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Chapter Text

Number Four Privet Drive is perfectly normal, except for the overwhelming silence surrounding the quaint, meticulous house in the cookie-cutter neighborhood of Surrey. 

The first unusual thing that caught Severus’ eye is the lack of flowerbeds out front, beneath the windows. Petunia Evans prided herself on maintaining her flowers with the utmost care, showcasing them like prized showponies, unable to stop herself from flaunting her superiority. A woman who demands attention like her would never have such an unremarkable yard, with the grass unmowed and the paint chipping off of their side of the picket fence shared with Number Three. 

Minerva sighs, standing at his side. She checks her pocket watch, tsks, then puts it away. 

“Well?” She finally speaks up, the two of them having stood in silence for too long, apparently. Minerva nods at the house. “Go on.”

“Must I be the one to knock? The Potter brat will undoubtedly be in your house.” 

“It doesn't matter, she was your friend. You knock.” 

Severus rolls his eyes, “She didn’t even like me. She was a sour bitch.” 

“Language.” Minerva huffs and scowls at him like he's still a fourth year. 

Severus doesn't move for a moment, though, a beat passing, then another. 

"Would it really be so horrible if we don't="

"Go."

The second unusual thing comes to light as Severus raises his hand to knock, the door is already opening a crack, revealing a behemoth of a man, looking tired and ran-ragged. 

“I don’t want to hear it anymore Angela, if James is still having problems with Dudley, that's not my concern.” The man sighs, leaning hard on the rickety doorframe. It groans under his weight. “It’s really best if you and your family leave town. Dudley is an animal, he will not stop if your “precious Jamie” starts crying again. Coming to complain only eggs him on, I’ve stopped trying to control him.” 

Severus can only blink, dumbfounded. “Excuse me?” 

Vernon opens his tired eyes, the crack in the widens and he looks him up and down. “Oh, you’re one of those freaks, yeah? That freak isn’t here anymore, don’t bother sniffing around.” 

“Not here? Where the hell is he, then?” 

“Dunno, couldn’t care less, either.” Vernon huffs, the crack closing slowly as he speaks. “As long as he stays with my bitch ex-wife, it's not my problem.” 

Severus sticks his foot in between the frame, keeping it from closing. “Your ex-wife? Petunia?” 

He lets out a long, suffering groan. “Yes, her. She probably moved back to that ghetto town, Cokeheads or something.”

“...Cokeworth?” Severus sneers, scowling at the blatant disdain. He doesn’t like the town either, but its the principal of it.

Vernon grunts, nodding once. “That’s what I said.” 

Severus scoffs, cursing under his breath and muttering. “Of fucking course, of all goddamn places. She had to move back there.” 

Severus turns sharply back to Minerva and the door slams shut behind him, an abrupt gust of air rustling his cloaks. He stomps toward her, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

He finally speaks when he gets closer, “The brats in Cokeworth.” 

He can feel the raised eyebrow as Minerva replies in a skeptic tone. “Cokeworth? Is that–” 

“Yes.” Severus snaps through gritted teeth. “It is.” 

Chapter Text

The concrete is sharp and pristine, different from the cracked slabs split into pieces with weeds and grass growing he's grown used to. That and the small businesses littered between buildings, restaurants and brick, a distinct change from the other, poor side of Cokeworth.

But Harry’s not worried about that now, no. 

What he’s worried about is finding Joseph Paladeki, that fuckass dweeb that snitched on him for smoking under the bleachers during the assembly at school on Friday. 

Harry skates down Main Street, hidden by the invisibility rune he carved into his skateboard when he found it in his mom’s old schoolbooks after countless failed attempts on some of Petunia’s less important items. Like the picture of her, Harry’s mom, and some weird, scrawny boy around their age. 

Anyways, Harry searches tirelessly for Joseph, and he finds him at the park with his little nerd friends, the ones Harry makes do his homework sometimes. 

He waits until he's close enough to catch them if any of them decide to try and run, stepping off his skateboard and kicking it up into his hand. “Oi, Joseph!” 

Harry can tell that the kid is frozen, whether it’s in fear or something else—it doesn’t matter. Not to Harry, because there’s no escape for little Joseph. 

