing had persisted for days with small jabs, smirks, and knowing glances whenever Dorea was spotted across a corridor or at the Quidditch stands. Charlus bore it with increasingly theatrical martyrdom, but there was no real heat to his protests. If anything, Harry suspected from watching the way Charlus's eyes sometimes flicked across the Great Hall, that he didn't mind the attention half as much as he claimed.

31st October 1935

Harry stepped into the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom on the morning of Halloween, a familiar weight settling in his chest.

He had hated this day for as long as he could remember. It wasn't just the garish decorations or the forced cheer; it was what Halloween meant and what it had taken from him.

Not only was it the anniversary of his parents' death that had propelled him into a life of hardship, but every year, without fail, something happened to him. First year: the mountain troll in the dungeons, and though he had gained Hermione’s friendship that day, he would’ve gladly forgone battling a fully grown troll for it. Second year: the first attack of the Basilisk, the start of a year he could barely think about without bitterness. Third year: Sirius Black breaching Hogwarts' walls, and though Sirius had been innocent, it had still been less than pleasant at the time, knowing that a supposed mass murderer was after him. And finally, in his fourth year, his name had come out of the Goblet of Fire, starting the chain of events that saw Voldemort return to a body.

No. Harry did not like Halloween. Not one bit.

The classroom, usually cluttered with rows of desks and chairs, was empty. Only a duelling platform stood at the centre of the room, stark and silent under the flickering torchlight.

Professor Thorne stood at the edge of the platform, his arms folded behind his back and his expression as hard and cold as the stone walls around them.

He swept a slow gaze across the gathered students, letting the silence stretch until the tension was almost tangible.

"Today, you show me what you have learned so far."

Murmurs rippled through the class.

Thorne’s mouth curled into the faintest shadow of a smile.

"You will face each other in a series of one-on-one duels. Nothing permanent, and I will end a duel if I deem the line has been crossed. First match," Thorne said his voice sounding close to something like amusement, "Harry Peverell versus Charlus Potter."

Around them, the students shifted, interest sharpening. A few grinned at them, excited to see the two friends go at it.

Harry felt Charlus’s elbow nudge lightly against his own. He turned to see a bright, reckless grin adorning his friend's face.

"I'll try not to embarrass you too much, Peverell," Charlus said confidently as they strode to the platform at the centre of the classroom. Harry smirked back, rolling his shoulders as he stepped up onto the raised dais.

"Keep dreaming, Potter," he retorted, flicking his wand into his hand and feeling the steady and familiar weight of it along with the cold presence that was so different from his old phoenix feather wand. He bowed low, grinning at his opponent before shifting into his duelling stance.

He stood side on, reducing the size of his target. His knees were slightly bent, allowing for rapid movement if needed.

Across the platform, Charlus mirrored his stance, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet and his eyes alight with anticipation.

Above them, Thorne raised a hand.

"Begin."

Charlus moved first, and for Harry, it was like defending against a battering ram.

Spells tore from his wand with raw force, the air cracking around them with every strike, and the floor beneath Harry’s boots trembled as each spell made impact against his shield.

Charlus continued like a man possessed, hoping that sheer force would wear down Harry's defence. Unfortunately for the Potter heir, Harry had experience against wizards who used this tactic and simply reinforced his shield against the relentless tirade of spells.

After about thirty seconds of this, Charlus paused to catch his breath, and Harry struck.

Quick as a flash, he dropped his shield and sent his reply: first a leg-locker curse, causing Charlus's legs to snap together, followed immediately after by a tripping hex which sent him stumbling backwards, and finally a disarming spell which saw his wand ripped from his fingers and fly across the room to a Harry who, waiting for it, caught the wand in his left hand.

He slipped through the onslaught, dodging and weaving with an almost lazy grace, letting Charlus’ power burn itself into the empty air. He sidestepped a searing cutter, rolled beneath a hammer-blow concussion hex and let a disarming charm whistle past his ear.

The room fell silent until Thorne’s voice cut through the stillness, "Winner: Peverell."

Harry undid the leg-locker and held his hand out to his friend, who, grinning ruefully, took it and was pulled to his feet.

"You’re a slippery bastard," Charlus muttered under his breath, taking his wand back from Harry.

Harry just returned the smile as they took their place outside the class, intent on watching the rest of the duellists.

One by one, the duels unfolded across the platform. Some were swift and brutal affairs, while others dragged on into long battles, where the fitness of the duellists ended up mattering just as much as their skill.

Minerva dispatched Rosier ruthlessly, her transfigured dog biting the unsuspecting boy in the back of the leg.

Robert Longbottom overcame a wiry yet tenacious Nott, weathering the assault with stubborn resilience before landing a decisive, stunning spell to the other boy's chest.

Augusta fought a fierce match against a Ravenclaw, narrowly losing to a well-placed binding hex that caught her around the knees.

When it came time for his second duel, he faced Robert Longbottom. Though Robert fought with impressive strength and dogged determination, it wasn’t enough as Harry merely ducked and dodged all of his opponent's offerings before catching Robert with a well-aimed banishing hex, which sent the rather large boy flying backwards.

On the opposite side of the bracket, Arcturus Black had dismantled his opponents with frightening efficiency.

His semi-final against Malfoy had been one of the most anticipated matches yet, but in the end, it hadn’t been close. Arcturus had broken Malfoy’s defence with a vicious series of silent curses, stripping away his shields and striking with a tickling curse that left the Malfoy heir writhing on the floor with fits of uncontrolled laughter.

After this, they took a break with Harry and Charlus laughing with Octavius, who had been defeated soundly by Malfoy earlier.

Once the respite had ended, though, Thorne called the only two remaining students to the floor.

Harry stepped onto the raised platform, flicking his wand into his hand as Arcturus mirrored him from the other end. They bowed low to each other and then shifted into their duelling positions.

Arcturus looked up and caught Harry's eye. In a voice that barely carried, he said, "My cousin is good, Peverell. But I am better."

Harry grinned at him, shrugging slightly. "She's prettier, though. You can't win 'em all, I'm afraid, Black."

His opponent snorted before settling down into his stance.

Harry had never received formal duelling training, letting his years of fighting against Death Eaters and Voldemort teach him how to fight. Arcturus, on the other hand, judging from the way he carried himself and had beaten his two previous opponents, had been taught by the very best of duelling instructors. His stance was perfect and his guard impressive, but Harry could see one distinct weakness that he would hope to exploit.

Arcturus had never been in a position of kill or be killed.

On Thorne's signal, Harry advanced with a chain of quick and powerful curses that put Arcturus on the back foot immediately. He chained together a cutting curse, aimed at Arcturus's shoulder, with a piercing hex that narrowly missed, followed immediately by a knock-back jinx that was just avoided.

Harry kept up the attack, firing spell after spell at his rather bewildered-looking opponent, who had clearly been expecting a show of defence and counter like Harry had shown before.

After about a minute, Harry dropped the intensity and frequency of his offerings, and Arcturus, who took this as a sign of fatigue, decided that now was the time to respond.

He dropped his shield and fired a flurry of spells, which Harry, keeping up the pretence, shielded in the nick of time. They went back and forth for another minute, with Arcturus appearing just to be coming out on top asHarry waited for the perfect moment to drop his charade. Eventually, it came in the form of a duet of cutting curses. Harry leapt into the air, passing between them in a show of acrobatics that caused a gasp to escape from the onlookers before landing back on the platform and firing a binding spell, which hit the beleaguered Lord Black squarely in the chest, binding him with thick snake-like ropes which coiled around him, snapping his limbs to his side and ending the duel in an instant.

"Winner, Peverell," announced Thorne, his eyes narrowed slightly as he stared at Harry, a small but noticeable frown marring his features.

Harry nodded and ended the spell on Arcturus, who was staring at Harry like he had just sprouted another head.

He walked over and leaned closer to Harry, his voice rather breathless due to his fatigue.

"How the fuck did you do that, Peverell. I was sure you were nearly drained."

"You are seriously good, Black. I thought a little bit of subterfuge might give me an edge over you."

"Well, it did at that," he replied, grimacing slightly. "Oh, fuck. I can't wait to hear what Cassiopeia will make of this."

Harry laughed.

For all of the opponents he had faced so far at Hogwarts, Arcturus had been the best by a considerable margin. While Charlus was stronger magically and his spells packed more of a punch, Arcturus made up for it in accuracy and timing, which were more valuable in Harry's opinion.

A minute or so later, the bell rang, signalling the end of the lesson.

"Peverell. Stay," called Thorne just as the last couple of students were making their way out of the classroom.

Once they were alone, Thorne met Harry's gaze, a curious expression passing over his face.

"You fought well," he said simply. "Much better than anyone your age has any right to."

Harry said nothing, simply shrugged noncommittally.

Thorne tilted his head slightly, studying Harry with his dark eyes.

"Where did you learn to fight like that?"

Harry paused for a moment, thinking about how to respond. "I had to, sir. It was a necessity growing up."

"Necessity," Thorne repeated to himself. He let the word sit in the air for a couple of seconds before continuing. "You have seen real combat, Peverell."

