Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Hi, Mum. Hi, Dad.”

Harry kneels on the damp grass, two bouquets cradled in his hands. The lilies tremble in the breeze as he settles them in their vases before the headstone.

“I think I’m going to fix up the house,” he says quietly. “It’s a nice place. I can see why you wanted to live here.”

The leaves whisper in reply. Somewhere behind him, a stray cat yowls, followed by the clatter of bins tipping over. The ordinary sound of life goes on, grounding him.

“Grandpa says hi, by the way,” Harry continues, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Told me to tell you he bets you’re wishing you had that portrait done when he told you to.” He chuckles quietly, glancing toward James’s name etched into stone.

“His portrait’s hanging up over the mantle now. I think I told you I found it last year, right? Took me three bloody weeks to find a spot he liked. Said he hated the office. He only stopped complaining once I moved him to the sitting room.”

He imagines James laughing at the story so he smiles too along with him, huffing a small laugh as he thinks back on that time this past January.

“He’s a funny guy. Great character, Grandma too. She’s sweet. She told me about your baking obsession when you were dating mom and how you went to her portrait in secret in 81 for a cake recipe for my first birthday.” His voice falters slightly. “She said you promised to come back for their portraits before Yule.”

The words hang in the air for a long moment. He remembers Euphemia’s portrait telling him how she knew something had gone wrong that winter, how the elves had quietly taken down the decorations when James never came home.

Harry blinks away tears and forces a breath in. “It’s been two years. I’m doing alright. Sort of.”

The silence doesn’t judge him as he sits and talks with his parents, letting them know how the last year has treated him.

“There’s a party tonight,” he admits softly. “An anniversary thing. Last year it was just a remembrance ceremony. This time, apparently, they’ve turned it into a gala.” He snorts lightly. “Not sure I want to go, honestly.”

His hand finds a blade of grass, rolling it between his fingers as if it helps him think. “Tell Moony I’m sorry. I was angry, and he didn’t deserve that.” He wipes at his eyes with a rough sniff. “I miss them both. I wish I knew you properly so I could miss you, too.”

The wind picks up. Somewhere above him, a leaf detaches and drifts lazily down, landing beside the headstone. Harry laughs wetly. “Hope you’ve told Dumbledore where to shove it,” he mutters.

He smiles faintly at the thought. Lily, livid and protective, James trying (and failing) to calm her down while Sirius eggs her on from the side. For a moment, the ache in his chest feels less like loss and more like presence.

Night is falling by the time Harry rises, brushing grass from his trousers. “I’ll stop by again soon,” he promises quietly. “Maybe after…whatever this gala turns into, I’ll be by more often.”

He gives the headstone one last look before Disapparating with a soft crack.

***

The ballroom is too bright. Gold light spills from floating chandeliers, glittering off crystal glasses and dress robes. Laughter hums somewhere far away, muffled under the heavy music and the clink of champagne flutes. Every table is marked with lilies and phoenix feathers, symbols of remembrance turned into decor.

Harry sits alone at the end of the room.

His glass of Celestial Wine is half-empty, the rim smudged with fingerprints. Someone had tried to drag him into conversation earlier, Kingsley maybe, but the words had blurred together, too polished, too official. The Ministry had called it the “Second Anniversary of Victory.” Harry hates it.

Across the ballroom, Hermione is laughing softly beside a group of Ministry delegates. She looks tired, thinner than he remembers. Her smile is real, but her eyes drift past him like she’s learned not to look for him anymore. Ron stands beside her; their eyes meet for a brief second before he glares at Harry. As if whatever his troubles were now, were still Harry’s fault.

Harry downs the rest of his drink.

He’s lost count of how many he’s had, or when exactly the polite smiles stopped feeling like a celebration and started feeling like a wake. The speeches had all blurred together, ‘sacrifice,’ ‘honor,’ ‘rebuilding,’ ‘the Boy Who Lived,’ words that don’t sound like him anymore.

He adjusts the cuffs of his dress robes, the same black set from when McGonagall had insisted he attend last year’s ceremony, when the world around him was remembering the dead rather than celebrating a death. The robes don’t quite fit his shoulders now. He can feel the faint hum of magic under his skin, restless and alive, like the world’s moving on without him.

Someone near the dais is speaking again, another toast, another wave of applause. Harry claps out of habit, then sets his glass down and slips away before anyone can notice. The corridor outside is blissfully quiet.

He walks until the sound of laughter fades behind the marble doors. The echo of his boots fills the hallway, steady and hollow. Portraits of war heroes line the walls, faces that smile down at him with painted gratitude. He can’t look at them long.

By the time he reaches the atrium, the world feels heavy again. The same way it does every May second. He thinks of the Weasleys, of dinners that used to feel like home and conversations that never ended. Of the shouting match that first winter after the war, Ron’s clenched fists, Molly’s and Ginny’s tears.

Harry had walked out that night and never looked back.

The atrium is silent except for the faint trickle of the fountain. Magic hums against his skin again, soft, insistent, like a heartbeat that isn’t his. Eventually he pulls out Henry’s pocket watch from his robe pocket and stares at it, the Potter family crest, the names carved in the back.

He twists the house pendant to activate the portkey.

The atrium stretches into endless dark. For a heartbeat, he feels weightless, suspended between one breath and the next, then silence.

The wards of the Potter ancestral home hum to life. A faint shiver of power runs through its ancient stones. Somewhere in the darkness of portkey travel, The Fate Sisters, Father Time, Lady of Destiny, Death, and Mother Magic smile. By the time the darkness fades, the quiet house is no longer quite the same.

***

May 2, 1977

The old family manor is quiet this time of night.

Fleamont Potter sits in his favorite armchair near the hearth, his nightly crossword laid out neatly on his knee and a quill in his hand. Across from him, Euphemia hums softly as she knits what looks to be a sweater, no doubt for Remus who adored her hand-knitted crafts.

The old Muggle clock hanging on the wall chimes softly, alerting them of the new hour. He looks up from his crossword to his wife first and smiles, then up to the clock and sighs. Ten o’clock.

“You ready for bed, Darling?”

“After this,” she says so he returns to his crossword.

The house falls silent once more with James and his friends still at Hogwarts. Just less than two months now and they will be back here making a ruckus of something or other, James and Sirius no doubt going outside, Peter sitting in the kitchen with the Elves and occasionally Ephie as they bake, and Remus in the library until Sirius inevitably sneaks him to the bedroom. Though Fleamont and Euphemia are pretending to not know as the boys have yet to tell them anything officially and were still (terribly) sneaky about it.

What hybrid beast holds a XXXXX classification in the Ministry’s Registry?

There were quite a few options, but it only took a few moments for Fleamont to work out only ‘Chimaera’ would fit properly. As he writes it in he feels the Manor’s wards send a jolt down his spine that has him straightening and tensing.

“Darling. Get your wand.” Euphemia looks up at him, eyes alert as she moves her knitting away from her and reaches for her wand just as a loud POP rings out in the manor. The sound of apparation is louder than usual, the wards crackle, flaring bright blue then white before turning invisible again and remaining intact. It confuses Fleamont as only James and Sirius are allowed to apparate into the Manor and the wards wouldn’t do anything, but alert him of their presence.

“Oh fuck that was a terrible idea.” A male voice says groaning as something bangs against the wall. Euphemia’s widened eyes flicker to him, fear, and slight panic in them.

Fleamont is already on his feet, wand drawn, heart thudding beneath his waistcoat as footsteps stagger in from the foyer.

A figure appears in the doorway. A man, shorter than Fleamont and disheveled, his dark blue robe rumpled, his hair an untamable mess. His eyes are glazed, his cheeks flushed, and he is very clearly drunk as he groans against the door frame. A hand comes up to cover his eyes.

“For Merlin’s sake I thought I turned these things off.” The man grumbles.

“Can I help you?” Fleamont asks keeping his wand drawn, but lowered now as the man was very clearly not a threat to anyone, but himself.

“Not now Grandpa.” The man says stumbling into the room, his hand stretched out in front of him until it finds the couch then he all but rolls onto it with a groan, “Just don’t let Great Grandpa Henry wake me in the morning okay?”

“Grandpa?”

“Shhhh Grandpa...go be with the other portraits leave me alone. I drank that sparkly blue stuff that tastes like juice.”

Euphemia’s mouth twitches despite the tension.

“Celestial Wine?” Fleamont offers amused

“Mmmm yeah...that stuff.” The boy mumbles into the couch cushions, his closed and half asleep, “It’s a trick, don’t drink it. I had wayyyyy too many. I could have sworn the Manor held me in nothingness for a few seconds when I used Henry’s pocket watch to get home.”

“Sure kid.” Fleamont says lightly

“Thanks. Immm sleep now.” Fleamont doesn’t even reach the couch before the man is drooling into the cushions with a soft snore that is barely audible in the silent room.

Fleamont slowly lowers his wand on the coffee table, staring. The firelight paints the man’s features in soft gold, the unruly hair, the lightning-shaped scar that started somewhere under his fringe and ran across his face with the tendrils ending under his eye, the resemblance to James that’s too close to be anything but blood.

Euphemia sets down her own wand with trembling fingers beside his.

“Monty…” she whispers, her voice a mix of awe and disbelief. “He looks…he looks just like our James.”

Fleamont doesn’t answer at first. The only sounds are the faint snores from the couch and the soft crackle of the fire as a log shifts.

Finally, he exhales. “Fetch a blanket, Darling,” he whispers, still watching the sleeping stranger. “Whoever he is…he’s a Potter. And I suppose we’ll get our answers in the morning.”

The clock ticks softly as Euphemia moves, her expression tender and curious. She grabs a heavy quilt from the cabinet and carries it over then lays it out over the man seemingly unable to stop herself as she runs a hand through his hair.

“You are so getting a lecture in the morning young man.” She whispers, then she leans over and presses a soft kiss to his head and straightens, “Bed?”

“Yes I’ll set an alarm to alert us if he wakes up or moves.” Fleamont does just that then with a wave of his wand the lights go out around them bathing the man in only firelight. He too can’t help resting a hand on the man’s shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze, “Sleep well son.” He whispers then he follows his wife out of the room and up the stairs.

***

Harry groans miserably as he wakes from what was probably the worst sleep he has had since the war ended. His head throbs. His throat feels dry. He can taste his breath on his tongue and it makes him want to hurl.

“Oh fuck I am never drinking again.” Harry groans into the couch cushions grimacing as his breath now assaults his sense of smell.

“Language young man.” Harry hears his grandmother’s voice scold him.

“Sorry grandma.” Harry mumbles.

“Much better.” Harry however spins sharply around at the feel of a gentle hand on his back, his eyes are wide as he stares at his grandmother.

His alive grandmother. Her eyes bright and very much not made of paint and canvas

“Did-” Harry looks to where the portrait of his grandparents hang on the wall above the mantle, but instead of the portrait there’s the old grandfather wall clock Harry moved months ago, “Did you crawl out of your portrait somehow?” Harry asks, but even he knows it’s not possible, but that is the only explanation he can come up with.

“Of course not. I am not dead, Dear.”

“Uh...yeah you are.” Harry argues because really what else is he suppose to do? His dead grandmother is standing beside him very much not a portrait, “You’ve been dead for decades.”

“No I am not.” Harry stares at her then looks back to the portrait-less wall.

“I am never drinking again.” Harry decides laying back down onto the sofa staring at the ceiling.

“I don’t think Celestial Wine did this.” Harry again jerks his head up to stare at the man entering the living room with three steaming mugs, “Here’s some tea with a hangover potion already in it.”