He strolls over, slinging his arms around Joseph and some insignificant kid’s shoulders, tugging them closer with a mean grin on his face. “Long time no see, yeah? Wouldn’t you agree, Joseph?”

The boy is already nervous, shaking and sweating despite the now-November chill in the air. 

Harry hums, nodding, “Yeah, I know you do.” Harry sits in between the two boys, settling like he owns the place. “You lot have a good Halloween last night? Get a lot of candy Trick or Treating?” 

One boy pipes up from the opposite side of the picnic table. “Uh…yes—yes sir, we did…” 

Harry nods along, his arm tightening around Joseph’s shoulders. “Yeah?” 

The boy nods, and Harry stands, pulling Joseph up with him, stating “Right then, me and Josie have some business to settle. Don’t fret, we shouldn’t be too long.”

He pulls Joseph away from his friends and shoves the boy into an alley. 

“L—listen, Evans—“ 

Harry tsks, shaking his head. “Ah-ah, it’s too late for that, Josie. You shoulda minded your damn business.” 

Joseph shakes his head, waving his hands in front of him. “No! I—“

“Stop with the excuses.” Harry interrupts, and grabs the collar of Joseph’s shirt, shoving him into the hard brick wall as the boy whimpers in fear. Harry leans in close, whispering in his ear, “I know it was you. Come clean and I’ll let you go. No one gets hurt, not even your little buddies back there, yeah?””

•-•-•-•

Old, rundown houses fly past his peripheral vision as Harry skateboards down his road, towards his house. Streetlights flicker on, old and blinking.

A balding, middle aged man dodges, moving out of Harry's way and yelling at his back. “Watch where you’re fuckin’ goin’, brat!” 

“Fuck off, grandpa!” He laughs, not a care in the world while he swerves through a crowd, making them move or be moved. People should move out of his way, anyways, he's goddam Harry Potter.

Harry stops once he arrives at his house, just outside of that rickety ass fence he jumps every time, kicking his skateboard up into his hand and tucking it beneath his arm. He plants a hand on the rotting wood, hauling himself over. It's only waist height so it's not very difficult. 

His freshly stolen Half Cab Vans look out of place on his feet as they smack the wet lawn. Mud splatters on the sole as he trudges to his front door, already knowing Petunia will yell at him for not washing his dishes from breakfast this morning. He pulls wallets, wads of cash, and crumpled bills from his pockets.

Harry shoulders the door open, not bothering with the handle since it's stopped closing right since before they moved here, counting the earnings from today. “Mom!” 

“What now! I told you not to be back until the streetlights come on!” Her voice comes from somewhere upstairs, the pipes groaning as the water to the shower shuts off. She hates him interrupting her shower. 

Harry, frankly, doesn’t care. 

“I’m back! I made…two sixty-seven today!” 

He can feel her rolling her eyes, a wide grin on his face as he tracks mud up the stairs and to his room.

“Thats great. Now stop bothering me. It's Wednesday, and you know Wednesdays are my days.” 

“But Mommm, aren’t you proud?” Harry whines giddily, kicking the door to his room open as they shout through the house. 

“I literally never said that.” Petunia sighs, audible through the thin walls. “I’m proud of you, Potter. Happy? Will you leave me alone, now?” 

Before Harry can shoot back a smart-assed reply, there's a knock at their door. 

He's down the stairs in milliseconds, Petunia not far behind him with her pale blond hair dripping onto the shoulders of her bathrobe. 

“Who is it? The police again?” She huffs at him, standing at the base of the stairs while Harry peers through the window, trying to get a look at the front door. 

“Theres no way, I put that invisibility rune from Mom’s school books on my skateboard.” Harry rolls his eyes, grabbing the bat with nails in it from where it leans in the corner. “I stole from right under Harolds’ nose this morning. He would’ve got me by now.”

Petunia rolls her eyes, turning back up the stairs. “Apparently not. Don’t drag me into your bullshit, Potter. I’m not helping you if you’re getting jumped again.”

“Whatever,” he huffs, gripping the bat with one hand as he reaches for the doorknob at the sound of another quick sequence of knocks. 

Harry takes a deep breath, then he tugs the door open. “Listen, asshat–”

On their porch, though, is not a cop. Nor is it Ricky and his little band of jerkoffs. It's a man. 