It wasn’t a question, so Harry met his gaze evenly and nodded.

Another long silence stretched between them before Thorne nodded once, seemingly deciding on something.

"You’re good, Peverell. You have experience, I can see that. But you rely too much on instinct."

He stepped closer, voice low as he continued, "That little trick you pulled on Black was good. It drew him out and caused him to mess up, but if you want to be more than a survivor... if you want to become something no enemy dares cross... You will need training. Real training. More than just out of necessity."

Harry was taken aback by this but hung on his professor's every word.

"You are preparing for something, Peverell. What it is, I have no idea, but I can see that it is big. I can teach you and help you become better than you ever thought possible. I will break down everything you think you know and build something that not even Dumbledore will want to cross. Are you willing?"

Harry didn't hesitate, "I’m willing."

Thorne's mouth curved into the faintest shadow of a smile.

"Good."

He turned, striding back toward his desk.

"We start the week after next. Every Monday here at 8 o'clock. Do not be late."

Harry nodded quickly before stepping out of the classroom into the dimly lit corridor beyond.

He expected to make the walk to Transfiguration alone, but he found his friends waiting for him just outside. They straightened up as he approached, their expressions a mix of curiosity and barely contained excitement.

"Well?" Charlus demanded. "What did he want?"

Harry gave a slight shrug, trying to play down the excitement in his chest. "He’s offered to mentor me. Give me private lessons."

The group exchanged quick glances, and then Charlus let out a low whistle.

"You lucky bastard," he said with a grin. "You will be unstoppable after that."

Octavius just laughed. "As if he wasn't already."

Harry shook his head, smiling faintly despite himself.

He had no idea who Eloric Thorne was, having never heard of him during his lifetime, but one thing was certain. The way he carried himself gave Harry the distinct feeling that the private lessons were going to be particularly rewarding.

Unquestionably gruelling, but rewarding.

The Gryffindor common room was alive with noise. Laughter and anticipation for the upcoming feast hung heavy in the air, but by the fire, slouched in a comfortable armchair, Harry sat, staring into the flames, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.

"Harry," Minerva said, "you don't have to pretend. What's wrong?"

Harry blinked slowly and glanced around at his friends, who were all looking at him with worry evident on their faces.

He sighed. They deserved the truth, he thought. Or at least, as much of the truth as he could give.

"I fucking hate Halloween," he said, his voice rough. At the looks from the others, he continued, "It is the anniversary of my parents' deaths today. I'm sorry for being in a mood, I just- I really fucking hate Halloween."

Charlus shifted awkwardly. "We knew they'd…," he said, carefully, "but… was it…? We don’t want to pry but…"

"Can you tell us what happened?" Octavius finished for him, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Was it an accident?"

Harry snorted, but there was no humour in his exclamation.

"No," he said, voice hardening. "It wasn't a fucking accident."

The group winced slightly at the venom in his tone, but they didn't back away from him.

"They were murdered," Harry spat, "They were hunted down to their own home and murdered."

Augusta stared at him, wide-eyed, and Octavius dropped his gaze, shame burning across his face.

"Who?" asked Charlus, a look halfway between pain and anger marring his features.

Harry returned his gaze to the fire, watching as the flames danced in the grate.

"A dark wizard," he said. "The worst bastard you can imagine."

“Why?” asked Poppy, her eyes blinking away tears.

Harry took a deep breath. He couldn’t blame them for asking, and despite how bitter he felt talking about it, he had always been proud of his parents. They had stood up to Voldemort, faced him without flinching and fought until the very end.

“He wanted power and control. He was building support in the area where we lived. My parents, along with some others, fought against him until one night, he found the house we were living in. I was one at the time. I… I can still hear my mother’s screams.”

There was a beat of silence until Minerva took hold of his hand with hers and squeezed it.

"I'm so sorry, Harry," she said softly, a tear falling from her cheek.

Octavius, too, looked frighteningly pale. "You remember it? From when you were a baby?" He asked, his voice coming out as more of a croak than anything.

Harry set his jaw and nodded. "Some things... some things just don't fade."

"Do you know who it was?" Augusta asked, her voice a whisper but managing to carry through the group.

"I do."

The fire cracked sharply in the hearth as Charlus swallowed audibly. "Is he… is he still out there?"

Harry exhaled, a slow, deliberate breath, then shook his head.

He closed his eyes, praying that his friends would not hate him for what he was about to admit.

"I killed him. It cost me everything and everyone I loved, but I killed him."

The silence that followed his words was absolute. Even the noise from the rest of the common room seemed to have faded.

Harry let it stretch until it became unbearable, until he had to continue in fear of it.

"I made him remember every life he'd destroyed, every family he tore apart."

The silence stretched a little longer. Every second felt like an eternity to Harry as he waited for his new friends to hate him, to call him a monster, to condemn him.

Instead, when he opened his eyes, he saw no revulsion in their faces, no horror at his confession, merely acceptance and sympathy that caused Harry's heart to soar with joy, despite the topic of conversation.

"We are here for you, Harry," Charlus said, clasping him on the shoulder. "Don't ever forget that."

Harry looked up at him with as grateful a look as he could give.

The others nodded in agreement, each one of their looks bringing strength to Harry.

"I… I don't think I can do the feast tonight," he said, managing a small, apologetic smile. "I'm going to go for a walk. Try to clear my head."

"You sure, mate?" Charlus asked quietly.

Harry nodded. "Yeah. I just need… a little space."

Minerva gave a small, understanding smile. "We'll save you some food."

Harry nodded in thanks and turned, slipping out of the common room, the heavy portrait swinging shut behind him with a muted thud.

Charlus watched the portrait door swing closed behind Harry, the echoes of his footsteps fading into the distance.

For a long moment, none of them moved.

Charlus ran a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. "Bloody hell," he muttered.

Minerva shifted closer to the fire, her face pale. Tears glimmered in her eyes, but she blinked them away with fierce determination.

Poppy sat curled up in one of the armchairs, her hands covering her mouth, tears streaming silently down her cheeks.

Augusta moved closer to her and wrapped an arm around her friend in a comforting gesture.

"He deserved better than that. Better than the life he got." Charlus said, breaking the silence.

Minerva nodded, letting out a sharp, ragged breath.

Without hesitation, Octavius crossed the space to her and knelt by her chair, resting a hand gently over hers. Minerva flinched at first, but when Octavius maintained the contact, she closed her eyes and let herself lean into him, her forehead pressing lightly against his shoulder.

Charlus leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring into the fire.

"He had to," he said. "He had no choice."

He said it more to himself than to the others, the justification for his friend's actions coming easily to him.

"It doesn't change anything," Augusta said. "Not who he is. Not to us."

They fell into silence again, the weight of Harry's confession settling deep in their souls. Slowly, they pulled themselves together, each drawing a deep, steadying breath.

They said nothing as they joined the crowd making their way out of the portrait hole towards the feast in the Great Hall. There was nothing more to say.

Harry was their friend and they would be there for him, whatever happened.

The castle was as quiet as a tomb.

Harry's footsteps echoed hollowly against the floor, the sound swallowed by the stone corridors. Torches guttered in their brackets, casting long, skeletal shadows along the walls; the flickering flames painting the world in broken gold and deep, endless black.

He should have gone to the Feast.

He shouldn't have ruined his friend's night with tales of his past and the guilt he carried. He should have plastered on a smile, laughed with the others and played at being normal for just one fucking night.

But he couldn’t. Not today.

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his robes as he strode forward, no destination on his mind.

Memories gnawed at the edge of his mind. He saw a flash of green light, the smell of burned flesh, and the empty silence that followed death.

He gritted his teeth and forced them back down, trying to control the anger that seeped through his very bones.

Harry stopped dead.

The hair on the back of his neck prickled, and a pulse of unease rippled through his chest.

Nyx stirred inside him, the bond between them tightening like a drawn bowstring. There was no sound, no visible sign, just a spike of warning that told him very clearly that he was not alone.

He listened for footsteps, but none could be heard. He inwardly cursed himself for not checking the Marauder's Map before he left. He had become too careless since his arrival here, and now he was in a situation that could have easily been prevented. What that situation was still remained to be seen.

He half-hoped that it was just a lost first year, but something inside him knew that it was more than that.

"Brilliant. It’s always fucking Halloween." Harry muttered under his breath, the words dripping with venom.

Of course, someone would be stupid enough to try something tonight.

An idea came to him, and he silently summoned Nyx.

His familiar formed from the shadows, breaking free from his body as she took flight.

He had practised this over the summer, but now it was time to try it for real.

He found his connection to her and reached out.

Suddenly, he was seeing through her eyes as she silently glided down the corridor, blending into the shadows that grew in the darkness.

The corridor in front bent left as he willed Nyx onward, watching for any hint of movement as she flew.

She kept her pace slow, the sound from her flapping wings completely non-existent. She stopped at the end of the corridor, staying in place as she looked left and saw a group of students, wands already drawn, anticipation evident on their faces.

He recalled his companion, letting her settle back into the tattoo on his ribcage as he set off.