“You’re much more useful outside of a portrait, thank you.” Harry says taking the offered mug as the man chuckles and hands a mug to his grandmother, “I’m so confused.” He says staring at his grandparents.

“As are we,” Fleamont replies. “Imagine our surprise when some strange man breaches the wards in the middle of the night and calls us ‘grandma’ and ‘grandpa’ while our son is very much childless and currently at Hogwarts.”

Harry winces.

“How-” He stops himself, running a shaky hand through his hair.

The room is familiar, but not quite. The wallpaper is new- or old? It’s the same wallpaper that had been on the walls when he first moved in, the rug is cleaner, the couches comfier than they were in 98 after so long being unused.

“What year is it?” Harry finally asks.

“1977. What year was it for you?”

“2000.” Harry says looking over at the picture of a younger looking James and Sirius on the end table, “77? So James is...17?”

“He is. I take it that is your father?”

“Yeah.” Harry says quietly taking a sip of his tea.

“You somewhat mentioned My father’s pocket watch last night.” Fleamont tells him.

Harry straightens, fumbling at the button of his waistcoat until he frees the fine gold chain. He pulls the pocket watch from his pocket and hands it over.

Fleamont accepts it with both hands, his expression softening as his fingers trace the engraved Potter family crest on the front. He flips it over, and his eyes widen slightly when he sees the back, the familiar inscription of Henry Potter is to be expected along with his birth year and death year. But now below Henry’s name, is Harry’s name and birth year as well.

Henry Potter (1879–1943)
Harry J. Potter (1980– )

“Harry J. Potter 1980,” Fleamont reads

“Yeah,” he says softly. “That’s me.”

“You only used the pocket watch as a means to travel? You didn’t have a time turner, perhaps or a time orb? You didn’t do a ritual of some kind before traveling?” Fleamont asks looking between him and the pocket watch.

“I drank way too much and used the portkey to go home that’s it.”

“Okay.” Fleamont breathes through his nose and pushes himself to stand, the motion slow, deliberate. “Then we need to figure out what type of time travel this is.”

Harry blinks, confused. “What do you mean? Isn’t there just the one type?” He gestures vaguely with one hand, the other still curled around his mug. “You know, don’t let me see me, don’t ruin the timeline, don’t say anything about the future that can cause irreparable damage?”

Fleamont turns back to him, eyes steady. “No.” His tone shifts, quieter now, but edged with something heavier. “There are-” Fleamont, despite being in the family home, flicks his wand casting a privacy ward around the room. “There are stories...very old, very secretive stories of a time travel that is permanent.”

Euphemia stills beside Harry. “Permanent?” she echoes softly, a note of unease in her voice.

Fleamont nods once, coming closer and folding his arms across his chest. “It’s rare though. Extremely so. There’s less than a handful of them. It’s rumored that the Potter line is only alive today because the last Potter heir time-traveled permanently and continued the bloodline that way, many centuries ago.”

Harry stares, trying to process the weight of that. “How does it work?” he asks finally.

Fleamont’s eyes flicker towards the watch again, the gold surface catching the light. “The Fate Sisters, Father Time, Lady of Destiny, Mother Magic, and Death all have to agree.” Fleamont says softly. “They destroy the traveler’s time and send him to where destiny first broke. A chance to set things right.”

Harry glances at his grandparents, his stomach tight as they watch him with concern. “How will we know which time travel I did?” he asks quietly.

Fleamont’s mouth twists in thought. “Well,” he says finally, “considering it was purely accidental travel, we can assume we are most likely dealing with permanent travel. But we have to do some research just to be sure. Before we do that let’s get some breakfast first.”

Harry stands, grateful for the shift in tone, though his chest still feels heavy. “Is Ninny making it?”

Euphemia’s lips curve into a small smile as they move toward the hall. “Of course. Who else would we trust with the hash?” she teases lightly, the warmth returning to her voice. “She’s brilliant, isn’t she?”

“Best breakfast I’ve ever had,” Harry confirms without hesitation, his tone earnest as he follows his grandparents to the informal dining room.

***

The library smells of parchment and cedar oil. Fleamont runs a hand along the rows of old journals.

“Ancestor records should tell us more,” he murmurs. “Somewhere between the fourteenth and sixteenth centuries; Ralston Potter’s time if I remember correctly. It was said to be a journal that would glow if it sensed a time traveler, it’s unclear how it would know this however. That part of the oral history got lost.”

Harry nods in acknowledgment. This was where he spent almost four straight months in when he first moved in to the Manor after the war. He read almost every single journal from Fleamont’s down to Henry’s father, Edwin, in the mid to late 1800s. The journals were mostly filled with important events in their time as Lord of the family or Head of House. But it also contained political opinions and personal achievements.

It takes a few passes of the 1300s and 1500s section until Harry spots two old journals that give off a faint glow as Harry stood in front of them.

The glow brightens as he touches them only to disappear as he sets both down on the small desk in the warded section. The journals are bound by cloth and the front cover has a familiar symbol on it that makes Harry tense. He lightly traces the symbol and a pit of dread settles in his stomach as the dark magic hums under his finger.

“Did you find something?” Fleamont asks.

“Um yeah two journals that belonged to..” Harry trails off as he looks at the name in the front page, “Attwell Potter 1584. Perhaps a cousin to Ralston Potter.”

“Hmmm likely.” Fleamont opens one of the journals seemingly unbothered by magic lingering on the symbol and instead settles in a chair to begin reading. Harry grabs the other journal and begins reading as well while Euphemia settles on the opposite chair with her knitting.

The journals are old. The parchment is falling apart with each careful page flip, it takes hours to read a quarter of their respective journal. Harry’s eyes hurt, there’s a low throb building in his forehead, and Harry thinks if he has to read one more sentence of Old English he’ll cry.

“I think I found something.” Fleamont says, “This passage here starts with ‘Friend thy Death, Fate, Destiny, Magic, and Time’ then it goes on to say he came from a different year where his arranged wife could no longer bear children. The family name would die with him.”

“I mean I didn’t have any immediate plans to father children, but I think I could have if I ever wanted to.

“If it only mattered for heirs and the family name then I would have been sent to the past as well, we were 51 when we finally had James. I’m sure there was more than that reason he was sent back. What have you learned with yours so far?”

“Um..he was the only Potter left by the time he was 19, there was – wait the Goblin Wars didn’t happen until 1612, but here he is talking about the war and the witch trials of the early 1600s.”

“Let me see.” Harry hands the journal over to Fleamont watching as he runs a gentle finger over the words as he reads.

“Here he writes, ‘On minum līfe ǣr þissum ic, ānhaga sunu mīnes fæderes and ān cild mīnes naman, þolode manig trēowlēase tīda þā gūþa wið þā Goblinas and forbærnednes mīnes folces, tō nemnanne fela.’ which in modern English translates to ‘In my life before this one, I, the lone son of my father and only child of my name, suffered many grievous trials, the wars with the goblins, and the burning of my people, to name but a few.’.”

“So he was the only Potter left?” Harry asks.

“Yes, but also it seems the family suffered many loses as well. Tell me about your time, maybe there are similarities.”

“Uh, yeah, okay. Maybe you should sit down, however.” Harry suggests

“Of course. Perhaps this is a conversation better suited to a more lively room? Biscuits and tea too?”

“Yeah sounds good.”

Euphemia leads the way to the Sunroom. Early afternoon light spills across the tiled floor through high arched windows. The air smells faintly of chamomile and lemon. Light wicker furniture with white cushions is surrounded by an array of green houseplants; ferns, lilies, and a trailing ivy that curls around the ceiling beams. The room feels warm and open, completely opposite to the dark mahogany and somber air of the library.

Ninny and Poppy set down an assortment of biscuits and finger foods; cucumber sandwiches, buttered scones, and delicate pastries dusted with sugar alongside a tray of steaming tea served in a floral china set that looks too delicate to touch.

Harry sits opposite Fleamont and Euphemia, the porcelain cup untouched in his hands. His gaze drifts to the wide windows taking in the picturesque view of the flower garden his grandmother spent her days tending to, or spends her days tending to now.

“I didn’t grow up here,” Harry begins, voice low but steady. “You two died before I was born. Springtime of 1980, days of each other.” His eyes trace the horizon, not daring to meet theirs. “In that same year a prophecy was made about a child born who will have the power to vanquish Voldemort.”

Euphemia’s lips part slightly. “No.” The word escapes her like a prayer denied.

Harry nods faintly, his tone turning distant, “The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies… and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not… and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives… the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies.”

The room falls silent save for the gentle clinking of teacups as Euphemia’s trembling hand sets hers down.

“When’s your birthday?” Fleamont asks, his voice rough, caught somewhere between disbelief and dread.

“31st of July,” Harry says quietly. “I was born at 11:59 p.m., according to Sirius. My mum… she tried to keep me in as long as possible. She was yelling at the Healers to stop the labour. I was two weeks early.” He lets out a faint, breathy laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Sirius said she cried when the time was announced. Dumbledore had told the only two families who would fit the prophecy the Longbottoms and my parents.”

Fleamont’s shoulders sag. He bows his head, pressing his palms into his face as though to keep his composure from crumbling. When he looks up again, his expression is older, drawn tight with grief.

“Continue,” he says hoarsely.

“They went into hiding after I was born,” Harry continues, his thumb brushing the rim of the teacup, “Not under Fidelius, not yet. First they went to Potter Manor, but Sirius said Dad couldn’t bear to stay there. Not so soon after losing you both. So they moved to Godric’s Hollow. In 1981 Dumbledore suggested they go under the Fidelius Charm as word got around that Voldemort knew of the prophecy and was targeting the two families now. Sirius was going to be the secret keeper at first, but they switched at the last minute.”

Euphemia’s eyes flicker, wide with realization. “Who betrayed them?” she asks softly, her voice already heavy with dread.

Harry’s jaw tightens. “Peter Pettigrew.”

Euphemia shakes her head, the color draining from her face. “No,” she whispers, “No, he’s such a sweet boy.”

“He was,” he murmurs, “once.” Harry swallows and looks up at his grandparents, “Fear makes people do unimaginable things.”

For a long moment, no one speaks. The only sound is the faint rustle of leaves outside and the quiet hum of magic that seems to live in the walls of the old house.

Harry exhales slowly, “They were home,” Harry says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Dad was downstairs, Mum was putting me to bed. Pettigrew had told Voldemort where to find them, and he came straight to the door. Dad didn’t even have his wand on him.”

He swallows, and continues, his throat dry. “He was killed instantly.”

Euphemia’s hand flies to her mouth, a soft sound escaping somewhere between a gasp and a sob. Fleamont reaches across, placing a steadying hand on hers, though his own fingers tremble.

“Then he went upstairs,” Harry continues, “Mum… she refused to move. She begged him to spare me, but he didn’t. He-” Harry’s voice falters, a shiver breaking through the calm he’s tried to hold. “He killed her too. And then… he tried to kill me. But the curse rebounded. No one knows how exactly. They called it love magic, old magic, something ancient and binding. It destroyed his body and left me with the scar I’m sure you’ve noticed. It was smaller before, easily hidden behind my hair, but it grew each time I got hit with the killing curse over the years.”

Euphemia stares at the lighting bolt scar across his face as though it’s a wound she can feel in her own skin. “You were just a baby…” she murmurs.

“Yeah,” Harry says quietly. “I don’t remember it, not really. Just flashes. Green light, screaming, begging, when I’m around Dementors it makes me relive that moment.”