A tall one, taller than Harry, maybe even taller than Petunia. His olive skin takes on a sickly parlor in the shitty lighting of the living room, shrouded in draping black fabrics like he's enroute to a funeral at a Mega Church as a Choir Boy. His expression, a scowl seemingly placed there by the sight of Harry, deepens. 

“Potter,” he spits, like Harry’s name actually hurts him to say.

Chapter Text

Severus watches from far in the distance as Harry Potter–yes, Harry Potter–shakes some poor kid down for his lunch money or something, pushing him against the brick wall in an alley, the brat gets in his face as he speaks. 

Hm, this seems awfully familiar to Severus. 

He doesn’t intervene, though. 

The Potter brat snatches a crumpled bill from the kid's trembling grasp, shoving it into the pocket of his jacket before dropping him into a heap on the concrete. 

Severus watches, still, from his shadowed alley as Potter spits something undoubtedly rude at the kid, then walks out of the alley, throwing his skateboard down and jumping on it, skating down the street. 

He follows, casting a disillusionment charm but keeping a good distance, just in case. 

Quaint bakeries and tea shops with baked goods and menus displayed in large glass windows transitioned seamlessly into the copy-and-paste suburbs, then into the empty grassland that separates the two sides of Cokeworth. 

Concrete begins to deteriorate, and Severus keeps a keen eye on Potter as he skillfully weaves around cracks and jumps over broken chunks.

He’s not impressed–why would he be? Don’t even think such a thing. 

As the pavement crumbles further, the familiar rot of Cokeworth creeps in. Peeling brick, rust-packed gutters, the air that always tastes faintly of smoke and failure. Severus suppresses the instinctive curl of his lip; he hates this place. He left and never intended to look back. 

Home sweet home.

Long-abandoned factories from the late fifties begin to rise in the distance, hulking shapes he remembers exploring with Lily. Once symbols of childish adventure, now soured with age and the bitter knowledge that she wouldn’t recognise him anymore.

He should never have come back. Maybe he should’ve tried harder to bribe Minerva—two bottles of firewhiskey instead of one. 

But Dumbledore wanted the boy found, so Severus obeyed.

As streets grew darker and more familiar, he was forced to confront an uncomfortable truth:

Potter fits in here disturbingly well.

Severus, painfully, still does too.

•-•-•-•

Severus dusts invisible grime from his cloak,  a scowl on his face already, leaning against the door, listening to Harry argue with Petunia. The words are small, the quarrel almost playful—but the brat’s tone, his quick, biting comebacks, make Snape’s jaw tighten. 

Fuck. He’s just like me.

Snape rolls his eyes, straightens, and knocks.

Approximately twenty-four seconds–yes, he counted–pass before Severus knocks again. Three quick raps at the door with his knuckles.

The door creaks open slightly as his knuckles make contact, allowing him to see the silhouette, hidden by the backlight.

He can tell it's the Potter brat. Severus would know that mop of unruly hair anywhere. It's only made clearer as Potter swings the door open fully, a nailbat in his off hand. Interesting choice.

 “Listen, asshat–”

Severus gives the boy a once-over. 

His black hair, unmaintained the same way his damned father wore it, cracked glasses hiding vibrant green eyes, ones that barely look anything like Lily’s.  The ratty grey jacket with a well-worn hoodie beneath it, baggy jeans ripped tackily open at one knee, and suspiciously nice shoes.

“Potter,” his scowl deepens at the sight of him, the spitting image of his fucking father. 

“It’s Evans,” Harry snaps reflexively, and Severus’ expression doesn’t change, but something tightens, the smallest twitch of his eye at the name. Evans, because of course it is. Snape can practically hear Lily in the way the boy spits it out—stubborn, temper flaring like a struck match. He hates the reminder.

Chapter Text

“Wait–wait.” 

Petunia sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. She sits next to Harry on their old leather couch, her hair still damp. “So, you’re trying to tell me that my nephew–” she points at Harry– ”has been entered into a centuries-old death tournament against his will, and is what? Magically required to participate? The boy doesn’t even go to that damned school–or any of them!” 

The man–Snap, or something–looks constipated.