Why he didn't just turn and go back the way he had come, he didn't know. All he did know was that this group of fucking idiots were going to learn why tonight was not a good night to try and confront him.

He carried on, turning the corner until he came face-to-face with his ambushers. Abraxas Malfoy stood at the front, his wand casually twirling between two fingers, a sneer plastered across his pale face. Beside him lurked Nott and Mulciber, both tense with anticipation, while Rosier hung back slightly, flanked by four hulking seventh-years, their faces set into masks of vicious expectation. Two more stood to either side, and Harry thought he recognised them as Hector Bulstrode and Jacob Rowle.

Harry slowed to a stop, tilting his head slightly as he regarded them.

Harry exhaled slowly through his nose and muttered, just loud enough for them to hear: "This is really not the day for this."

Malfoy laughed, "I think you will find, Peverell, that this is the perfect day for you to be taught your place. Did you think you could humiliate my father and get away with it?"

Harry smiled, but there was nothing pleasant in his expression. This was a smile that promised blood.

"Funny you should say that, Malfoy," he said, voice low and deadly. "As a matter of fact, I did think exactly that and your little gang of arse-lickers hasn't changed my mind."

Rosier sneered. "You're outnumbered, Peverell."

"I didn't know you could count, Rosier," Harry replied, laughing mirthlessly.

"How dare you-" began Rosier before Nott quieted him with a look. "Big words for a dead man, Peverell."

Harry tilted his head slightly, his razor-thin smile never wavering.

"You think Death scares me?" he said. "I have met death, Nott, walked beside him. He took one look at me and spat me back out for you to deal with."

A flicker of uncertainty passed over the group at his words. One of the seventh years actually took a half-step back, his face pale beneath the torchlight.

"You don't scare us, you filthy Half-Blood," Spat Malfoy, raising his wand.

"No?" Harry asked, his face still alight with a maniacal grin. "Because I think one of your friends has just pissed himself."

Harry had to stifle a laugh as Mulciber actually looked around him to check.

"Fuck me, I thought Slytherin was the house of cunning, Mulciber," he laughed.

The large blonde figure of Rowle raised his wand, growling, "We'll carve that fucking smirk off your face, Peverell."

"You’re welcome to try," he sneered, flicking the Elder Wand into his hand.

For a heartbeat, the corridor was silent.

Then Malfoy's face twisted into something ugly.

"Get him."

Ten wands rose as one, spells already forming on their lips, but Harry didn’t wait for them to cast.

With a snarl, he launched himself into the storm as the corridor exploded into violence.

Spells tore through the air, curses and hexes colliding in a storm of vicious, multicoloured light.

A seventh-year rushed him, wand raised high. Harry didn’t even bother with a shield. Instead, he flicked his wand sharply and sent a bone-breaker directly into his attacker's leg, which shattered, a howl of agony ripping from his throat, adding to the cacophony of noise.

Harry didn't watch him fall as Bulstrode was on him immediately. Harry ducked low, his wand carving through the air, sending a cutting curse which struck true, causing a thin line of crimson to blossom across the boy's chest as he staggered backwards, dropping his wand with a choked cry, clutching at the spreading blood.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry caught Rosier’s wand flashing.

Without hesitation, Harry spun, deflecting the jet of sickly yellow light into another of the attackers who just managed to get a shield up in time to block it.

He ducked a curse from Malfoy and fired a blasting curse at Rosier, who was not quick enough, the spell catching him in the hand, his wand exploding, sending shards of wood everywhere.

Rosier went down hard, clutching his mangled appendage.

Three down.

Harry’s chest heaved with the effort, blood pounding in his ears. A shallow curse grazed his ribs, tearing through his robes and skin alike. Still, he didn’t falter in his movements as he conjured a metal spike and sent it at Malfoy, who expertly dodged, firing a purple jet of light his way, which Harry deflected into the wall, blowing chunks of stone out from the impact.

There was a slight pause as the seven remaining attackers took a moment to catch their breath, but Harry was not idle in the respite. He waved his wand in an intricate pattern, picking up some of the debris and transfiguring it into more spikes, which he sent at breakneck speed towards his opponents.

Malfoy was quick enough to send a large area shield, which blocked the stone projectiles from hitting his comrades. The projectiles disintegrated into dust upon impact.

Before he could stop and think, however, a piercing hex narrowly missed him as he dived to the side to avoid it. He rolled to his feet, wand snapping up to throw a shield charm that buckled under the sheer force of the numerous spells hammering it.

Realising that they were unlikely to penetrate Harry's shield, Nott sent a blasting curse towards him, hitting the floor just in front of his shield. The impact sent Harry sprawling backwards until he hit the ground hard, the breath knocked from his lungs.

On his knees, coughing violently, Harry spat out a mouthful of blood onto the stones.

Another curse sliced across his shoulder, and a searing pain blossomed down his arm.

They were closing in now, but Harry gritted his teeth against the pain, forcing himself upright with a snarl.

His magic surged within him, letting him barely think of a spell before it was cast from his wand towards his foes.

He moved with a speed that must have looked almost inhuman, but even then, it was barely enough to defend him from the barrage of spells sent his way.

"Is that all you've got?" he spat as another brief respite took hold.

His left arm hung useless at his side, blood dripping from a ragged tear in his robes where the cutting curse had torn deep.

A jet of blue light screamed toward him, and Harry threw himself sideways, the spell grazing his ribs, which screamed in protest as he fell to the floor, rolling out of the way as a bone-breaker hit the exact spot he had just been.

The seven of them moved in, sending curse after curse at Harry, who did his best to defend himself. He could no longer dodge effectively due to the damage he had sustained, but he managed to deflect a cutting curse back at Mulciber, who had sent it, tearing a deep gash into his shoulder. He managed to remain upright, but his right arm was severely damaged. This gave Harry an opening as he fired a well-placed, piercing hex from his kneeling position, which caught the injured Mulciber in the knee. The sound of the breaking bone cracked through the air as he fell, a whimpering mess, onto the stone floor.

Six left. Three unknown seventh years, Rowle, Malfoy and Nott.

One more spell, Harry thought grimly as he now faced his remaining ambushers. Just one more fucking spell.

He gritted his teeth and forced himself to stand, hurling a curse straight at Nott, whose hastily erected shield absorbed the impact, though only just. Harry managed to throw up a shield of his own as Malfoy sent a curse that Harry didn't recognise towards him. The shield stopped it but shattered on impact, leaving Harry exposed.

Rowle raised his wand at the now exposed Harry when a bolt of crimson light exploded from the shadows behind Harry and slammed into his wand arm with a sickening crunch.

His scream tore through the corridor as he dropped his wand, clutching a twisted, shattered limb.

Harry staggered back, instinct dragging his eyes to the source of the spell.

Arcturus Black stalked forward, his wand slicing through the air in a brutal arc. His cutting curse was blocked by Nott, careering into the stone wall of the corridor as he advanced.

"TRAITOR!" Malfoy bellowed, voice raw with rage. "You stand with him against your own?"

"I stand where honour still fucking means something, you fucking cowardly cunt." Arcturus replied, now shoulder to shoulder with Harry.

They fell into rhythm without a word, the momentum shifting drastically as Arcturus went on the offensive, giving Harry some time to catch his breath.

One of the seventh years turned, but Arcturus caught him clean with a curse so violent it snapped the boy’s wrist backwards. Before he could even scream, Harry's stunning spell punched into his gut, folding him in half and dropping him to the stones.

Four left now.

Harry’s lungs burned; blood slicked his wand hand, but he kept going.

Nott snarled and hurled a hex, but Harry swiped the Elder Wand through the air, deflecting the spell into the nearby wall, then returned fire with a blasting hex that just missed Nott’s arm.

Across the ruined corridor, Abraxas barked orders to his remaining companions, desperation leaking into his voice. The tide had turned, and he knew it.

Smoke curled from blackened scorch marks across the walls, and blood painted the stone in jagged splatters.

Harry wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. His body screamed for respite, but he kept his wand levelled, teeth bared in a snarl. Harry prepared for another assault when a tremor ran through the air and the world cracked open with the force of a bomb.

"BOMBARDA!"

A seventh-year Slytherin was blasted clean off his feet, smashing into the wall with a sickening crack before sliding down in a broken heap.

Charlus Potter stormed onto the scene, his wand blazing, hair windswept, face twisted in fury.

"Oi!" he roared, his voice shaking the air. "You fucking cowards!"

Harry blinked through the haze, a bloody grin tugging at his lips.

"Took your time," he rasped.

Charlus flashed a wolfish grin, striding to their side without hesitation.

"You're still standing," Charlus said, wand snapping up into a dueller’s guard. "I figured you had it handled."

"Prick," Harry muttered.

Malfoy's face twisted into something almost feral at seeing the new arrival.

The moment of peace was broken again as Charlus unleashed a barrage of spells, impacting with the hasty shields of Malfoy, Nott and their final associate.

Charlus fought like a force of nature. There was no elegance like Arcturus, but each spell he cast was accurate and extremely powerful. Meanwhile, Arcturus moved with surgical precision, striking in the gaps caused by the Potter heir.