He sets his cup down carefully. “After that night, Dumbledore sent me to my mother’s sister, Petunia. He said it was for protection, that her blood would keep me safe. So I grew up with them.”

Fleamont leans back slightly, studying him. “Her blood?”

Harry nods. “The blood protection from Mum’s sacrifice was sealed through her blood, therefore her sister’s blood. As long as I lived with her, Voldemort couldn’t touch me. But…” He hesitates, forcing a small, humorless smile. “It wasn’t much of a home.”

He looks down, “They hated magic. Hated my parents. I lived in a cupboard under the stairs until I was eleven. They treated me like a burden. Sometimes worse.”

Euphemia lets out a small, broken sound and rises to her feet. She crosses the room in two swift steps and sits beside him, her hands trembling as she cups his face. “Oh, my darling boy.”

Harry blinks rapidly, his composure slipping. “It’s all right,” he murmurs, voice cracking despite himself. “I survived.”

Fleamont’s voice, low and hoarse, comes from behind her. “You shouldn’t have had to.”

Harry gives a weary half-smile, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, but I did. It was the hand I was dealt.”

Fleamont looks away then, jaw tight, his face scrunching slightly.

Euphemia squeezes Harry’s hand, her own still trembling. “What happened throughout Hogwarts?” she asks softly, coaxing rather than pressing. “Tell us everything, Darling.” She wipes a tear from under his eye with her thumb, the simple motherly touch undoing him more than words ever could. Only then does Harry realize his tears had slipped free without him noticing.

He clears his throat, collecting himself. “Eventually I went to Hogwarts.” A faint smile tugs at his lips. “I followed in the family tradition of course. Gryffindor House, though the Hat did try to send me to Slytherin.”

Fleamont’s brows rise, “It did?”

“Yeah,” Harry says with a tired laugh. “But I asked it not to. Guess it listened.”

“And Quidditch?” Fleamont asks, tone brightening like a man clutching a lighter memory.

Harry nods. “Got on the team first year. Youngest Seeker in a century.”

“That’s my grandson all right.” Fleamont’s grin is boyish for a moment, pride cutting through the grief. “How’d the first game go?”

Harry huffs a laugh. “I swallowed the Snitch and had to puke it back up, but otherwise we won.”

Fleamont bursts out laughing, a warm, full sound that fills the room and eases something heavy in the air. Even Euphemia smiles, shaking her head affectionately at them both.

“So it got better at Hogwarts?” she asks hopefully, her voice almost fragile in its optimism.

Harry’s smile fades. “No.”

Then, slowly, he tells them everything.

He starts with the small things; the stone, the basilisk, the secrets under the castle. His voice is even, almost detached, as if he’s practiced telling these stories without letting them cut too deep. Fleamont listens like a man absorbing the weight of generations; Euphemia sits beside Harry, hand never leaving his arm.

When he speaks of Sirius, his voice falters. The words spill unevenly, half sorrow, half fondness.

By the time he reaches his fourth year, the light through the windows has gone gold and long. There’s fresh tea, but no one moves to drink it. The story of the Triwizard Tournament and the graveyard hangs in the silence for a long moment as if they mourn the life of a young teen they never met and the peace of a world they hadn’t been apart of.

They move to the patio for dinner as Fleamont opens a bottle of Firewhiskey (wine for Euphemia) to go with the stew the elves make, and they sit under the glow of the lanterns strung along the terrace.

Harry talks while the sky darkens. He speaks of Umbridge, Dumbledore’s Army, of betrayals and Horcruxes (that word alone earns a sharp hiss from Fleamont, who mutters a curse in a foreign language under his breath).

By the time Harry reaches the Final Battle, his voice is nearly gone. His story comes out in choppy pieces, somewhat scattered as the memories play in his head. He tells them of the forest, of walking willingly to his own death, of seeing his parents, Sirius, and Remus one last time.

He ends with the Graveyard visit and the Ministry Gala. His voice softens as he describes the lights, the laughter, and raising glasses to the dead. Then his arrival here how he thought he was talking to his grandparents portraits, not realizing the truth.

“It seems you’re here permanently.” Fleamont says after a long pause. His tone is grave, but not unkind. “It fits with Attwell’s life before he was sent back, a lot of tragedy, last of the Potter line, and if the legend is to be believed having all three Hallows makes you the Master of Death which fits with the ‘friend thy death’ line in his journals.”

Harry lets out a quiet, incredulous laugh. “Figures. I win one war just to get sent back to win it again.”

“Perhaps that’s enough for today.” Euphemia says gently, glancing at Fleamont before turning back to Harry with a tender smile. “We can discuss more tomorrow after breakfast. You can borrow some of James’s clothes for now we’ll go shopping later.”

“Yeah,” Harry murmurs, exhaustion catching up with him. “That sounds nice. Maybe a bath too.”

“Of course,” Euphemia says, rising gracefully. “Follow me, love.”

Harry soaks for nearly an hour, the hot water loosening muscles tight with years of tension. The bathroom smells faintly of lavender and cedar, a scent Euphemia must have charmed into the soaps. By the time he emerges, dressed in borrowed pajamas that hang loose on his frame, the manor is silent but warm, the air humming faintly with protective wards.

He lies in James’s bed, staring up at the carved wooden canopy. The sheets are soft, freshly laundered. Too clean and too soft for someone who’s spent most of his life sleeping with one eye open.

He thinks about the future that no longer exists. The Manor he put his own touches around that he’ll never return to. The broom he left by the window. The photo album. And the worn copy of A Christmas Carol that Remus had annotated for him, his favorite possession.

That memory hurts most of all.

Remus reading to him in fifth year, his quiet voice steadying Harry’s frayed nerves. The late-night fireside readings in ’96, two cups of tea cooling beside them. The shared Christmas gift in ’97, both of them unknowingly sending the same book, each copy filled with their own handwritten notes.

It had been a small thing. But in those dark, endless nights hunting Horcruxes, it had been enough. A light in the dark.

Harry exhales slowly, turning onto his side. The blanket and sheets smell faintly of flowers.

For the first time ever, he falls asleep not to the echo of his own nightmares, but to the quiet hum of family magic surrounding him.

Chapter Text

Harry wakes slowly.

For a moment, he doesn’t know where he is. The sheets are too soft. The air smells faintly of sunlight and tea, and the window curtains are drawn back to reveal a stretch of green countryside bathed in gold. The room feels peaceful. Too peaceful.

Then the memories rush back the manor, his grandparents, the impossible truth of being in 1977.

He sits up slowly, wincing at the dull ache in his head. Not from drink this time, but from the sheer weight of everything. His glasses are on the bedside table, right beside a glass of water and a note written in neat looping handwriting.

Good morning, love. Breakfast is ready when you are, the toast will stay warm. We will most likely be in the Sunroom or Outside, there’s a gazebo in the gardens I just love sitting under in the mornings. Come find us after you’ve eaten.

With love, Grandma Euphemia.

The words make his chest tighten. He runs a thumb over the edge of the note and sets it down carefully, as though it might vanish if he touches it too hard.

He dresses in the clothes Euphemia left for him; simple slacks and a soft jumper. The sleeves are a little short, probably James’s old ones. If he buries his nose in the shoulder he can faintly smell an earthy scent that grounds him.

When he steps into the hallway, morning sunlight spills through the tall windows, turning the manor’s marble floor into ribbons of light. He can hear faint voices, but not from his grandparents, these have a distinct magical tone, telling him it must be the portraits gossiping in whispered tones.

“Good morning young Mr. Potter. You must be the Time Traveler we’ve been hearing so much about.” One elderly portrait of a sharp-eyed witch says as he nears the staircase.

“Morning Agnes,” Harry says automatically, “How’s Richie doing?”

“You know my Richie, of course you do. He’s doing fine. Off with the pup for a morning play.” She says brightly, “Have a good day, young man.”

“You as well.”

Harry descends the stairs following the smell of bacon and sausage to the informal dining room. A lone plate, under a cover and stasis charms to keep it fresh and warm, sits waiting for him. He eats quickly, thanking the elves that come to pick it up once he’s done then he searches for his grandparents.

Stepping outside, Harry’s eyes squint against the brightness. The sound of the birds flow through the garden. He spots Euphemia beneath the white gazebo, half-shaded by climbing roses and wisteria vines that sway gently in the breeze.

She sits on a swinging bench, a mug of steaming tea in her hands. Her robe is soft lavender, honey blonde hair streaked with gray is swept loosely from her face. She looks up as Harry approaches, and her face brightens.

“There’s my handsome grandson. Sleep well, dear?”

Harry nods, smiling faintly. “Better than I have in a while.”

“Good,” she says, patting the bench beside her, stilling the slow swing. “How was breakfast? Still warm? We didn’t have the heart to wake you.”

“Still warm,” he says, sitting down beside her. His eyes wander, taking in the vibrant garden. The flowerbeds stretch out in neat rows; tulips, peonies, daisies, each shining with dew. The air hums softly with bees and the faint rustle of the wind through trees. He swallows the lump in his throat. “It’s beautiful. I’ve never seen it like this.”

“Thank you.” She says following his gaze. “I always wanted a pond back here, but your grandfather insists it’ll be the ruin of the garden or, his newer argument now James is older, ‘one slip and a grandchild will go headfirst in.’.” Her smile deepens.

Harry chuckles softly. “Speaking of… where is Grandpa?”

“Making a list or five,” she says with amusement. “He thinks better that way. He’s in his study, I imagine, muttering to himself and rewriting the same thing three times.”

She takes a sip of tea, exhaling with contentment. “If you’d rather be with him and plan, you’re more than welcome to, dear. I just need a nice, quiet hour or two out here.”

Harry leans back slightly, watching a pair of Golden Snidgets flit over the flowerbeds, their tiny wings catching the light like shards of glass. “No,” he says with a small smile. “I think a relaxing morning tea with my grandmother, watching the wildlife, is exactly what I need.”

Euphemia beams at that, reaching over to rest her hand over his. “Then that’s what we’ll do,” she says softly.

Harry rests his head on her shoulder as the bench sways gently beneath them, the chains creaking in rhythm with the morning breeze. For a while, neither of them speak. The morning stretches around them with just the quiet sounds of nature soothing them.

Eventually, the moment is broken by a rustle in the meadow. Two wild Knarls waddle in from the edge of the woods, their tails swishing as they sniff at the berry bushes.

Euphemia sighs, shaking her head with a fond smile. “There goes the berries again.”

Harry chuckles, lifting his head. “I’d say they’re earning their breakfast.”

“Greedy little things,” she murmurs, watching them a moment longer before standing. “Come on then. Let’s see what your grandfather’s managed to bury himself under this morning.”

Inside smells of soft fire from the main hearth, of spices coming from the kitchen, and of stale parchment as they near where the study and library are. Instead of the study, they find Fleamont surrounded by chaos; a fortress of open tomes, rolled parchment, and scattered quills. He looks perfectly at home amid the disorder, sleeves rolled to his elbows and a focused gleam in his eye.

“Good morning, you two,” he greets them, glancing up with a grin. “Any new critters today?”

“We came in just as two Knarls entered the meadow to munch on the old berry bush your mother tended to,” Euphemia says, perching on the edge of a nearby chair. “What’s all this?”

“Oh, I made a few lists,” Fleamont says lightly.

Euphemia shares a look with Harry, amusement twinkling in both their eyes.

“Only a few?” she teases.