Harry almost expects shouting—if only because Aunt Petunia was two breaths away from it herself—but instead the man freezes the second she jabbed a finger at Harry and said “my nephew.”

His expression doesn’t change right away, but something in his posture did, tight and subtle, like a wire pulled taut.

He stood just inside the living room doorway, tall and draped in black, looking like someone had sculpted a sneer and given it a pulse. His eyes—black and sharp, too sharp—flick from Petunia to Harry with a cold, assessing sweep, as if he were cataloguing problems and already disappointed with the results.

When Petunia finishes with her outburst, Snape exhaled once, silently, the kind of breath people take when they’re deciding whether homicide is worth the paperwork.

His lip curls—not fully, more like a muscle twitch he didn’t quite manage to smother. “Yes,” he sneers, in a voice that sounded like it had been ironed flat. “Your—” he pauses just barely on the word, “—nephew has been entered into the tournament.”

He doesn’t sit, nor does he step closer. Petunia doesn’t offer, either. He stays right where he is, half in shadow, like he refused to let the furniture touch him by proximity.

“Snape–this is ridiculous.” Petunia snaps, voice sharp enough to cut glass. Harry rolls his eyes so hard he could practically hear them squeak. And the man–Snape, apparently–didn’t blink, didn’t flinch. He just shifted ever so slightly, robes swishing like dark liquid, eyes narrowing on Harry like he was the problem, the solution, and a minor inconvenience all at once. 

When Harry shifts on the couch, Snape’s eyes snap to him immediately. Quick, precise, like a predator clocking movement. Not fear. No surprise. Just cold attention that made the air feel tighter.

“You will compete,” Snape says, tone clipped, clinical. “The contract is binding.”

Aunt Petunia makes a sharp, furious noise from beside Harry as he stands, scoffing. “Binding, my ass!”

Snape’s jaw clenches, muscles twitching. The twitch in his face was subtle but sharp, a sign that whatever kept him in check was working overtime. His black eyes slide to Petunia, cold and lethal, but then they flick back to Harry—lingering just a moment too long. Just cold, clinical attention that Harry notices immediately, and the thought that maybe he was getting under the man’s skin made him smirk.

“You will participate,” Snape snaps, his tone clipped, each word a scalpel. “Attempting to evade the contract would be… illadvised.”

Harry didn’t flinch; he didn’t even look impressed. He just crossed his arms and leaned back.

“Who the hell runs this thing–where are they? Huh?” He spits, giving the man a mean up-down. “Take me to ‘em.”

Snape scowls at him. 

“That’s exactly why I’m here,” he says, voice low and cutting, each word deliberate. “So shut up and listen. The people you speak of? They are not here, but I will take you to them, so long as you stop with your infuriating interruptions.” 

•-•-•-•

It takes a little over an hour for Snape to explain everything. The tournament, the schools, and why Harry’s name could have been entered. 

“So,” Harry starts, dumbfounded, which is a rare thing for Harry to be. “So my parents were killed by some–what, some snake-faced lunatic–for what? Why?”

Snape sighs, exasperated.  “The Dark Lord had no reason for the things he did; he just did them.” 

Harry turns sharply to Petunia, frowning as he mutters to her. “You said it was a car crash.” 

Petunia shrugs helplessly, looking bewildered. “First I'm hearing of it.”

Harry sighs, slumping on the couch, his head hitting the top of the couch cushion. “Well,” he sighs. “Let's say I win, what's in it for Harry?”

“Eternal glory awaits the student who wins the tri-wizard tournament.” The sentence is as cryptic as it is ominous, the way Snape says it. Like he's trying to dissuade Harry from even attempting to compete, but the sound of the two words “eternal glory” makes Harry lift his head to look at Snape. “Eternal glory, that’s it?” 

Snape rolls his eyes so hard it looks painful, sighing like this is the most inconvenient conversation he’ll ever have. “There also happens to be a monetary prize.”

“Of?” Harry prods, obviously wanting to know more, because who wouldn’t? 

“20,000.” 

•-•-•-•

Harry shoves the walkman and cassettes that he stole from Jackson Drake into his dufflebag, which is already half-full with some clothes, the money Joseph so kindly donated earlier today, his half pack of Sovereigns (not his favorite, but easier to get than his Malboro Reds. He’ll just have Petunia send him some in the mail or something) wedged between a hoodie and a cassette tape, a box of matches and his nailbat. Yes, he needs the nailbat. This is a death tournament, for God's sake. 