The introduction of Charlus and Arcturus to the fight had somehow given Harry a new burst of energy, and he was taking full advantage of it while he pressed forward, deflecting any spell that was sent their way.

The last seventh-year staggered away, looking like he was going to make a run for it, only to catch a stunner straight to the gut from Charlus, folding him like wet paper.

Harry and Arcturus turned as one on Nott. As if it were planned, they sent two bone-breakers screaming through the air, catching the unprepared Nott in each leg. He went down hard, wand skittering across the floor, his screams cut short by Charlus, who ended his pain with a stunner to the chest.

There was silence in the corridor as Harry, Charlus, and Arcturus turned, as one, to face Malfoy.

Harry took a step forward.

Charlus and Arcturus moved instinctively, stepping up to flank Harry, ready to tear Malfoy apart, but Harry lifted his bloodied wand arm and cut them off with a single, sharp motion.

"He's mine," Harry said, voice low, guttural with rage.

Charlus hesitated, then he nodded, stepping back without a word. Arcturus followed, his wand still ready in case Malfoy tried anything.

Malfoy’s wand trembled in his hand; blood smeared across his face from a gash along his hairline. His breathing came in sharp, ragged gasps.

Harry stalked forward, letting the silence consume the ruined corridor.

Malfoy raised his wand, his face a mask of terror.

“Crucio!”

The curse tore through the air and slammed into Harry, bringing him down to one knee.

Pain coursed through Harry, but there was something wrong. It was not the all-encompassing pain that he had felt at the hands of Voldemort. That had felt like every nerve in his body was on fire, like there was nothing else in the world except the pain.

This was merely a light tickle compared to that.

Harry laughed. A cold, guttural laugh that caused Malfoy's eyes to widen in terror as he ended his spell, falling backwards onto the floor. The momentary look of triumph on his face was nothing but a distant memory.

Harry got to his feet, flicking his wand towards Malfoy, who, completely taken aback, let his wand be ripped from his hand and clatter to the floor.

A memory from the night that Sirius had been killed fought to the front of Harry's brain. He looked down at the shaking figure of Malfoy in front of him.

"Never used an Unforgivable Curse before, have you, boy?" he said, echoing the words of Beatrix Lestrange. "You need to mean them. You need to really want to cause pain - to enjoy it."

He raised his wand and fired a brutal bone-breaker, shattering his right arm completely. Abraxas screamed, clutching the ruined limb, but Harry didn't stop.

The blasting curse hit Malfoy’s left knee with a wet, explosive crunch, which bent his leg at a sickening angle.

Harry stalked closer, face a mask of fury until he reached him, driving his boot hard into Malfoy's groin.

Abraxas shrieked in agony as Harry stood over him, breathing hard, his wand sparking faintly with unchecked magic.

He crouched low, voice a snarl dripping with venom.

"Crawl back to your father," Harry said, eyes burning like cursed fire. "Tell him who fucking broke you."

Harry straightened slowly, his magic still crackling violently around him, while a few yards to his rear, Charlus and Arcturus stood silent, grim, and utterly unflinching.

The sound of heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor, and three figures swept into view, wands already drawn.

Dumbledore, Thorne and Wessex.

They froze at the threshold, eyes scanning the devastation before them.

Dumbledore's sharp gaze swept over the scene, taking in every detail of the ruined corridor.

Wessex raised her wand slightly, cautious but silent, while Thorne’s lips curled into a grimace.

"What happened here?" Dumbledore asked, voice steady but carrying iron beneath.

Harry’s voice was rough. "Ambush." He managed, spitting out a mouthful of blood.

Arcturus and Charlus said nothing, just standing behind Harry like sentinels.

Dumbledore's lips pressed into a thin line as he surveyed the bodies again, then turned to his colleagues.

"Eloric, Cordelia, tend to the injured."

Wessex moved immediately, wand flicking as she began stabilising the worst injuries with brisk efficiency. Thorne summoned stretchers with curt movements, levitating the unconscious students toward them.

"Hospital Wing," Thorne ordered. "All of them."

He paused by Harry, eyes raking over the battered boy. "You three as well."

Harry opened his mouth to argue, but Dumbledore cut him off.

"That is not a request, Mr Peverell."

Harry gritted his teeth but nodded once. Charlus clapped him on the shoulder, causing Harry to wince in pain.

"Oh, fuck. Sorry mate," he said, grimacing as he and Arcturus supported Harry from under each arm and began the slow walk to the Hospital Wing.

Behind them, Wessex's voice snapped at one of the levitated stretchers. "Lie still, idiot! You want to be pissing yourself for life?"

Dumbledore strode ahead, silent and unreadable, his cloak billowing out behind him like a liquid.

They reached the Hospital Wing where Healer Clarkson, the matron, nearly dropped her potion tray when she saw the state of her new arrivals.

"Merlin's bloody beard," she gasped. "Get them on beds. Now."

"Priority to the ones who can't scream anymore," Thorne said dryly, jerking his head toward the floating stretchers.

Healer Clarkson bustled around, ordering assistants and conjuring diagnostic charms, the sharp scent of a blood-replenishing potion filling the air.

Harry sank onto one of the beds heavily, the fatigue of his activities settling in for good now that the adrenaline had worn off.

Charlus threw himself onto the bed beside him with a groan. "For fuck sake, Harry. You said you were just going for a walk to clear your head."

Harry gave a dark chuckle, voice rough with exhaustion. "It wasn’t like I went to find them, was it?"

Charlus snorted.

Harry turned his head slightly toward Arcturus, who sat stiffly on the edge of his own bed, arms crossed, impassive as stone.

"Thank you," Harry said quietly, trying to force as much sincerity into his tone as possible.

Arcturus tilted his head, a flicker of dry amusement in his eyes. "I don't think my cousin would have been very happy with me if I let you die."

Harry managed a weak grin before letting his head fall back against the pillow, staring up at the high ceiling.

"Fucking Halloween", he muttered to himself.

An hour or two later, the hospital wing was silent.

Malfoy had been transferred to St. Mungo's almost immediately, as he had the worst of the injuries. His other nine companions had all been stabilised by Healer Clarkson, who, with the help of Professor Wessex, had treated the worst of the injuries before moving on to the less serious ones.

Harry lay still, breathing slowly. She had patched him up quickly, and Harry was now feeling the strength already return to his body.

He turned as he heard the doors to the hospital wing open, and Dumbledore stepped inside. He strode over to Harry's bed and leaned in, "Mr Peverell," he said, voice low.

Harry pushed himself upright with a grunt, wincing as the motion pulled at half-healed wounds. He met Dumbledore's gaze steadily.

"Are you fit to talk?"

Harry nodded once. "I'm fine."

Dumbledore studied him for a long moment, then conjured a chair with a flick of his wand and sat down.

"Tell me," Dumbledore continued, "what happened."

Harry's voice was low, steady. "They ambushed me. I held them off for as long as I could, then Arcturus arrived. Then, Charlus."

Dumbledore's eyes glinted slightly. "And the severity of their injuries?"

Harry didn't flinch. "They attacked me on a particularly unfavourable night for them. They ambushed me, hoping to attack me off guard and outnumber me. The consequences for that are on them."

"You seem to have responded... decisively."

Harry's mouth twisted into a grim line. "I'm not in the habit of letting people who attack me without cause or warning off lightly."

"I see," he said quietly.

Harry had expected a look of disapproval from his Head of House, but instead, he saw something closer to sadness.

"If you want," he offered, "I can give you the memory. You can see it yourself."

That clearly caught Dumbledore off guard as his eyebrows rose slightly in surprise.

"That," he said, "would be most helpful."

Harry drew his wand, pressed it lightly to his temple, and drew out a silvery thread, neither liquid nor gas. He placed it in a glass bottle that Dumbledore had conjured before holstering his wand.

Dumbledore rose from the chair, inclining his head towards Harry. "Thank you, Mr Peverell. Take some rest. Tomorrow..."

"The politics begin," Harry finished dryly.

A faint, genuine smile tugged at Dumbledore's mouth.

"Quite."

And then he was gone, leaving Harry once more to the silence and the slow, burning knowledge that this was only the beginning of the headache.

The fire in the headmaster's office crackled low, casting long shadows across the ancient stone walls. Shelves of books, artefacts, and portraits of sleeping former headmasters lined the circular room.

On the desk, covered in tiny runes, was a shallow stone basin filled with a silvery liquid-like substance.

Armando Dippet stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his lined face grave.

Albus leaned over the Pensieve and, with a delicate motion, poured the silvery thread of Harry Peverell's memory into its swirling depths.

Without speaking, the two wizards lowered their heads into the basin and were sucked into the memory.

They watched the events unfold, neither one speaking.

The moment the Cruciatus Curse had left Malfoy's wand, Albus stiffened.

He watched, seemingly unable to breathe, as Harry shrugged it off and retaliated brutally.

The memory faded, and Albus and the Headmaster were pulled out of the memory and back into the office.

Armando lowered himself slowly into one of the chairs, his face pale, his fingers steepled tightly in thought.