Fleamont gestures to the organized chaos spread before him. “This one,” he says, tapping a parchment, “is a list of things we should discuss in more depth. This,” he gestures to another scroll, “is full of ideas on how to integrate Harry into the family without raising suspicion. And this one,” he adds, lifting a final page with a satisfied air, “is the shopping list for later today. Practicality first, as always.”

Harry can’t help but laugh softly as Fleamont scratches something across the parchment. The scratch of his quill and the faint ticking of the grandfather clock fill the room with a comfortable, homely rhythm.

Harry leans against the arm of the couch, one leg folded beneath him, feeling strangely at peace in a way he hadn’t in years. Or maybe ever. There’s something grounding about the two of them, the way Euphemia’s laughter warms the room, the way Fleamont hums absently while flipping through a book. It feels like home.

An elf pops in with a silver tray bearing small plates of butter biscuits and lemon curd tarts and asks everyone if they’d like a drink. The smell of citrus mingles with the faint must of parchment and polished oak.

“Harry, dear,” Euphemia says, taking her strawberry lemonade from the elf with a quiet thanks, “I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to have this house full again. It’s been far too quiet with James and the boys gone at Hogwarts.”

Harry looks down at his cup of a blended fruit juice, a small smile ghosting across his face. “It’s been a long time since I’ve felt so at home like this.”

Euphemia reaches across to rest her hand over his again, her touch soft but certain. “Then we’ll just have to make sure you never forget what that feels like.”

“Here, here,” Fleamont says, looking up from his notes with a grin. “Which, conveniently, brings us to the next order of business.”

Euphemia sighs good-naturally. “The lists again.”

“The lists again,” Fleamont confirms. He pushes a small stack toward Harry. “Now, this isn’t the sort of thing we can leave to chance. We need a proper explanation for who you are, one that’ll hold up under scrutiny.”

Harry leans forward, scanning the top parchment. Fleamont’s handwriting is neat but densely packed, organized into numbered points and contingencies.

“So far,” Fleamont continues, “I’ve come up with three options. The first is a distant cousin. My great-grandfather George had twin boys, Edwin and Edmund. Edwin was not the first born, but Edmund was not responsible enough to be in charge of the vaults and estates so he named Edwin his heir. Edmund was pissed and ran away as soon as he graduated from Hogwarts, never talked to Edwin again. We can claim you are a long lost descendant from him. It’ll explain your last name and Harry is a pretty common variant of a family name. We can even go so far as to say Harold or Hardwin is your real name, but you prefer Harry.”

Harry blinks, both impressed and slightly amused. “You’ve really thought this through.”

Fleamont smiles modestly, though the gleam in his eyes betrays his pride. “Of course I have. Always plan three moves ahead; that’s a Potter rule.”

“Okay,” Harry says, glancing between them. “What are the other two options?”

“An apprentice helping me with some of my potion projects or, and this one would require Dumbledore’s help, the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor from abroad, needing a place to stay until term.”

“Slight problem. I did not get the family talent of Potions- in fact one can say I am a disappointment in the subject. Henry's portrait once told me if you ever saw me brewing, you’d cry.”

“That,” Fleamont says, eyes narrowing with mock challenge, “sounds like a dare, my lovely grandson.”

Harry raises his hands in mock surrender, grinning. “Your cauldrons, your loss.”

Euphemia laughs behind her glass, shaking her head. “The cousin story seems the most plausible. It ties him to the family, and no one would question the resemblance once they see him standing next to you, Monty. We just need to figure out how to forge the needed documents.”

“We’re rich, Darling, the goblins will handle it for a modest sum and no questions asked.” Fleamont says waving his hand absentmindedly.

Euphemia gives him a pointed look. “A modest sum,” she repeats. “I can already hear you saying that while handing over a sack of Galleons.”

“Well as James likes to say, If we have it why not spend it.”

Harry chuckles, the sound warm but edged with something fragile. “Thank you. For...all of this. You don’t have to do any of it.”

Euphemia’s expression softens immediately, her eyes shining with quiet affection. “Of course we do,” she says, reaching over to brush his cheek with the back of her hand. “You’re family, Harry. That’s what family does.”

Fleamont nods in agreement, his usual brisk tone gentled. “Exactly so. You’re ours, and that’s all that matters.” He slides a fresh sheet of parchment out. “Now then, if we’re all agreed, let’s make it official. We’ll draft your background properly and make sure every story detail aligns. No loose ends.”

Fleamont settles in the chair across from them, lays his parchment on a clipboard to write on, and clears his throat with the seriousness of a man preparing for a Wizengamot hearing. The library feels warmer now, the soft crackle of the fireplace blending with the scratch of his quill as he writes something.

“Right then,” Fleamont begins, glancing over his half-moon glasses at Harry. “Let’s begin your official integration paperwork, or as I prefer to call it, your new family file.”

Euphemia doesn’t hide her smile this time instead leans over to whisper in Harry’s ear. “He takes this sort of thing very seriously.”

“I gathered that,” Harry says, lips twitching.

Fleamont clears his throat dramatically, ignoring them both. “First your name. We’ll list it as Hardwin Jameson Potter, descended from Edmund Potter. You go by Harry for familiarity’s sake. Sound good?”

Harry nods. “That works. And it keeps the initials the same if I need to sign anything quickly.”

“Good thinking,” Fleamont says approvingly, jotting it down. “See? Natural at this.”

He pauses to dip his quill again, ink gliding smoothly over the parchment. “Next your birthplace. Somewhere respectable, but not too familiar. Euphemia?”

She hums thoughtfully, eyes lifting toward the window. “How about the Lake District? It’s quiet, scenic, and there’s an old Potter summer cottage there Harry could claim as a family home.”

“Perfect,” Fleamont says. “You’ve recently returned to England after several years abroad. Which country would you say you’ve been in, Harry?”

Harry hesitates, considering. “Maybe somewhere that explains any gaps in knowledge about recent wizarding events. An old friends older brother lived in a Dragon Reserve in Romania and didn’t know half of the things that happened in England.”

“That could work.” Euphemia says, “Everyone who’s anyone has a dragonologist cousin there these days.”

Fleamont chuckles, adding it to the parchment. “Excellent. It gives you an excuse for your dueling reflexes and any odd scar or two.”

Harry huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re better at this than the Order ever was at cover stories.”

“Of course,” Fleamont says without a hint of irony. “Half the Order’s spies were trained by people who couldn’t keep a story straight under Veritaserum.”

Euphemia leans in, resting a hand on Harry’s arm. “What about a birthday? Your real one or a fabricated one?”

“My real one,” Harry says quietly. “It’s close enough to the story, and it’s better to be consistent.”

Fleamont nods in approval, writing it down with a firm hand. “Honesty in small measures, the foundation of a believable lie.”

“Words to live by,” Euphemia murmurs, shaking her head with a fond sigh.

As they continue, the discussion shifts from facts to flourishes, little personal details Euphemia insists will make the story “feel alive.” Favorite tea blends, preferred books, favorite and least favorite subjects. Harry thinks he personally offends Fleamont when he says Potions is his least favorite until he remembers Divination and changes his answer.

By the time the clock strikes eleven, the parchment is filled edge to edge. Fleamont reviews it with pride before drying the ink, folding it in thirds, and pressing his stamp of the Potter Family Crest on wet wax.

“There,” he says with satisfaction, handing it to Harry. “Officially recorded. From this moment on, you are Hardwin Jameson Potter, distant heir of Edmund Potter, recently returned from Romania. Welcome to the family- again.”

Harry stares down at the parchment for a moment, tracing the stamp with his thumb.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “For making me real here.”

Euphemia leans in and kisses his temple. “You were always real, Dear. This just gives everyone else a name for it.”

Fleamont clears his throat, a little too briskly. “Well then! If our paperwork is in order, I say we take advantage of this fine day. We’ve a trip to make to Diagon Alley, best to test how convincing our new cousin is in public, eh?”

Harry laughs, “What, no rehearsal?”

“Oh, we’ll improvise,” Fleamont says with a mischievous grin. “That’s half the fun.”

***

The cobblestones of Diagon Alley glimmer in the late morning sun, damp from a brief early-morning rainfall that never reached the Manor. Steam rises from open bakery windows, carrying the warm scent of freshly baked bread, spiced pastries, and roasting chestnuts. The chatter of witches and wizards blends with the faint hum of magic vibrating through the alley, a familiar rhythm Harry feels in his bones.

Fleamont leads the way, walking with the purposeful stride of a man on a mission. His eyes dart from shopfront to shopfront. Euphemia walks beside him, her hand resting lightly on Harry’s arm, guiding him without words. Her eyes are bright and watchful, scanning the bustle of the alley.

Harry takes in the differences between the Diagon Alleys he’s known; the one of ‘91, the one of ‘96, the one of ‘98, and now this one, the alley of 1977.

“I’ve seen many Diagon Alleys during the time of peace between ’81 and ’95, the war between ‘96 and ‘98, and the peace afterward,” he says softly, shaking his head lightly. “But this…after the war, Diagon felt different. Not many shops reopened, or couldn’t reopen.”

“That’s sad. I can’t imagine a Diagon Alley not filled with people and busy storefronts.” Euphemia says quietly

“Gringotts first. Get your paperwork squared away,” Fleamont says, tilting his head toward the towering white marble columns in the distance.

A few moments later, they are ushered into a private office inside Gringotts Bank. The Potter Vault Manager sitting across from them, pulling out a few pieces of parchment from a drawer in his desk.

“What is the purpose of this meeting?” Aglaff asks, his dark eyes flicking between Fleamont and Harry.

“A few things,” Fleamont says evenly, adjusting his cuffs. “First, we need to create documentation for Harry, placing him as a direct descendant of Edmund Potter, make it four generations. Edmund’s son was born out of wedlock, which explains why the family tree in the Manor never updated properly. We also need job and residence records from Romania, with a corresponding school history; non-boarding, something that suits his background of muggles who hate magic raising him. Lastly, he’ll need a vault with historical records tracing back from Edmund’s line directly to him. And yes, before you ask, we’ll be paying in full, you may deduct the cost from the main vault.”

He slides the parchment across the table to the Goblin. “All necessary details are there.”

Aglaff’s gaze sharpens as he unfolds the document, scanning it line by line. “Forgery of lineage is a serious undertaking, even for clients of standing,” he says finally, voice low and gravelly. “It requires precision…and trust.”

“Then it’s fortunate that the Potters have both,” Fleamont replies smoothly. “And that we’ve worked together for nearly four generations.”

Aglaff’s mouth curls, not quite a smile, but something close. “Indeed.” He flicks his fingers toward a smaller goblin clerk who scurries forward with a blank scroll and a vial of ink that gleams faintly gold. “We can begin the documentation process immediately. The vault creation and record tracing will take several hours.”

Harry listens silently, eyes moving between them. The precision of it all, the formality, the speed, makes him think of how many times goblins must have done this kind of work before, quietly reshaping the stories of wizarding families for the right price.

Euphemia sits gracefully beside him, hands folded in her lap, watching Aglaff with mild amusement. “It’s remarkable,” she murmurs softly, “how efficient your people are with records. I do hope you’ve had fewer incidents with Gringotts staff trying to charm the ledgers.”

Aglaff’s eyes narrow slightly. “None since the last attempt, and that individual was… educated.”

Harry hides a smile behind his hand.

Fleamont clears his throat. “Once the vault is established, we’ll need access keys, standard issue will suffice. And if possible, a record of small regular withdrawals and deposits for the last few years. It must look lived in.”