Harry flips open the pack, pulling a cigarette out and stashing it in his pocket, along with the box of matches, for later, obviously. Petunia doesn’t like it when he smokes in her house, so he cracks a window open while he does it. 

The weird Batman watches from outside. Harry can tell he’s judging. Harry doesn’t care. 

Harry rejects any general comments about anything he does, okay? But he definitely rejects them from bums who look like they dye their hair with greasepaint and sleep upside down from rafters.

Chapter Text

“Is that everything yet, Potter?” 

Harry smirks, devilish, and turns to his closet, snapping his fingers at his side. The glee in his voice is audible. “Princess!” 

He feels a wave of annoyance mixed with confusion exude from Snape, who is standing frigidly just before the doorway to his room, probably already uncomfortable. A large black mass pokes its head out of the pile of blankets on the bed, then hops off and slinks to Harry’s side, its large claws scraping against the old wooden floor, leaving small, pale scratches. 

The dog was huge—too huge—towering at Harry’s waist even on all fours, built like someone had crossed a wolf with a midnight storm. Shoulders rolled under that fur like harsh muscle, every step silent but heavy and ready to strike at any given moment, the type of movement one only saw in apex predators. Its paws were massive, claws clicking against the wood with a low, deliberate rhythm. Silvery scars litter its body, all varying in size but only adding to its menacing stature.

Snape tenses behind Harry, and the atmosphere of the room drops twenty degrees. Harry doesn’t notice, beckoning a snarling…Princess to his side. Harry crosses his arms, huffing. “What’s the matter with you? I fed you this morning.”

The growl coming from Princess grows in volume, and Harry, being the smart man that he is, deduces that Princess is growling at Snape, his gaze falling upon the tense man at the door. “Oh, don’t worry about him; he doesn’t have any money for us.” Harry leans in, not exactly trying to quiet his voice. “I bet he's dirt poor anyway.” 

Harry hears Snape scoff and mutter something sharply under his breath that sounds strangely like his last name before marching down the hall and disappearing. 

The snarling and growling rattling in Princess's chest stops immediately. 

He knew Snape was the problem. “He’s gone now, it’s okay.” 

Harry stuffs his nailbat further into his duffel and zips it shut. 

“You ready, Princess?” 

The large dog turns and slinks back to the closet, emerging with a…well-used stuffed rat toy in its giant maw. 

He clips the light pink collar around its neck, careful of the small silver spikes embedded in it, along with the leash. 

•-•-•-•

Snape throws some weird green powder from his pocket into their shitty fireplace, and pushes Harry, who's holding Princess with his dufflebag slung off of one shoulder, into the bright ass green flames. 

“--you snake-faced sonuva bitch!”

Harry stumbles out of the fire, winded and disoriented, and in his arms, Princess is suspiciously calm, setting Harry’s instincts off immediately. He blinks stars from his eyes, holding the dog tighter, and he looks around. Trinkets litter the walls around him, hundreds of shelves filled with books line more walls behind a large desk; an ornate, aged chair sits in front of the desk. 

Strangely, many people surround this chair. They look more like blobs, but Harry’s gone and dropped his glasses when he stumbled in from the fire, which whooshes behind him, so he’s not entirely sure if the blobs are people.

“Do you have any eloquence?” Harry hears Snape sneer from behind him, making Harry scoff in return while he puts Princess down beside him, picking up his glasses. 

“What glasses?” Harry mumbles, cleaning his glasses with his shirt, which only serves to smudge the lenses more, the handle of Princess’s leash hanging off his wrist. 

And Princess, slumped on the ground next to Harry and resting its head on his foot, is still weirdly calm. Normally, the dog would be barking and growling like nobody’s business, especially at people, not to mention them being in a completely new environment. 

Harry slips his glasses back onto his face, blinking as he adjusts to the light. 

There's a group of teenagers to the far left of the desk, three of them. One–blonde hair, fair skin, with a pastel blue uniform on–is the tallest, standing out the most. Harry finds her quite lovely. 