Albus stood for a moment longer before finally speaking.

"It appears to be justified," he said quietly. "But it was far more brutal than most would expect from a student."

The Headmaster gave a grave nod. "A line was crossed today, by all sides."

Albus frowned."He fought to survive, Armando. You saw the memory just as I did. He should not be punished for this."

"No," he agreed, voice tired. "But the others… their parents will not care. They will want retribution."

Albus's gaze hardened. "Then we must ensure they see the truth."

Albus watched as Armando exhaled slowly. "And what truth is that, Albus?"

"That if Harry Peverell had truly wanted them dead," Albus replied, his voice low, "they would be."

A soft knock interrupted them. The door opened, and Professor Thorne entered, closing it quietly behind him.

He glanced between them, immediately sensing the tension.

"Headmaster, Albus," Thorne said, giving a slight nod. "I came to give an update on the patients."

Dippet waved him forward. "Go ahead, Eloric."

Thorne shifted his stance slightly. "The students will recover with time. Minor fractures, deep lacerations, curse burns, concussions. Nasty, but treatable. Mulciber will need to stay in the Hospital wing for an extended period, and Malfoy has been transferred to St Mungo's. He sustained severe compound fractures, shattered bones in both of his arms and significant damage to the groin." He finished, wincing slightly.

Albus nodded, solemn. "Mr Peverell has allowed us to view the memory, Eloric."

Thorne's eyebrows rose slightly. "I see."

Dippet gestured toward the Pensieve. "You should view it for yourself."

Thorne hesitated only a second before leaning into the swirling silver.

Minutes later, Thorne re-emerged, his face harder, his mouth set in a grim line.

"It appears my belief in the boy was justified then," he said simply.

Dippet leaned forward. "Eloric?"

"I have offered to mentor him privately," replied Thorne.

Albus's brows lifted slightly. "Was this before the events of tonight?"

"It was. I watched him this morning during our lesson dispatch both Charlus Potter and Arcturus Black with relative ease. Both of whom are among the best duellers currently at the school. He has an immense amount of magical power, a strong sense of discipline and sharper instincts than nearly any I have ever seen. Moreover, he has experience far beyond his years. It would be a crime to leave him unguided."

"Do what you think is best, Eloric," replied Dippet, his voice soft.

Dippet exhaled heavily. "The Cruciatus..."

Thorne’s mouth curled into something cold. "He appears to have had experience with it before, judging from how he spoke to Malfoy about it."

"Indeed," concurred Albus, who, like his colleague, had noticed the way in which Harry had talked about the torture curse.

A moment of silence carried through the room before Albus saw Armando sigh deeply.

"Well, gentlemen. I think I shall retire for this evening. I have a feeling that tomorrow will be a hectic day. Please keep me informed of any updates."

Albus and Eloric nodded to him and made their way to the exit.

Once down the spiral stairs, Albus turned to his colleague.

"Do you truly think he has what it takes, Eloric?" He asked. "They only take the best."

Thorne looked away, staring down the deserted corridor. "I think," he said. "That he will be the best they have ever seen, my friend."

1st November 1935

The bells tolled low and heavy over the castle grounds as the morning light filtered weakly through the high, arched windows of the Hospital Wing.

Harry shifted, grimacing as his extremely stiff muscles protested to the movement. Bandages pulled tight across his ribs and shoulder, every movement dragging jagged edges of pain through him. Healer Clarkson had done her very best in healing him the previous day, but some of the curses that he had been hit with were of a darker variety and, he had been told, were likely to leave scars. Truth be told, this mattered to Harry very little as he had enough scars already that a few more were not a huge concern.

With more effort, he sat up, squinting as the light from the rising sun temporarily blinded him. Looking around, he noticed a blurred figure sitting in a chair at the foot of his bed. Harry reached over and fumbled for his glasses on the nightstand next to his bed and, putting them on, saw that the figure was Arcturus.

He sat stiffly in his chair, his wand balanced across one knee, and his eyes closed. Harry wondered if he had slept there or, in fact, if he was still sleeping.

He swung his legs off the bed, his feet making contact with the cold floor of the Hospital Wing. He stood slowly, gritting his teeth against the twinge in his side.

He was wearing a hospital gown, identical to the ones he had worn during his many trips to this place. He looked around for a second before spotting his spare set of school robes hanging neatly from the edge of his bed.

With many grunts and extreme effort, he hobbled behind the small screen next to where he stood and shrugged off the gown, putting on a freshly ironed shirt, pants, socks and trousers before pulling his robes over himself. He looked around for his shoes but didn't find any. Just as he noticed this, however, a tiny pop signalled the arrival of a House Elf.

Harry recognised her as Gilly, the elf who had dropped off some supplies at his cottage when he had first arrived here.

She was relatively small, even for a House Elf, Harry noticed. She had long, pointed ears and a relatively small, round nose that reminded him of Winky, the Crouch's elf. Her eyes were large and round, like the rest of her kind, and she wore a neat robe with the Hogwarts crest emblazoned proudly over her chest.

"I is bringing Master Peverell his shoes, sir." She said, noticing that Harry was awake.

"Thank you, Gilly." He said, taking the shoes from the little elf.

She squeaked sharply, her cheeks turning slightly red.

"Master Peverell remembered Gilly's name." She said, her eyes widening and a broad smile appearing on her face.

"Of course," he replied with a kind smile. "You brought some food to my cottage over the summer. You are most kind in doing so, and I thank you for it."

"Master Peverell is too kind." She replied, bowing her head and blushing even more profusely. "Is Master Peverell needing anything else?"

"No, thank you, Gilly, you have already been a great help to me. Thank you again for the shoes, he said, bowing his head slightly."

She squeaked again, and with another small pop, she was gone.

"I think she has a crush on you." Came a chuckling voice from behind him.

Harry turned to see that Arcturus had woken up and was stretching his arms wide, yawning loudly, with an uncharacteristically jovial grin pulling at his lips.

"Oh shut up, Black," Harry replied, pulling on his shoes.

Arcturus merely snorted and stood from his seat, cracking his back.

"Have you been there all night?" Harry asked, surprised.

"Thankfully not," he answered. "I took over from Potter around four this morning."

"Why?" Harry asked, confusion marking his features.

"To guard you, idiot." Arcturus snorted. "Everyone in the whole fucking castle heard what happened last night, and I know my Housemates. They will seek retribution for what transpired."

"Are you not worried for yourself?" he asked, knowing that Arcturus had put himself in a very dangerous position within Slytherin for coming to Harry's aid last night.

The young Lord Black shook his head. "They know not to cross me. I used to get along with them, and they know exactly what I can do to them if they try."

He sighed. "I used to get along with them, you know. Up until my father died, I was actually friends with the idiots. I would spout out the same rubbish about blood supremacy and nobility. I didn't truly believe it but I did what was expected of me as a Black. That changed when he died and left me with the responsibility of managing a declining house."

Harry was listening with rapt attention, hoping to understand more about the enigma that was Arcturus Black.

"I realised soon after that none of it made any difference. The Black name might not hold as much significance as it did fifty years ago, but it still carries more weight than nearly any other. I found it foolish to try to fit in with the rest of the sheep who did nothing but spout the same drivel that their families had been doing for centuries so I stopped. I started looking outside of my House for allies and turned to my cousin and sister for company."

He made to continue, but at that moment, the door to the office opened and Healer Clarkson entered.

"Awake, are we?" she said crisply, her sharp eyes giving him a once-over before she sighed. "I don't suppose I could stop you from leaving anyway."

Harry grinned at her.

"Oh, all right, fine. You're cleared to leave. I hope I don't see you here again, Mr Peverell. You gave me a lot of work to do last night."

"My apologies," he offered, inclining his head. "I didn't mean to burden you. Anyway, if they try anything like that again, they will not need your services."

She blinked, surprised, her mouth opening slightly at the seriousness with which he said it.

"You'll need these." She said, pulling herself together and handing Harry a small box of vials. Harry saw one labelled "Essence of Dittany" and the others labelled "Blood Replenishing."

"You lost quite a lot of blood last night, Mr Peverell." She informed him, her face returning to its stern resting position. "If your wounds open again, apply the Dittany directly and take a potion. I would advise taking one anyway every morning for the next few days so you don't feel lightheaded."

Harry thanked her, and together, they stepped out of the Hospital Wing.

Waiting just outside the doors, leaning casually against the wall with a cocky grin, was Charlus Potter. Aside from a dark bruise on his jaw and a few scrapes, he looked almost untouched.

"Took you long enough," Charlus said, straightening. "I thought you two were going to make me come rescue you again."

Harry huffed a laugh. "We’re fine."

Arcturus gave him a dry look. "Speak for yourself, Peverell. I still need some answers."

"And you will have them." Harry sighed. He owed the man that much.

Charlus shrugged, falling into step beside them. "Come on. Breakfast awaits, and I’m fucking starving."

Together, they made their way towards the Great Hall where, just in front of the doors, a familiar group waited for them. Minerva, Augusta, Poppy, and Octavius all clustered together. Dorea and Cassiopeia stood a little apart from them, neither group looking at the other. Dorea’s arms were folded, but her eyes were fixed on Charlus with a worried frown, her usual sharpness blunted by something softer and more vulnerable.