Aglaff nods once, making a series of notations in an elegant, spidery hand. “Consider it done. The documents will be ready by the end of the day. We will owl you when the final verifications are completed.”

“Excellent.” Fleamont rises

Aglaff inclines his head giving a shallow bow. “Gringotts thanks you for your continued business, Lord Potter.”

Fleamont smiles faintly, unbothered. “And I thank Gringotts for its discretion.”

As they step out of the office, the echo of goblin quills scratching on parchment follows them into the marble hall. The moment the door closes behind them, Euphemia exhales softly.

“Well,” she says lightly, “that went better than I expected.”

Harry glances at her, brow raised. “Better?”

“Oh yes,” she says with a teasing glint. “Aglaff didn’t threaten to curse anyone or demand a blood signature. That’s practically polite by goblin standards.”

Fleamont chuckles, tucking his papers neatly under his arm. “It’s the Potter charm, my dear. Works every time.”

Harry hums thoughtfully. “Must have skipped a generation...I seem to always piss them off whenever I speak to them.”

Fleamont arches an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Harry pauses thoughtfully, “Or that might be because I once broke in under the Invisibility Cloak, Imperio’d a goblin teller, broke into a high-clientele vault, stole a priceless artifact, and rode the dungeon security dragon out while destroying half the bank.”

Silence.

Both Potters stare at him, eyes wide.

“Excuse me?” Fleamont manages, voice strangled.

Harry winces. “On second thought, maybe we should leave.” He turns quickly toward the exit.

His grandparents follow, still processing his words.

“You did what?” Euphemia demands once they’re back in the marble corridor.

“It was for a Horcrux,” Harry defends himself.

“I think I just gained more gray hair, Elphie,” Fleamont groans.

“Me too, dear,” Euphemia sighs, though her lips twitch with reluctant amusement.

Harry smiles faintly. “So… what now?”

“Now,” Fleamont says, exhaling heavily as he leads the way into the sunlight, “we celebrate your official existence with something far more dangerous than goblins.”

Harry blinks. “And that would be?”

Euphemia’s grin is bright and mischievous. “Shopping.”

The sun greets them as they step back into the bustling heart of Diagon Alley, bright against the slick cobblestones still damp from the morning rain though drying quickly under the sun. The air hums with voices, the flutter of owls overhead, and the cheerful clang of shop bells.

Euphemia loops her arm through Harry’s. “Right then, dear, if we’re to make you look respectable, we’ll need to start with clothes. You can’t go about dressed like you just escaped a dragon again.”

“I wasn’t that bad,” Harry says defensively, though the corner of his mouth lifts.

Fleamont chuckles. “You literally just admitted to riding a dragon out of a bank, my boy.”

“Point taken.”

They make their way down the alley, passing window displays of shimmering robes, levitating quills, and enchanted cauldrons that stir themselves. Harry can’t help but glance around, drinking it all in. The Diagon Alley of 1977 feels alive in a way his own time never did. The war hasn’t yet cast its shadow, and laughter rings freely from every shopfront.

They stop first at Twilfitt and Tatting’s. The shop smells faintly of pressed linen, perfume, and new fabric. Bolts of shimmering cloth float overhead, rearranging themselves as the tailor gestures with his wand.

“Ah! Lady Potter,” the man greets, bowing slightly. “Always a pleasure. And this must be your...”

“Cousin,” Fleamont supplies smoothly. “Hardwin Jameson Potter. Newly returned from abroad.”

“Indeed! Well, welcome home, young man. Let’s see if we can’t get you into something that doesn’t look…adventurous.”

Harry glances down at himself. He was wearing James’s old clothes with a robe thrown over the top, nothing fancy, and certainly not ‘adventurous’. He says nothing however, simply lets the man guide him to a stool as enchanted tape measures slither from a drawer and begin their work, measuring his arms and legs in quick, efficient motions.

“How many items are we purchasing today?” the tailor, Albert, according to his name tag, asks as he notes each number.

“A whole wardrobe,” Euphemia says distractedly, examining a bolt of dark purple fabric. “Harry here got on the wrong side of a dragon’s mouth. His luggage went up in flames.”

“I don’t need a whole-”

“Hush, dear,” she says gently. “You’ll thank me later when you don’t look like you’re living out of a trunk.”

The ribbons tighten around his neck suddenly. “I’d thank you now if they weren’t strangling me,” Harry mutters.

Fleamont coughs into his hand to hide a laugh, earning a glare from Harry in the mirror.

“They wouldn’t do that if you didn’t talk,” Euphemia sing-songs, pressing a paisley fabric against his chest and tilting her head. “Hmm. No. I don’t like the pattern with your jawline.” She waves her wand, sending it back, and pulls down a dark green herringbone instead.

“I’m not going to like this, am I?” Harry asks, looking at his grandfather.

“Not one bit,” Fleamont grins. “But while she torments you, I’m free to go to the apothecary. I’ll see you in a little while.”

“Traitor!” Harry calls after him, but Fleamont has already vanished down the street.

After what feels like twenty hours, though the clock insists it’s only been two, they leave with a small order of the basics being delivered later that evening and the rest being delivered next week.

They find Fleamont still in the apothecary. The sharp tang of potion ingredients fills the air: crushed herbs, flobberworm mucus, and something faintly metallic. He has two baskets, one already filled with ingredients, books, and journals, the other well on its way.

“Hey.” Harry says quietly leaning closer to Fleamont, “If I am able to remember the ingredients and instructions to a potion that helps werewolves keep their mind during the Full Moon, but it’s very tedious and time consuming and a bit temperamental. Could you brew it?”

“There’s a very high chance. I’d hate to steal someone else’s work, however.”

“It’s fine, not many people would be able to brew it, and the original creator only used more expensive items so most werewolves couldn’t even afford the ingredients let alone the finished product. I messed around with it a little bit, theory work not practical, and I think I found some substitutes that, in theory, should work. But again, I’m not- I’m more likely to melt a cauldron, than to successfully follow the first three instructions in a potions recipe.”

Fleamont chuckles. “Write everything down, and I’ll see what I can do. I’d love to help Remus more, even if my son hasn’t told me one of his best friends is a werewolf. I swear that boy thinks I’m blind.”

“I’ll do it when we get home.”

By the time they leave, Fleamont has acquired a third basket’s worth of supplies and looks thoroughly pleased with himself. They stop at Flourish and Blotts for books, Eeylops Owl Emporium for owl treats, and Scribbulus Writing Implements for parchment, inks, and quills.

Their final stop is Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour. A bell jingles softly as they enter.

Harry stares at the counter, heart tightening slightly at the sight of a younger Florean cheerfully scooping lemon ice cream for a pair of children.

“Go on,” Fleamont says, nudging him gently. “You earned it, cousin. Anything you like.”

Harry steps forward. “Chocolate and raspberry ripple, please.”

As the three of them sit at a small corner table, Euphemia stirs her sundae thoughtfully. “You know,” she says, “this might become a tradition. Potter family ice cream days.”

Harry looks between them, the warmth in his chest almost overwhelming. For the first time in longer than he can remember, the world feels gentle and good.

“I’d like that,” he says quietly.

Fleamont raises his dish in mock solemnity. “To family,” he says.

“To family,” Harry echoes, smiling faintly.

Euphemia’s eyes glisten just slightly as she adds, “And to second chances.”

By the time they return to the Manor, the sun is past its peak and the hour is transitioning to early afternoon. House-elves appear at once to collect the shopping bags and parcels, vanishing with quiet pops.

Harry lingers by the foyer window for a moment, the front yard stretches to a brick and iron gate, trimmed lawn with a fountain of two griffins standing, water sprouting from their stone mouths, is the only thing between the front door and the gate.

Fleamont stretches his shoulders with a groan. “Well, that was a productive day. Gringotts paperwork, new wardrobe, an apothecary raid, and ice cream. Not bad for a Saturday.”

Euphemia laughs softly. “You forgot your escape from Twilfitt’s, Dear. I saw the look on your face when you bolted. You’d think I was chasing you with a cursed needle.”

“You were!” he says indignantly. “I saw it levitating!”

Harry grins faintly, shrugging off his cloak. “You two are exhausting.”

“Good,” Fleamont says cheerfully. “Means you’ll fit right in.”

They make their way to the drawing room, where a fire burns low in the grate. Euphemia settles onto the settee with a sigh of contentment, her tea materializing on the table beside her. Harry sits beside her, the warmth of the room sinking into his bones.

“Feels strange,” he says quietly. “Being here. Doing normal things again. Shopping, talking, laughing…it feels like another life.”

Euphemia studies him for a long moment, then reaches over to rest her hand over his. “That’s what this house is meant for, Dear. Peace. A place to rest between the storms.”

Fleamont hums in agreement from his chair by the fire, flipping open a fresh journal. “And you’ll have to get used to it. We’re keeping you busy, and I expect you’ll be tired of us by the end of the week.”

Harry chuckles softly, shaking his head. “Doubtful. I- I never really had this. Had a family, had parental- or grand parental figures caring for me. Makes me realize what I never had I guess and that makes me treasure it even more.”

Euphemia smiles sadly, her eyes wet, “You deserve it, Harry and we are happy to provide it.”

Silence settles for a while, a soft silence filled with the faint crackle of fire and the scent of tea and parchment. The Manor feels alive in a way Harry hasn’t felt in years: comfortable, protective, home.

***

Later that evening after a dinner filled with laughter and stories, a few quiet hours siting together in the family room, and the clock on the mantle chiming eight, Euphemia stands and smooths her skirts.

“I think a quiet evening suited us just fine. Harry, dear, your clothes are in your new room. It’s the one beside James’s. And Fleamont-” she fixes him with a look “-try not to stay up all night brewing whatever new experiment you’ve concocted.”

“No promises,” he says lightly.

Harry watches her disappear down the hall, then turns to Fleamont. “You really do plan to stay up, don’t you?”

Fleamont grins, eyes bright with mischief and intellect. “You bring me a mysterious potion recipe said to calm a werewolf’s curse, and you expect me to sleep? Absolutely not.”

Harry laughs quietly, standing. “Then I’ll write down everything I remember. Don’t blow anything up before I finish.”

“No guarantees,” Fleamont calls after him as Harry heads toward the study.

He grabs an empty journal from Fleamont’s desk and starts writing down the original ingredients and recipe. Then he writes down his theory based substitutes and all the research he remembers from his own notes. Once that’s finished he gives the list to Fleamont and bids him goodnight and good luck, then heads to his new room and falls asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow.

Chapter Text

The next morning dawns soft and golden. Sunlight spills through the tall windows, laying ribbons of warmth across the breakfast table. The scent of buttered toast, sizzling bacon, and fresh tea drifts lazily through the air, mingling with the faint perfume of wisteria and blooming rose from the gardens just beyond the open doors.

Harry sits at the long oak table, barefoot, his new night robe tied around his waist. He leans back in his chair, a mug of hot chocolate is cradled in his hands, the quiet hum of the house wrapping around him like a soft blanket. The peace here still feels fragile, as if Harry will wake up one day and it’ll all be one very good dream.

Euphemia hums as she pours tea into a delicate porcelain cup, the sunlight glinting off the gold rim. “You’re up early, dear. Did you sleep all right?”

“Better than I have in years,” Harry admits. “It’s quiet here. Peaceful.”

“Peace is a luxury we try to hold onto,” Fleamont says sitting across from him, half-hidden behind the Daily Prophet dated Monday 5 May 1977. He makes an approving sound as he turns a page. “Quidditch finals are in two weeks. Puddlemere’s ahead by thirty points. Good form this season.”

Euphemia hums lightly from where she stirs sugar into a delicate china cup, the golden rim catching the morning light. “You’d think the world revolved around Quidditch standings,” she says, though her voice is fond.

“It does,” Fleamont answers without hesitation, then glances at Harry. “You’d agree, wouldn’t you?”

Harry smiles faintly. “Maybe a little.”

“Ha! A reasonable answer,” Fleamont declares, lowering the paper and setting it neatly aside. “The elves are sorting through the post now and will deliver it after breakfast. Now while I know you don’t have to work, we made sure of that at Gringotts, you don’t strike me as a man who sits around and does nothing.”

Harry chuckles. “You really didn’t have to give me that much, but you’re right doing nothing would drive me mad. I’d just finished my Dueling Mastery in my time and was looking into careers that would work with it. McGonagall wanted me to take the Defense position at Hogwarts, but I wasn’t sure I was ready.”

“We can help you revise for NEWT and Mastery retesting, if you’d like,” Fleamont offers. “Those, unfortunately, we can’t forge as they go through the Ministry.”

“Yeah that sounds good. Maybe I’ll even get a NEWT in Potions with my grandpa’s help.” Harry teases, Fleamont smiles and winks at him.

“I’m sure we can manage at least an A, if not an E. You and James learn alike. Most Potions Masters never adapt their teaching styles, which is why so many struggle with the subject. But the recipe you gave me is no beginner’s work, and you said you brewed it. I believe you can do it with the right teacher.”

Harry snorts. “Yeah, my last Potions Master hated me. It was a childhood grudge with James. You ever heard of Severus Snape?”

Fleamont exhales, already grimacing. “Don’t tell me.”

“Yeah,” Harry confirms. Fleamont only shakes his head.

“Breakfast is served, Masters,” Ninny announces as she and a few other elves appear with soft pops, balancing trays laden with dishes. “Today we is having French toast, bacon, hashbrowns, sausage patties, and Mistress’s favorite fruit salad with honey glaze.”

“Thank you, ladies it all looks and smells wonderful.” Euphemia says warmly. The elves bow low, their smiles proud before they vanish once more.

“Now Harry,” Euphemia starts conversationally as she begins to cut into the buttered french toast on her plate. “I understand with James being at Hogwarts it may have slipped your mind, but we should discuss what to do. Do you want to tell him the truth of who you are or should we tell him the story we made up for you?”

“I’m not sure.” Harry admits. “Part of me wants to tell him everything. Who I really am, what’s coming. But he’s seventeen. He’s not even dating my mum yet. I don’t want to drop the entire war on him before it’s even started. Hell this isn’t even war it’s political and insider work. You don’t see real war until then end of ‘77 according to my Sirius and even that was nothing like what we had in ‘96 and ‘97.”

Euphemia’s knife stills against her plate. She sets it down gently and studies him. “My heart breaks every time you speak of your time, darling. You were just a child during a war you should never have had to fight. Sometimes when I look at you, I see a soldier with no place left for softness or peace and other times,” She pauses, her eyes roving over him as if searching for something, “I see my James, begging for a cuddle after a nightmare where he thought we’d ban Quidditch forever.”

Harry’s lips twist in a sad smile. “Is that what a normal nightmare looks like?”

“If you’re raised right,” she says softly.

The moment lingers until Fleamont clears his throat, his tone gentle but grounding. “Back to James,” he says. “There’s danger in too much truth, but danger too in not enough. James will know if you’re hiding something. He’ll find the gaps even you don’t see. Best to hint at more beneath the surface, but let him choose when to ask. He’s a Pure-blood boy; he’ll know how to read between the lines.”

Harry huffs a laugh. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t raised as one. I’ll need some coaching.”

Euphemia reaches over to pat his hand. “Then we’ll help. You write the letter, and we’ll add the hidden message.”

Harry exhales slowly, a small smile ghosting his lips. “I can do that.”

“Excellent,” Fleamont says, pointing to Harry’s untouched plate with his fork. “But eat first.”

Harry laughs softly, picking up his fork and digging in. For the first time in a long while, breakfast feels like home as Euphemia and Fleamont bring up lighter topics. Asking Harry about the good times between the bad, his favorite subjects and friends he made in his life. Harry doesn’t quite have the heart to tell them by the time he left he no longer talked to Ron or Hermione and only exchanged biweekly to monthly owls with Neville and Luna.

After breakfast, the manor settles into its soft morning hush again. The dishes vanish with a gentle pop, the scent of honey glaze and tea still lingering in the air.

Harry wanders the hallways for a while, letting the quiet guide him. The portraits murmur softly as he passes; half-curious, half-courteous whispers of “the traveler” following him until he reaches the library.

The library feels different today. As if it knows Harry has, what feels like, an impossible letter to write. Harry exhales heavily as he makes his way inside. A single quill, parchment, and a pot of dark blue ink already wait for him on the writing desk by the window. Euphemia’s subtle handiwork, no doubt.

He dips the quill in ink, hesitates.

What does one say to their father who doesn’t yet know they’re speaking to their son?

He tries once, the first few lines too stiff, he crosses them out. Another attempt follows, too formal. After many failed attempts he sighs, scrubs a hand over his face, and leans back.

From the doorway, Euphemia’s voice floats in, warm and amused. “You’ve been at it nearly an hour, dear. Any progress?"

“Half a dozen false starts,” he admits. “I don’t want to sound forced. I just want him to feel like I’m family, not a stranger. And not like I’m some older guy who is going to treat him like a kid.” The shyly he adds, “I want him to like me.”

Euphemia sets the cup down beside him and leans over his shoulder, pressing a kiss to his unruly hair, “You are his son, dear, of course he’ll like you.” She reads the messy scrawl across the page. “It’s all right to sound human, Harry. You’re not writing to a Ministry official you’re writing to a boy who still sends his mother prank parchment that explodes in glitter then in that same letter says ‘pretty pretty pretty please send fudge’.”

Harry chuckles. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He smooths out a new sheet of parchment, inhales, and begins again.

Dear James,

I apologize for not writing sooner, but I got quite distracted by your father’s enthusiasm in his letters. My name is Hardwin Jameson Potter, crazy right? (I go by Harry though). Anyway I recently learned more about my paternal linage and it led me to a shared grandfather, George Potter.

Your father says I am your third cousin once removed and his second cousin twice removed. I’m just going to call you my cousin if that’s alright? The third and second and removed stuff confuses me. Fleamont has told me I could call him uncle or cousin as well, I might stick to Uncle. I think it suits him.

Your parents offered me a room here at Potter Manor, I hope you don’t mind, I arrived just a few days ago. Your parents are lovely people. Though they did torture me in Diagon Alley, truly, I was choked by a measuring tape while your mother held up a floral patterned fabric against my skin then insulted my jawline. Your father, brave sir that he is, ran away like a child as soon as her back was turned.

I was not amused.

Anyway, I’d love to meet you soon, though I know you’re still at school and I’m still settling in after my move. If we can’t meet before your term ends, I’ll look forward to seeing you here at the Manor.

Your Cousin,

Hardwin (Harry).

Harry signs his name with a messy flourish then lays the quill down and reads the letter twice, then smiles faintly. It feels right; informal, easy, familiar, a little playful. It feels like something James would enjoy reading.

Euphemia peers over again and beams. “That’s perfect. It sounds like you.”

Harry glances toward her. “You think so?”

“I know so,” she says, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “You wrote with warmth and sincerity. James will appreciate it. However I’ll have to tell him I did not torture you and you were being over dramatic.” She teases pinching his cheeks lightly.

Fleamont appears in the doorway just then, holding a mug that smells suspiciously more like a potion than drink. “Well? Has diplomacy triumphed?” He jokes coming their way. Harry hands him the letter and lets him read it.

“Good lad,” Fleamont says approvingly, “Now let’s work in that secret message.” It takes a little less than an hour before Fleamont is happy with the message. It’s nothing overt, a little out of place in Harry’s opinion, but Fleamont assures him James will understand it.

So just before his signature Harry adds it in.

I hope this doesn’t sound strange, but I feel like I already know you like I’ve been waiting to meet you for a very long time. It’s funny, how you can feel close to someone you’ve never met; like a story you’ve always known but are only just remembering. There’s one about Attwell I always felt connected to.

“Perfect.” Fleamont says spelling the ink dry and folding it neatly to fit in the envelope, “Now to send it off.”

Euphemia waves her wand; the letter lifts gently from the desk, catching the sunlight. An owl swoops through the open window, perching gracefully on the sill. Harry ties the letter to its leg, smoothing the parchment once before letting go.

“To Hogwarts,” he murmurs.

The owl gives a soft hoot and takes flight, disappearing into the bright morning sky. Harry watches until it’s out of sight, the flutter of wings fading into the blue.

The rest of the morning passes in gentle rhythm. Fleamont disappears into his study to sort through his growing collection of potion notes, while Euphemia retreats to the gardens, humming faintly as she tends her lilies.

Harry spends a quiet hour in the library, sunlight streaming through the wide windows as he tries to read more of Attwell’s journals. Or tries to read them anyway. The Old English is hard to read and understand so eventually he gets an empty journal and slowly begins to translate what he thinks might be important.

When the clock in the foyer chimes one, he finally pushes himself up from the sofa, leaves the journals on the coffee table to be revisited later, and heads toward Fleamont’s potions room.

The door is open, a curl of silvery steam drifting lazily into the hallway. Inside, the air smells faintly of herbs and smoke. Rows of glass jars gleam from the shelves; ground roots, dried petals, shimmering powders in every shade imaginable. A small cauldron simmers on the main table, turning a slow, iridescent blue.

Fleamont looks up from his notes, a pair of half-moon glasses balanced precariously on his nose. “Ah, there you are, my favorite apprentice,” he says cheerfully. “Ready to turn theory into art?”

Harry grins faintly as he steps inside. “More like into a potential explosion, if we’re being realistic.”

“That too,” Fleamont says with a smirk. “Come on then. Show me this werewolf potion theory of yours. I’ve made a batch last night, it took a few tries, you weren’t exaggerating about it being temperamental. And expensive. Of course if any of my family needed it, it wouldn’t matter the price, but I see why you said regular people, werewolves especially, wouldn’t be able to afford the ingredients, let alone the finished brew.”

Harry sets his notebook on the table, “I really wish I had my original journals, those were far more detailed and had many errors that I went into depth about. This is based off memory.”

“Yes the originals would be ideal, but not to worry I’m sure we’ll make many more mistakes for this new journal together.” Fleamont winks

Harry laughs softly, the sound genuine. He begins explaining his past theories and what worked and what didn’t work; slowly at first, then with more confidence as Fleamont asks sharp, guiding questions. He sketches the rough outline of the Wolfsbane base, the stabilization phases, the problem with some of the substitutes.

Fleamont listens with rapt attention nodding along, occasionally jotting his own notes or adjusting the cauldron’s flame with a flick of his wand.

Harry watches Fleamont work, watches as he theorizes with him and explains it in as in-depth detail as Harry needs. For the first time, someone is teaching him Potions, not testing him. Fleamont’s tone is calm, patient, curious rather than condescending. It feels nothing like Snape’s sneering lectures and Harry realizes, almost shyly, that he’s enjoying himself.

“Now,” Fleamont says, setting down the quill, “if your theory about the silver weed substitute works, this could be one way to make the potion cheaper.”

Harry nods. “That’s what I was hoping for.”