Minerva's lips pressed into a thin line as her eyes raked over Harry’s battered form.

"You look like hell, Harry," she said bluntly.

Harry gave a small smile in return. "I feel worse, believe me."

Cassiopeia stepped forward, her dark hair a sleek curtain framing her face. For a heartbeat, their eyes locked, and Harry, unthinking, reached up and pushed her hair out of her face. He saw that her usually bright eyes were bloodshot, and bags drooped beneath them. He began to ask her if she was ok, but was cut off by the sound of a sharp cough. Looking behind him, he saw Arcturus giving him a 'we will talk about that later' look. He smiled sheepishly and pulled his hand away before spotting the matching grins that Charlus and Octavius wore.

The moment they stepped inside, a wave of silence crashed over the hall, and every head turned to look in their direction.

Harry strode forward, purposefully not meeting anyone's gaze. He noticed that Charlus and Arcturus were flanking him from either side and found himself grateful that they were there. He expected Arcturus to split off from them and join the Slytherin table, but to his great surprise, he, Cassiopeia and Dorea continued to walk with them, all the way to the Gryffindor table. Charlus slumped into his usual seat, followed shortly by the others, and then, looking around, he saw something that nearly made him laugh openly.

Arcturus Black, with deliberate calm, sat down at the Gryffindor table.

Harry heard gasps fill the hall, followed closely by hushed whispering.

Cassiopeia followed without hesitation, sliding onto the bench beside him with a graceful ease. At the same time, Dorea hesitated for a fraction of a second, glancing once toward the Slytherin table where furious, stunned faces stared back at her. Then she lifted her chin and took a seat.

Harry, nearly stunned, sat down, but before he could even reach for food, a small figure darted forward. Charlotte, her auburn curls wild and her cheeks flushed, threw herself at him, her arms wrapping around him tightly.

Harry blinked for a second before he returned the hug, rather awkwardly patting her on the back.

"I'm okay, little one." He said as she pulled away, blushing furiously.

" I-I was so worried." She stammered. "I heard that you had been hurt and I-I..."

"I'm fine, Charlotte. Really." He replied, scooting over and letting her sit down next to him.

She bit her lip, unconvinced, her hands twisting in the hem of her robes. "I'm glad you're okay."

Harry gave her a gentle smile. "Takes more than a few snakes to get rid of me."

Charlus snorted from opposite him, and he heard Cassiopeia clear her voice loudly, glaring at him in mock reproof.

Harry saw Charlotte shy away slightly as she spotted the three Slytherins, but Harry, noticing her nervousness, spoke up.

"Charlotte Ashton, meet Arcturus, Dorea and Cassiopeia Black.

Charlotte gave a timid wave. "Hello."

Dorea smiled warmly at her while Arcturus gave a curt nod.

Cassiopeia leaned forward on her elbows, "Don't look so nervous, darling. We don't bite." She looked thoughtful for a moment before continuing, "Well, I might, but only when invited."

Charlotte turned bright red, and Harry chuckled, shaking his head.

"Be nice," he said lightly, flicking a crumb toward Cassiopeia, who caught it deftly between two fingers with a wink.

Then her attention slid back to Harry, her smile turning overtly flirtatious.

"Pity," she purred, tapping her lower lip thoughtfully. "I wouldn't mind an invitation from you, Peverell."

Arcturus spluttered, nearly choking on his pumpkin juice, his face going a bright shade of red.

Charlus, meanwhile, roared with laughter as Harry, trying to keep his composure, returned the wink.

Turning back to Arcturus, who was glaring at his cousin and wiping the front of his robes, Harry asked, "Won't this make things difficult for you in-house?"

Arcturus huffed, a sharp sound like a bark of laughter which reminded Harry a great deal of Sirius. "Things were already becoming difficult. Abraxus was gaining more 'support' from the bootlickers. It was only a matter of time before he did something as stupid as last night."

Harry smirked faintly. "He won't forget that you sided with me, though."

"Good," Arcturus replied. "He is a capable wizard, but he mistakes cruelty for cunning. He believes that Slytherin House's reputation is well deserved and therefore reinforces it. I, on the other hand, while proud to wear green and silver, do not mistake the true ideals that we should personify."

Harry nodded pensively at Arcturus' words, finding himself in agreement.

Just then, Harry heard footsteps from behind him, followed closely by the calm voice of Dumbledore. "Mr Peverell, the Headmaster requests your immediate presence in his office. Mr Black, Mr Potter, you too."

The murmurs around them rose in pitch as the three boys stood. Harry caught the worried glance Charlotte shot him and gave her a slight, reassuring nod before turning away.

They left the Great Hall in silence, the castle’s usual warmth dimmed by the heavy tread of their boots against the stone. The path to the Headmaster’s office felt longer than normal, each step accompanying the gentle increase of Harry's heartbeat. He wasn't nervous, per se, but he had lived in the Wizarding World for too long not to suspect that corruption or injustice might not play a part.

When they arrived, Dumbledore gave the stone gargoyle the password, and it leapt aside with a grinding groan.

The spiral staircase carried them upwards until they came to a stop outside the wooden door.

Dumbledore knocked, and Professor Dippet's voice bid them enter.

Inside the office, the atmosphere was thick. Armando Dippet sat behind his vast oak desk, his expression grave. Standing nearby were three other figures.

The first was an unfamiliar man: tall, severe, and radiating a quiet, yet dangerous authority. His silver-streaked black hair was cropped short, and his simple, black DMLE robes were pristine.

"This is Magnus Crowe," Dumbledore said as they entered. "Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."

Harry inclined his head politely but with a slight air of wariness.

The second figure was Professor Thorne. His arms were folded, and his hawk-like eyes betrayed nothing.

The third, standing stiffly by the fireplace, was a sharp-featured woman who looked extremely haughty, as though the rest of the office's inhabitants were something that smelled rather bad stuck to the bottom of her foot.

l"Lady Morgana Rosier," Dumbledore added smoothly. "Head of the Hogwarts Board of Governors."

Harry felt Arcturus stiffen slightly beside him.

Lady Rosier wasted no time.

"Headmaster," she said, her voice dripping with condescension, "surely we must ask how a mere scuffle escalated into ten Slytherin students, each from respectable families, hospitalised?"

Dippet steepled his fingers together. "Lady Rosier, we will hear all sides before coming to conclusions."

"The facts are plain," Rosier pressed, casting a cold, disdainful look toward Harry, Charlus, and Arcturus. "These three students attacked my nephew and several of his friends in a brutal and unprovoked assault, leaving severe injuries to all of them including the heir to the House of Malfoy in St Mungo's."

Crowe tilted his head slightly, his cold, grey eyes never leaving Harry.

Charlus began to move forward, but Harry caught his arm, giving him a reassuring glance.

"Madam Rosier," he said with as much civility as he could muster. "I wonder how you have come to this conclusion, as I know that you have not been in contact with your nephew or any of his friends, as none of them have regained consciousness yet."

She began to splutter indignantly, but Harry continued. "I may be wrong, and feel free to correct me, Mr Crowe, but before a conclusion is made regarding the guilt or innocence of a party, evidence must be shown. For example, I have already given Professor Dumbledore a memory of the attack last night, which I am sure he has watched?"

Dumbledore nodded.

"Well then, if it had been 'a brutal and unprovoked assault', then I find it hard to believe that my companions and I here would still be students of this castle and not in the custody of the DMLE."

Arcturus snorted into his hand, covering it up with a cough while Charlus was grinning from ear to ear at the diplomatic way in which Harry had answered."

"That may be true, Mr Peverell," came the gruff growl of Magnus Crowe. "But the fact is that all three of you are standing and appear to be healthy while ten boys are nursing severe injuries."

Harry narrowed his eyes slightly. "Mr Crowe, if ten wizards attacked Professor Dumbledore here, and he left all of them incapacitated and was unhurt himself, would you be asking that question to him?"

"You think yourself as powerful as Dumbledore then Peverell?" spat Rosier, her lip curling into a snide grin at the implication.

"Not at all," Harry answered. "But the point stands. Guilt cannot be given just because one side came off better."

Crowe nodded, which gave Harry a spike of confidence that he was not as corrupt as he had feared. Without another word, he strode forward and peered into the pensieve that was placed on Dippet's desk. He glanced up at Dippet, who nodded in a way of permission, and then bent down, face-first into the silvery substance.

Grumbling, Madam Rosier followed, leaving Harry, Chalrus and Arcturus alone with their teachers.

Thorne was looking at Harry with a mixture of pride and amusement and shot him a subtle nod, which was returned.

Not long later, the memory ended, and Crowe and Rosier reemerged from the Pensieve, each face as pale as the other.

"That," he said, "was no unprovoked assault from Mr Peverell. That was a coordinated ambush against a single student."

Dippet exhaled quietly, steepling his fingers once more.

"The evidence," he said, voice carefully neutral, "speaks for itself."