They continue well into the afternoon, interrupted only when Euphemia appears with a tray of sandwiches and tea, muttering affectionately about “two Potters who’d forget to eat if left unsupervised.”

By late afternoon, the cauldron glows a deep, steady violet. Fleamont leans over it, examining the potion with a critical eye. “Not bad for a day’s work,” he murmurs, visibly pleased. “Another few sessions, and I daresay we might have a working variant.”

“Good.” Harry says softly, tiredly, “I might take a nap before dinner.”

“Go ahead.” Fleamont says, still scribbling notes beside the cauldron. “You’ve earned it, we’ll wake you when it’s time to eat.”

Harry nods, his eyelids heavy but his chest light. As he slips quietly out of the room, Fleamont is already comparing Harry’s notes to his own, murmuring theories under his breath.

In the hallway, the manor feels warm and alive, faintly humming with quiet magic, old and kind. For the first time in years, Harry doesn’t feel like he’s running from something or toward something. He’s just… here.

And it feels like enough.

***
Hogwarts, Lunch Time, Same Day

By the time James Potter and his friends tumble into the Great Hall, the day is already half-spent and brimming with energy. Sunlight filters through the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall, scattering across plates of half-eaten sandwiches and pumpkin juice. There’s an end-of-term restlessness with the exams looming, Quidditch finals approaching, and the promise of summer break glittering just ahead.

James drops onto the Gryffindor bench with his usual lack of grace and Sirius plops down beside him, hair still wind-tossed from a morning broom race that technically wasn’t allowed. Peter follows, slightly out of breath and muttering about unfair advantages, while Remus slides in last, tucking a book under his arm with an exasperated sigh that says he’s long since given up on controlling the other three.

“Tell me you didn’t skip study hall to have a broomstick race before lunch,” Remus says dryly as he reaches for the teapot.

“Course we did,” Sirius says, grinning, “What else would we spend the hour doing?”

“Studying.” Remus says, “You know for end of term exams in just a few weeks.”

James grabs a turkey sandwich, balancing it in one hand as he scans the Hall. The enchanted ceiling mirrors a perfect May sky, all soft blues and drifting white clouds. The end-of-term buzz hums in the air talk of exams, the Quidditch final, and summer plans bouncing from table to table. Somewhere near the Slytherin end, someone’s enchanted their goblet to sing the school anthem off-key, and the sound earns a groan from nearly everyone within earshot.

“Oi, Evans!” Sirius calls suddenly, spotting a flash of red hair down the table. “You coming to watch Gryffindor crush Slytherin this weekend?”

Lily doesn’t even look up from her conversation with Marlene McKinnon. “If by ‘crush’ you mean ‘publicly humiliate themselves,’ then sure.”

James straightens his robes, pretending not to care. “She’s bluffing,” he mutters under his breath. “She’ll come. She always comes.”

“Right,” Remus says, eyes amused. “Because she loves Quidditch so much.”

“She loves me so much,” James counters, to which Sirius groans loudly and drops his head onto the table.

“Not this again.”

“What? I’m this close,” James insists, holding his fingers barely apart. “She smiled at me last week.”

“She was laughing at you, not with you,” Remus says.

James shrugs. “Progress is progress. Not everyone can date their best friend.” James looks pointedly at Remus and Sirius who blush, but Sirius grins cockily.

“I’d leave him for you Jamie.” Sirius teases

“As much as I love you, I am just not into guys.” James says, “Besides I like red heads.” James says just loud enough for Lily to hear and give him her signature glare though it didn’t look as hateful as it has in the past.

Then, above the chatter, a sudden flutter of wings draws their attention.

Dozens of owls sweep through the high windows, dipping low to deliver letters and parcels. A few feathers drift down, catching the sunlight. James leans back slightly, used to the daily flurry of post, until a familiar shape among the birds catches his eye; sleek, mottled brown, and flying straight toward him with unhurried precision.

“Hey,” James says, straightening. “That’s Mum’s owl.”

Sirius glances up, a fork still held in his mouth. “You sure? Not another care package of fudge, is it?”

“Could be,” Peter offers hopefully.

Remus smirks. “More likely another lecture about his broom habits.”

The owl circles once, then drops two envelopes neatly in front of James. One bears his mother’s elegant script, the other is a slanted scrawl, unfamiliar, but neat.

“Who’s that from?” Sirius asks, leaning over before James can stop him.

“Dunno,” James says, turning it over. The seal bears the Potter crest. “Huh. Family.”

“Thought you were the last Potter,” Peter says before realizing how that sounds. “I mean- you know- except your parents.”

James doesn’t look offended. If anything, he looks intrigued. “Yeah. So did I.”

Remus leans in, curiosity sparking in his eyes. “Maybe a distant cousin? One of those names no one remembers until they need to?”

James tears open the unfamiliar letter first. His friends fall quiet as he begins to read.

Dear James,

I apologize for not writing sooner, but I got quite distracted by your father’s enthusiasm in his letters. My name is Hardwin Jameson Potter, crazy right? (I go by Harry though). Anyway I recently learned more about my paternal linage and it led me to a shared grandfather, George Potter.

A Potter.

James’s eyebrows lift. A Potter. He runs through the family tree in his head. His father is Fleamont. Grandfather is Henry. Great-grandfather is Edwin. Edwin’s twin brother is Edmund. Their father is George.

He counts silently. Third cousin once removed? Twice?

Sirius cranes his neck, trying to peek.

“Hardwin?” he snorts. “That’s a name that screams, ‘I own several waistcoats and a very judgmental cat.’”

James elbows him, grinning despite himself, and keeps reading, tilting it away from his best friends.

Your father says I am your third cousin once removed

Nailed it.

“Merlin’s beard,” James laughs, “Mum’s already tortured him.”

Remus takes a sip of pumpkin juice, amused. “He sounds like he fits in perfectly, then.”

I hope this doesn’t sound strange, but I feel like I already know you like I’ve been waiting to meet you for a very long time. It’s funny, how you can feel close to someone you’ve never met; like a story you’ve always known but are only just remembering. There’s one about Attwell I always felt connected to.

Your Cousin,

Hardwin (Harry).

James rereads that last paragraph several times, brow furrowed. Something about the words hums faintly, just out of reach like a memory he can’t place. Attwell Potter…he knows the name from the old family histories, a poet or something.

There’s a hidden note in the phrasing, he’s sure of it, though he can’t quite say why or what.

He folds the letter before Sirius can reach for it, grinning lightly to disguise the flicker of unease.

“Excuse you, young man,” James teases, tucking it into his pocket. “That’s my letter.”

“Fine, fine,” Sirius huffs. “Have your secret cousin. Just don’t forget I live with you, I’ll meet him eventually.”

James laughs, though the sound’s a touch distracted. “I just…I don’t know. It’s weird to think I’ve got family out there. Actual family. Not just Mum and Dad.”

“Hey, I get it,” Sirius says, tone softening. “There are letters from my brother I don’t share, either. Keep this one for yourself for now.”

“Thanks, mate.”

“It sounds like an older cousin,” Remus says steering the conversation back to Hardwin. “Probably some eccentric, scholarly type with ink-stained fingers and too many opinions about tea.”

“Perfect,” James says with mock solemnity. “He’ll fit right in.”

He opens his mother’s letter next, scanning through Euphemia’s neat looping script. His grin slowly returns as he reaches the end.

“Mum says he’s staying with us for a while,” James says, excitement bubbling again. “Apparently he’s really into Quidditch and dragons. Sounds decent enough.”

“Dragons?” Sirius perks up. “I like him already.”

“Careful,” Remus mutters. “You’ll invite him into the Marauders.”

James only grins wider. “Oh, I’m definitely inviting him. Summer’s gonna be brilliant.”

He tucks both letters safely into his bag and stands, practically buzzing with energy. “All right, come on. We’ve got Defense next and I’ve got a cousin to impress with my brilliant writing.”

They leave the Great Hall in a flurry of laughter, James already planning what he’ll write, something bright, teasing, full of life, and inquisitive. Something to match the warmth of the letter he’s just read.

Later during a break between classes James sits at his desk by the window in the dorm, quill in hand, parchment blank before him. The same pose another Potter held earlier that morning, miles away.

He dips the quill in ink, hesitates.

What do you say to family you never knew existed, but somehow feels like they’ve been waiting for you?

After a moment, he begins to write.

Dear Hardwin (Or Harry),

First off brilliant letter. I think you and I are going to get along brilliantly. Mum’s told me a bit about you, though she left out the part where you were attacked by enchanted objects. You’ve got to tell me that story in full. I wouldn’t put it past her honestly.

Third cousin once removed, eh? That’s practically brother territory. First things first, welcome to the family!

You mentioned staying at the Manor I hope it’s not too quiet there. Dad’s study has a way of swallowing time, and Mum’s garden gnomes are evil. Don’t trust the one with the chipped left ear. He bites.

I’d love to meet you once term ends. Hogwarts is brilliant, but a bit mad this time of year with exams, Quidditch finals, and Sirius trying to charm half the castle into attending the after party. (He’s succeeding, the prat.)

Anyway Mum mentioned you played Seeker. I played for two years, but moved to Chaser once a spot opened in my fourth year. However if you think you can take me in a one-on-one match this summer, I’m more than willing to prove you wrong.

(Sirius says you’re probably tall and brooding, like a tragic hero. I told him you’re probably just a normal bloke who’s had the misfortune of meeting Mum with a measuring tape. Especially if she tricked you into going to Twilfitt and Tattings with her.)

You mentioned Attwell, funny you brought him up. He’s always been a bit of a mystery in our family stories. Maybe we can compare notes when we meet. Mum says you’re staying with us this summer, so prepare yourself: I snore and Sirius talks in his sleep. (Sirius lives with us since leaving home in case they didn’t tell you, he’s practically my brother.)

Write again soon yeah?

Cheers,
James Potter
(Your favorite cousin already)

P.S. If you ever need help pranking Dad, I have years of experience. Just say the word.

James sits back, reading it once before folding the parchment neatly. He ties it with twine then sends it off with Winnie, his elegant red feathered screech owl. He watches her until she’s gone then he heads to his last class of the day, History of Magic.

***

Harry doesn’t know what wakes him.

There isn’t anyone in the room. The manor feels the same, its old, warm hum of magic pulsing gently in the air, familiar and safe. The curtains are drawn tight, keeping out the late-afternoon light. For a few long seconds, he doesn’t move.

Then the magic shifts.

It’s subtle, like the air takes one shallow breath that isn’t his.

Harry sits bolt upright, wand already in his hand, heart pounding. He scans the room, every sense sharpened.

At first nothing is out of the ordinary. Again no one is in his room, the curtains are drawn, the bathroom door is closed, both copies of The Christmas Carol sit on his bedside table, and the stack of- wait.

Both copies of The Christmas Carol sit on his bedside table.

A cold prickle crawls up his neck.

Harry immediately flings the blankets off himself, panicking as he grabs the books and flips the top one open and-

December 1997

Harry,

I thought you would appreciate a copy of our favorite book this year and since I’m not there to add comments personally, I wrote them down.

I hope you are safe in these times and know I miss you dearly. Grimmuald during this time is dreadful when one is alone.

I know you and I aren’t in the best place right now for obvious reasons, but I hope you understand why I can’t talk about an ‘us’ until after this war is finished.

Happy Yule,

Your Moony

Harry reads then rereads the page.
Once.
Twice.
Then again, until the letters blur.

“No,” he breathes. “No, no, no….”