Crowe stepped forward, his presence filling the room.

"Mr Peverell," he said, his steel-grey eyes locking onto Harry, "you acted in defence of your life. The level of force you used, while severe, was proportionate to the threat you faced."

He turned to Dippet. "However, the use of the Cruciatus Curse on school grounds cannot be ignored. There will be significant repercussions for this."

Lady Rosier stiffened. "Surely not! He is a boy—"

Crowe cut across her sharply. "He is a boy who attempted to use an Unforgivable Curse on another human being. That is a crime punishable by life imprisonment in Azkaban."

"This is absurd!" Rosier snapped. "He was provoked—"

"Provoked or not," Crowe said coldly, "which I must point out, was not the use of an Unforgivable, is absolute in the eyes of magical law."

He turned back to Dippet. "I will arrange for Septimus Malfoy to be summoned to Hogwarts immediately. He must be informed of the charges against his son."

Rosier’s lips thinned into a bloodless line, but she said nothing further, her fury barely restrained.

Crowe’s gaze lingered briefly on Harry, Charlus, and Arcturus.

"You three," he said, voice cutting, "conducted yourselves with remarkable discipline under extreme circumstances.”

Harry inclined his head stiffly. "Sir."

Charlus and Arcturus echoed him, and the three boys left the Headmaster’s office and headed down the spiral stairs. Once they were out in the corridor, Harry stopped and looked at the other two.

“I’ve said it before,” he began, running a hand through his hair, “but thank you — both of you. I am in your debt. If there is ever anything you need, and it’s in my power — say the word.”

The words hung in the air for a moment before Charlus broke the silence. “Hey, mate. I don’t know if it’s sunk in yet, but we’re your friends.” He glanced at Arcturus with a grin. “Well, I am at least — not sure about ol’ Snakey over there.”

Arcturus barked a laugh, then nodded. “I like you, Peverell. Even if there is… something going on between you and my cousin. I wouldn’t have stepped in if I didn’t think you were someone worth the effort. A man I’d be honoured to call a friend.”

Harry looked at him for a moment, the realisation of what had been said taking a little longer than it should to hit its mark.

“Thank you, Arcturus,” Harry said quietly, glancing between his two friends.

“We’ll need to stick together,” Charlus said grimly. “Malfoy Sr. will do everything he can to twist this around. I’d bet Galleons Abraxas walks free — too much corruption in the Ministry for someone like him to be convicted.”

Then he paused, narrowing his eyes at Harry. “Okay, hold up. What did you mean by ‘something is going on with your cousin,’ Arcturus? You mean Harry and Cassiopeia…?”

Arcturus smirked but said nothing.

Charlus turned back to Harry, grinning like a Kneazle who’d cornered a pixie. “So that’s why you’ve been sneaking off so much lately. Merlin’s tits — you and Cass were practically eye-fucking at lunch today.”

Harry let out a quiet breath, the faintest hint of colour touching his cheeks. “It’s not like that,” he muttered, a little too quickly.

Charlus snorted. “That’s the most suspicious denial I’ve ever heard.”

Arcturus stiffened, his smirk vanishing. “Potter, honestly. A little tact, maybe? She is my cousin.”

Charlus held up both hands. “Alright, alright — sorry. That came out rougher than I meant.”

The three continued walking, boots echoing against the flagstones as they made their way into the castle’s quieter corridors.

After a stretch of silence, Harry glanced sideways at Arcturus. “You are sure that this will not cause problems for you back in Slytherin?”

Arcturus didn’t miss a beat. “I am a Black. They are beneath me. I couldn’t care less what those cock-sucking sycophants think they can do. Most of them owe me enough money that I could bankrupt them with a single letter if they tried anything.”

Harry snorted with laughter, while Charlus clapped him on the shoulder, grinning. “Remind me never to owe you anything.”

“Smart choice,” Arcturus replied dryly.

They turned a corner, the torches casting long shadows against the worn stone. The castle felt quieter than usual for this time of day, but Harry supposed most people would still be at breakfast.

Near the base of the marble staircase, Minerva, Augusta, and Poppy were waiting. Octavius was halfway up the bannister, balancing his satchel on one shoulder and looking far too pleased with himself.

“Took you long enough,” Minerva said, one brow raised as she fell into step beside Harry.

“We were having a deeply intellectual conversation about social status and sexual tension,” Charlus said breezily.

Augusta gave him a look. “Your mouth is going to get hexed off one of these days.”

“Probably deserved,” Charlus agreed cheerfully.

The others chuckled as they turned the corner, heading toward their final lesson of what, for Harry, had been a very long week.

Act 1, Chapter 9 – A Snitch, a Stone, a Kiss and a Book

9th November 1935

The first Quidditch match of the season was a highly anticipated occasion for the entire school. The usual buzz in the corridors and attempts at subterfuge were something that Harry was well-versed in from his previous time in the Gryffindor team. Still, even so, he found himself making use of the Marauder's Map a great deal, ducking through shortcuts and hidden passageways so as not to be caught by any would-be ambusher. It wasn't like he couldn't deal with any who tried it, but after Halloween, he felt unmotivated to fight anyone for the sake of it.

He woke early on the morning of the match, the sky a clear, cloudless blue. He kicked Charlus awake, and the two of them made their way down into the common room, where an unusually nervous Minerva was waiting for them. After a quick hello, they headed down to breakfast.

They ate quickly and were soon joined by the rest of the team.

McKinnon cleared his throat once they had eaten their fill, the hall filling up with students, all of whom were sporting either the red and gold of Gryffindor or the yellow and black of Hufflepuff. The Slytherin table was noticeably bare of any support except for two red scarves that stood out in the crowd of green-trimmed robes.

Cass and Dorea had both accessorised, and Harry noticed that Cass's scarf had the number 7 on it, while Dorea's had the number 4. Charlus' number. He looked next to him at the Potter heir and saw that his neck was noticeably redder than it had been before. Smirking to himself, he looked back and saw a somewhat exasperated Arcturus sitting between his sister and cousin. Evidently, their newfound friendship with the young Lord Black was not enough for him to openly support his house's historical rival.

He nodded to Arcturus, who gave a stiff nod back by way of a 'good luck' message, smiled kindly at Dorea and winked cheekily at Cass, who returned it, biting her lip seductively in reply.

He felt the back of his neck redden as Charlus leant in and whispered in his ear, "Will you be getting a special 'congratulations' from you adoring fan when we win, Peverell?"

Harry glared at him before wordlessly casting a stinging jinx at his foot. Charlus yelped in pain and smashed his knee into the underside of the table, causing him to roar in anguish.

"PEVERELL!" yelled McKinnon from the other side of the table. "Kindly refrain from injuring one of our chasers HALF AN HOUR before our first game."

"But we have two more, Anthony. I'm sure we don't need this sorry excuse for a flier." Replied Harry, innocently.

The rest of the team laughed. Even Minerva cracked a small smile before schooling his features into one of disapproval. Charlus, meanwhile, was rubbing his knee and glaring at Harry.

"I'll get you back for this, Harry. Mark my words."

Harry merely clapped him on the back and got to his feet. He winked once more at Cass, eliciting a glare from Arcturus and followed the rest of the team out of the hall and into the grounds.

The changing room buzzed with a restless, electric energy. Boots thudded against the stone floor, leather straps snapped taut, and someone's broom vibrated noisily where it leaned against the wall, too excited for its own good.

Harry sat on the bench, methodically strapping on his shin guards. The gear still felt new and unfamiliar as he got used to the more bulky 1930s gear, compared to the lighter, sleeker designs he had used previously.

He slid his arm into the sleeve of his red and gold jersey, the Gryffindor lion bold over his chest, and fastened the clasps with sure fingers, adjusting the fall of the robes over his pads. Then came the gloves, which he didn't put on right away, instead, tucking them into his pocket.

Behind him, the room's chaos was in full swing.

"Charlus, if you preen in that mirror any harder, we'll have to call in a second broom for your ego," Minerva called, redoing the braid that her hair hung over one shoulder.

Charlus, adjusting his collar with an exaggerated flourish, glanced over with a grin. "Please. This face will be in all the post-match sketches. It deserves to look heroic."

"It's going to be sketched flat on the grass if you forget the passing signals again," she shot back.

"Friendly fire, McGonagall? In front of the children?"

Harry smirked faintly as he adjusted his goggles, sliding them up to rest on his forehead. The banter reminded him of something he hadn't felt since he was on his previous team. Just as the noise began to spiral into full chaos, McKinnon's voice cut through the room like a cannon blast.

"Team!"

Silence fell, sharp and instant.

Anthony stood at the front of the room, fully kitted out, arms crossed over his chest, eyes bright and focused.

"This is it. Our first match of the year."

He looked at each of them in turn with a glare that could've put Oliver Wood to shame.

"If you get hurt, hurt them back. If you get killed, walk it off."

Charlus gave a low whistle. "Can we put that on the back of our robes?"

"Only if you spell it right this time," Minerva muttered, eliciting a few chuckles that rippled through the room.

"We have got the better team," McKinnon continued. "But that is no excuse for laziness. Charlus, Minerva, we have drilled hard for Hufflepuff's formations, but don't just go through the motions. They might not be as good as us, but they will not go down without a fight. Jack, Elliot, remember to focus as much fire as you can on Longbottom. He is by far their best player, and if we can take him out of the picture early, it will make our job a lot easier. Archie, make sure you stay alert by the hoops. Remember what we practised with the right-hoop-wall and keep them out as much as possible."

He turned to Harry and adopted a fierce look. "You haven't been here long, Peverell, but you might just be one of the best bloody fliers I have ever seen. Stay high and keep your eyes peeled. Hufflepuff's seeker is quick but small. If you need to use your size against him, then do so."

Harry nodded as the rest of the team stood.

"Let's go fucking kill them!" Anthony roared as the rest of the team joined in.

They made their way through the changing room doors and out onto the pitch. Harry put on his gloves and pulled down his goggles.

The roar that greeted Gryffindor's entrance onto the pitch was thunderous, with banners of red and gold snapping in the wind and fireworks launching trails of light above the stands. The air crackled with anticipation and excitement as Harry stepped onto the pitch beside Charlus, who was gripping the handle of his Cleensweep Notus with a determined strength.

Across the pitch, Hufflepuff's team lined up in yellow and black. At the front stood Robert Longbottom, tall and broad-shouldered, holding his Beater's bat as if he planned to use it to take someone's head off. He met Harry's eyes with a respectful nod, which Harry returned.

Then Madam Hopkirk called the captains forward for the customary 'see-who-can-break-the-others-hand-competition'. She then blew her whistle, and the match exploded into action.

From the very first pass, it was clear: Gryffindor meant business.

Charlus opened with a blistering goal thirty seconds in, rocketing the Quaffle through the left hoop before Hufflepuff had even settled into formation. Minerva followed with two rapid goals of her own, weaving past the defence with fluid precision.

"GRYFFINDOR LEADS, THIRTY TO ZERO!" the commentator screamed, voice hoarse with disbelief at the ferocious start that Gryffindor had displayed.

They flew like twin storms, knocking both Bludgers into Hufflepuff's Chasers with unrelenting force. By the ten-minute mark, two Hufflepuff players had already been forced to the ground for medical attention.

Still, Robert Longbottom held the line. He seemed to be everywhere, smashing Bludgers away from his teammates with brutal accuracy, and nearly taking Elliot off his broom with a swing that left the Gryffindor Beater spinning away.

"Bloody hell," Elliot wheezed, clutching his ribs as he flew up to where Harry was circling the pitch. "That man has vengeance in his soul."

Harry chuckled as he saw Charlus fire another, passing a very disgruntled-looking Hufflepuff keeper.

Robert was exceptionally strong and more than a competent flier, but even he couldn't hold back the tide.

Charlus was flying like a man possessed, laughing as he looped and dove and taunted the opposing Chasers with blinding speed. Minerva kept to elegant arcs, her passes sharp and deadly, and her expression calm and terrifyingly focused.

Archie Hall, in the Gryffindor hoops, barely had anything to do. He sat back on his broom in front of the right-most goal post as if he were bored, but Harry knew that he was alert and ready should his help be needed.

Harry circled high above the rest of the game, his eyes sharp and scanning for a glint of gold. He didn't need to involve himself in the chaos below. He spotted the other seeker, seemingly not content just to watch, whizzing lower to the ground, actively hunting the snitch. It was a tactic that Harry had used when he was just starting Quidditch, but he soon learned that it was useless. Better to keep your energy up and your eyes alert than distract yourself with anything else. Let them wear themselves down. Let the Snitch come to him.

At one point, Hufflepuff tried a desperate offensive play. Three Chasers drove forward in a tight V, and for a moment, it looked promising.

Until Jack Barker barrelled into them from the side, scattering them like bowling pins. The stands exploded.

After half an hour, the commentator screamed, his voice slightly sore, as Anthony rocketed the quaffle through the Hufflepuffs' goal hoops yet again.

"ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY TO ZERO!"

And then it only got worse.

Two more goals from Charlus. Another from Minerva. Even Anthony, usually the steady orchestrator, dove in for another goal of his own. The scoreboard kept climbing, Hufflepuff's only resistance the increasingly exhausted Robert Longbottom, who now looked like he wanted to throw his bat at someone.

Harry saw it then. A flicker of gold, just above the Ravenclaw stands.

He moved.

The world narrowed.

Wind roared past his ears as he leaned low over the Silver Arrow, cutting through the air like a knife. The Hufflepuff Seeker noticed too late, kicking off with a startled yell, but Harry was already on it.

He dodged a wild Bludger — probably sent by Robert out of sheer desperation — and rolled sideways through a narrow gap in the stands.

The Snitch darted up, feinted left.

Harry followed.

Down again.

Close.

Closer—

His hand snapped shut.

The whistle blew.

The match was over.

"GRYFFINDOR WINS! FOUR HUNDRED POINTS TO ZERO!"

GRYFFINDOR: 400

HUFFLEPUFF: 0

The stands erupted into a deafening cheer. Red and gold streamers burst into the sky. Charlus threw his arms around Minerva and whooped. Archie actually dropped his broom in disbelief.

Robert Longbottom landed nearby, panting, sweat-slicked and grim-faced. Harry met his eyes and gave a respectful nod.

"You were the only reason it wasn't worse," Harry said.

Robert snorted. "You say that like it wasn't a bloody massacre."

Harry offered a small, crooked smile. "It was. Thanks for making it fun."

Gryffindor Tower was in chaos. The kind fuelled by roaring laughter, firewhisky someone had absolutely not gotten through legal means, and the unfiltered glee of one of the most crushing Quidditch victories in Hogwarts history.

Charlus was holding court in the centre of the common room, retelling the match with increasingly exaggerated hand gestures.

"—and then I looped over the Macmillan, dodged a Bludger that Barker had apparently aimed at me, thanks mate—"

"I told you to duck!" Jack shouted back, grinning from an armchair currently occupied by himself, Elliot, and at least one full-size flagon of mead.

Harry sat near the hearth, arms draped loosely over the back of the couch, his broom resting against the wall beside him. He had already been dragged into three group hugs, patted on the back by half the House, and offered at least six questionable drinks.

Now, he was just soaking it in.

Minerva appeared beside him with two tankards, offering one with a raised brow.

"Victory tastes better when it's shared," she said.

Harry took it with a nod, clinking his tankard against hers. "To effort being mandatory."

She smirked. "And blood being optional."

Across the room, Anthony stood slightly removed, watching the celebration with a quiet sort of satisfaction. When his eyes met Harry's, he lifted his drink in a silent salute. Harry returned it with a nod.

Poppy had transfigured the snack table into a makeshift treatment station, just in case anyone got too ambitious with the butterbeer-fuelled broom reenactments. She was currently wrapping a bandage around Archie's finger as he sulked about having dropped his broom in front of the entire school.

"You were great. Who cares?" Poppy said, slightly exasperated at the seventh-year keeper. "They'll forget the broom before they forget that scoreline."

"Four hundred to zero," Archie muttered. "Feels like we should get medals."

"I am getting a medal," Charlus called from the centre of the room. "I'm making it myself. It'll say, 'Most Handsome Chaser' on the front and 'Better Than Minerva' on the back."

"Make sure you spell both words wrong so we know it's authentic," she called back sweetly.

The portrait hole swung open, and a group of second-years tumbled in, flushed and wide-eyed. "You should see the Hufflepuff common room," one of them whispered. "They're still just sitting there. Like statues."

Jack raised his tankard. "To Robert Longbottom, may his bat rest in peace."

"Amen," said Elliot solemnly.

Just then, the portrait hole creaked open again and Octavius Prewett strolled in with the swagger of a man on a mission. He was carrying two clinking bottles under each arm, a wicked grin on his face.

"Look what I liberated from the depths of Slughorn's storeroom," he announced proudly. "A little post-victory encouragement."

Cheers erupted as he set the bottles on the nearest table, and someone immediately started conjuring mismatched cups. Minerva gave him a disapproving look — the kind that only barely masked her amusement.

"You'll be doing lines for weeks if Dumbledore catches wind of this."

"He's not here, is he?" Octavius replied cheerfully, already pouring drinks.

Harry laughed, shaking his head. "You're going to get us all killed."

"Worth it," Octavius said, handing him a glass.

As Harry took the drink, a soft voice spoke beside him.

"You were incredible."

He turned to see Charlotte standing there, her usual quiet reserve tinged with something brighter tonight — admiration, maybe even a little awe.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I mean it. That catch… it was brilliant."

Harry offered a modest smile. "Thanks. You should've seen Charlus, though. He thinks he invented flying."

"I heard* him say that," she said, grinning.

There was a brief pause, just long enough to be comfortable.

"I'm glad you're here," she added, quieter.

"So am I," Harry replied, voice just as soft.

The noise around them rose again; someone had started a raucous Gryffindor chant near the fireplace, and Charlus was now attempting to balance on the back of a couch.

Harry glanced back at Charlotte, a smile lingering.