He slams the book shut, chest heaving. The room spins, half-lit and too quiet. His fingers tremble as he presses the worn leather to his chest.

“Please no,” he whispers to the air. “Not this...not now...now after everything.”

The next thing he knows, he’s out the door barefoot, half-dressed, storming down the stairs as if he can outrun the impossible thing sitting on his nightstand.

The manor’s staircase stretches before him, endless and echoing with his frantic footsteps.

He bursts into the corridor, eyes wild, searching for what? A clue? A sign? Anything to tell him that this isn’t happening. That he hasn’t fallen back through time and woken in 1997.

“Harry, dear, are you all right?”

Euphemia’s voice cuts through the panic, calm and startled all at once. She steps out from the Craft Room; a small intimate room Euphemia decorated to hide in whenever she needed or wanted a private place to do her crafting. She’s still wearing her apron, a smear of paint near the tie around her waist.

“I heard your stomping all the way from in here.”

Harry stops short, chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. Then, before he can stop himself, he’s crossing the space between them and folding into her arms.

Euphemia freezes for half a heartbeat before her arms come around him, steady and sure.

“I’m fine,” Harry says against her shoulder, though his voice shakes. “I just- I thought I was back. In my time.”

“Oh dear I’m sorry. Do you want to talk about it?” She asks carefully

“No I just..it’s weird. Some of my things from my time just sort of...appeared.” Harry pulls away and hesitates, but he shows her his book he’s still clutching discreetly covering the name at the bottom just in case.

“Oh...I see. I can see why that would worry you. Who is this from?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Harry murmurs, voice barely audible. “He…he died before the war ended.”

Euphemia’s eyes soften, full of sorrow for a story she doesn’t know. “I’m so sorry, love.”

He nods, clutching the book close again. “Yeah. Me too.”

She studies him for a moment, ready to speak, but then her expression changes. Her eyes go wide, sharp with alarm.

“Harry,” she says quietly, almost trembling. “What on earth happened to your chest?”

He looks down at his naked torso. There’s the scar from the locket, the scratch scars from his left shoulder to the right side of his waist, there’s also a jagged dagger scar on his upper right chest where an escaped Death Eater tried to kill him some weeks after the final battle, and there are few scars from curses Harry didn’t get healed in time from the battle and skirmishes throughout the war.

That’s not mentioning the many scars adorning his arms.

“Oh.” He exhales shakily. “Those. There was a war. And I was… enemy number one.” He tries to joke, but it falls flat. “I’m not a werewolf, though. I was just scratched by one.”

Euphemia’s eyes water as she stares at him, her eyes roving over every inch. She doesn’t move for several seconds. Then, slowly, she takes his wrists, turning his hands over. Her fingers trace the map of old curses, burns, thin silvery lines that shouldn’t exist on anyone so young.

When she flips his hands again and sees the words carved there, I must not tell lies, her breath catches. Her hand comes up to her mouth as tears pool in her eyes.

“Oh, my baby,” she whispers.

Harry freezes.

She steps closer, voice breaking now. “Who could ever do this to you?”

“I…” His throat closes. He can’t answer. He just stands there, half in the past, half in the present, and wholly undone, “I’m fine.” He tries, voice weak even to his own ears.

Euphemia gives him a look then pulls him close, her arms fierce around him, as if she could somehow hold together all the fractured pieces time had left behind.

“It’s all right,” she murmurs against his hair. “You’re safe here. You’re safe.”

Euphemia’s arms tighten around Harry as though she could anchor him by sheer will. For a long, trembling heartbeat, neither speaks. Then she pulls back just enough to look at him properly her face pale, eyes wet, voice unsteady.

“Fleamont,” she calls softly at first, then louder, urgent. “Fleamont!”

Footsteps echo down the hall almost immediately. Fleamont appears in the doorway, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a yellowy stain along his fingers, he must have been in his lab still. The easy half-smile he wears falters the instant he sees Harry’s expression and Euphemia’s tears.

“What’s happened?” he demands, already crossing the room eyes wild.

Euphemia swipes hastily at her eyes. “Look.”

She steps aside just enough for him to see Harry shirtless still, scars exposed under the amber light of the hallway sconces. The moment stretches thin. Fleamont stops mid-step, every trace of color draining from his face.

“Merlin,” he breathes, voice cracking. He looks at Harry as if seeing him for the first time, not as the quiet young man who appeared in their home, but as someone who has survived more than anyone ever should. “Son…”

Harry flinches at the word, throat working. “It’s fine,” he says quickly. “I’m fine. They’re old. I didn’t mean for you to see.”

Fleamont shakes his head slowly. “You shouldn’t have scars like these unless you’re a forty year old Auror specialized in Dark Art Dealings.”

He reaches out a tentative hand, then a finger touches one of the claw scars along his torso.

“Are-”

“I wasn’t bitten. Just scratched.” Harry says softly. Euphemia moves to stand beside him, slipping her fingers into his, grounding them both.

“War leaves its marks,” she says quietly, eyes still on Harry. “But you shouldn’t have borne them alone.”

Harry looks away. The words sting because they’re true. For so long, he’s carried every wound in silence, physical and otherwise because there was no one left to share them with.

Euphemia steps closer again, gentler this time. “Come, sit,” she says softly, guiding him toward the nearest chair. Her tone is firm, motherly. “Let me fetch something for those.”

“I’ve had them for years, there’s nothing-” Harry starts, but she gives him a look that brooks no argument.

“No matter,” she says briskly. “Then you’ll sit, and you’ll let me fuss. Humor me.”

Fleamont chuckles faintly, a sound more like a sigh. “Best to let her, lad. It’s hopeless to resist.”

Harry huffs something like a laugh and sits down. Euphemia vanishes for a moment, then returns with a small pot of salve, something that smells faintly of mint and wood. She dabs it carefully over a raised mark on his shoulder, murmuring soft, steady words that sound almost like lullabies.

When she’s finished, she rests her hands briefly against his hair. “There,” she whispers. “All my boys deserve to be tended.”

Harry’s breath catches. He can’t speak, not with the lump in his throat, not with the warmth in his chest threatening to spill into tears.

Fleamont clears his throat quietly. “Dinner’s ready downstairs. Let’s eat, all right? And no apologizing.” He fixes Harry with a gentle but firm look. “We’ll have none of that nonsense here.”

Harry nods faintly, still dazed by their kindness.

Dinner passes in a quiet rhythm, full of soft talk and small reassurances. Euphemia hums as she clears the plates with a flick of her wand, while Fleamont discusses potion notes with just enough enthusiasm to coax a small smile from Harry now and again.

The manor hums low and content around them, as if it, too, understands that something fragile has begun to mend.

After dinner, Harry runs upstairs and pulls on a sweater to fight the chill in the air as the sun sinks lower.

Then he notices it.

Not only have copies of A Christmas Carol appeared neatly stacked on his nightstand, but so has his old, messy, overcrowded desk from 2000; quills, parchment scraps, half-empty ink bottles, and all. On its surface sit two battered, string-bound journals, his originals.

Harry’s breath catches. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He grabs them and hurries downstairs, nearly tripping on the last step in his excitement. Fleamont looks up from his armchair just in time to see Harry all but throw himself down beside him, grinning from ear to ear.

“Guess what turned up in my room!” Harry exclaims, holding the journals out like treasure.

Fleamont’s eyes widen, lighting with boyish glee. “Are those the originals?”

“Indeed they are,” Harry says, breathless with excitement.

Fleamont takes one carefully, as though handling something sacred. The binding is worn thin, the spine bulging from years of overuse, loose parchment sticking out at odd angles. He unties the string with reverent care, letting the journal flop open on his knee.

“Oh, brilliant,” he murmurs, scanning the first page. His fingers trace Harry’s messy handwriting, his expression somewhere between awe and admiration.

Euphemia glances up from her knitting, one eyebrow raised. “Am I ever going to get my husband back in my bed,” she teases, “or shall I order a cot for the lab?”

Fleamont grins without looking up. “I’ll come to bed tonight, darling. Just let me read-” he flips a page, enthralled, “-most of this journal first.

Harry chuckles, curling up on the sofa with his own discovery: the annotated copy of A Christmas Carol. His thumb drifts along the familiar scrawls in the margins, tracing Remus’s neat notes and the lines he’d underlined decades ahead. For a moment, he swears he can hear Remus’s voice reading softly beside him.

The sitting room falls into a peaceful quiet, the kind that hums with shared comfort. Only the soft clink of knitting needles and the slow rustle of turning pages disturb the air.

He doesn’t know how much time passes before a rustle of feathers breaks the stillness. An orange-tinted owl swoops gracefully through the open window, landing on the arm of Euphemia’s chair.

“Ah, James has finally written us back.” Euphemia says fondly as she strokes the owl’s feathers. “There’s some fresh mice in the barn for you, Winnie. We’ll have a letter for you to return with either tonight or in the morning, no doubt. Get some rest.”

The owl hoots softly before fluttering away, and Euphemia levitates Harry’s letter toward him as she opens her own.

Harry catches it midair. The parchment is heavy, the handwriting precise and slanted, that careful, practiced script learned from childhood calligraphy lessons. So unlike his own messy scrawl.

He unfolds it and begins to read.

When he finishes, Harry sits still for a long moment, the parchment trembling slightly between his fingers. Then, quietly, he laughs soft and breathless. He reads it again. And again, until the words are etched in his memory.

A warmth unfurls in his chest, gentle and almost unbearable. The exhaustion in his bones eases, replaced with something bright, fragile, and human. He traces James’s signature with his thumb, smiling through the faint sting in his eyes.

“He’s…” Harry starts, his voice barely a whisper. “He’s exactly how I imagined.”

Euphemia smiles, eyes glimmering with affection. “I’m sure he is.”

Fleamont chuckles as he takes the letter delicately from Harry’s hands. “He’s curious about Attwell. I’ve told him stories about our ancestors, of course, but mostly the ones we descend from directly. Attwell was more a name from the footnotes of history than dinner conversation.”

Harry leans back, smiling faintly. “How long until curiosity gets the better of him and he asks to see the journals?”

Fleamont hums thoughtfully. “A week, at most. Likely sooner. But he knows the rule, the ancestor journals never leave the manor.”

Harry grins, standing and stretching. “Then I’ll get started writing my reply before bed. Have a good night.”

He squeezes Fleamont’s wrist affectionately, then leans down to kiss Euphemia’s cheek when he reaches her before heading upstairs.

By the time he reaches his room, the words are already forming.

James,

I appreciate your survival tips, I’ll keep an eye out for the gnome with the chipped ear. Your mother has not mentioned any gnomes to me yet, but I’ve only joined her in the garden twice so far.

And yes, the floral fabric incident was traumatizing. I’ll have nightmares of paisley for weeks. Tell your father he’s a coward for abandoning me mid-assault.

I hope your exams go well, and that Sirius doesn’t burn the castle down during that party. (Your mother has told me many stories). I’d offer to send help, but it sounds like chaos might be half the fun.

Can’t wait to meet you properly this summer. Until then, good luck in Quidditch finals and remember, as long as one person remains on their broom the match isn’t over until the snitch is caught. (Do with that what you will but I take no responsibility)

Your cousin,
Harry (Hardwin, under duress)

P.S. Tell Sirius that I am not broody, nor am I a tragic hero. Also if he does ‘Sirius/Serious’ jokes he’s not as funny as he thinks he is people laugh out of pity, not humor.

P.P.S I made the grave mistake of giving your father a potion challenge. Send Help.