The next tallest is wearing a deep, striking red with a fur-lined coat; his hair is a shock of black against his pale skin. All Harry could see was his broad shoulders, all hard angles and harsh shadows combining to make some kind of modern Adonis. If the second boy hadn’t had some sort of magnetic allure about him, Harry’s not sure he would’ve looked away from the first boy. 

He looked handsome in the Prince Charming kind of sense. He’s the only face Harry could actually see, soft, cute features with an easy smile that didn’t look smug. If Harry had grown up with a “Boy Next Door,” instead of Stephanie Miller, whose high-pitched voice never seemed to appeal to Harry as it did to all the other boys in Year Six, he would think that this boy is who he’d imagine. 

Then, a grandfatherly voice comes from the not-so-blob behind the desk. It’s gentle, warm in a way that feels patronising. 

“Harry, my boy.”

Chapter Text

When Harry zones back in, sprawled out in the plush chair next to a low table with a few biscuits and small sandwiches on a platter, sitting with the only other teenagers in the room, several voices are talking at once. Some of them have accents, others don't, sounding generically British. 

“Dumblydoor, this boy cannot possibly–”

“Albus, this is entirely unfair–”

“He does not know any magic–”

Harry gets a little offended by that last one–he does too know magic. He can light the match for his cigarettes without striking it, he can carve those runes on his stuff and make them go invisible on command, and sometimes, if Harry really concentrates, he can appear in a completely different place, like when he had been running from Dudley and was suddenly up on the roof of his old elementary school. 

He tunes them out, huffing a sigh as he digs in his back pocket for the cigarette he stashed in there earlier, along with his box of matches. 

The blonde girl stills in her rigid seat next to him when she sees it, mumbling “Mon Dieu…” 

Harry ignores her comment, holding his cigarette between his teeth as he settles back into the chair and takes a match out of the box. The match catches fire automatically as he tosses the box onto the little table. It lands on the platter, near one of the biscuits. 

He brings the match to the tip of the cigarette, holding it there for a second and waiting for it to light. 

Pretty Boy clears his throat from his spot at Harry’s other side and speaks up, “Uh, are you sure you should be…doing that in here?” 

Harry glances at him, taking a drag, smoke billowing out of his mouth once he speaks. “Huh?”

“Should you—y’know,” he lowers his voice, leaning closer like it’s a terrible secret that Harry smokes. “Be smoking…?” 

And Harry? He glances around obnoxiously, cigarette held away from his face, then he leans in, grinning, and chuckling meanly. “Are you gonna stop me?” 

“Turn around.” A familiar voice drawls from behind him. When he does, the cigarette is swiftly plucked from his fingertips, and Snape crushes it beneath his shoe with a scoff. “Have you no decency, Potter? I only wish I could claim to be surprised.”

Harry glares up at him, scowling. “Fuck off, Batman. You owe me another one for that.”

“Language,” Snape scowls right back, and promptly flicks a weirdly long, intricate stick at Harry's wasted cigarette, and the remains disappear. Harry would take more time to mourn it, and it’s wasted life, if Snape didn’t make another motion with his strange stick, and a jet of grey light shoots from it and hits the back of Harry’s right hand. 

It stings, making Harry hiss and clutch his hand. “Ow! What the fuck?”

Another jet of grey light soars from the stick and towards his arm. It hits true. “Fuck!—stop it, you—“

“Mind your language.” Snape snaps, turning sharply away from Harry as he leaves, tucking his stick back into his sleeve. “I pity whomever your Head of House is destined to be.” Snape walks away and stands next to an older woman clad in wine-red, elegant, draping robes. 

Harry scoffs at the man's back, then turns to face forward, crossing his arms over his chest and scowling. 

Though Harry’s mood brightens considerably once Tall, Dark, and Handsome comes back from where he had been off to the side, talking with another tall, Slavic-looking man in a dark brown, fur-lined coat that bulks up his otherwise skinny frame. 

Smoke-Show sits down in the only empty chair, which is across from Harry. Harry, who is internally rejoicing at this fact, keeps his cool. 

“So,” Harry starts, shifting in his own chair before he props his feet on the low table in the centre. “What exactly are we all doing here?” 

• -•-•-•

The old guy—Dumbledore, apparently—clears everyone from the room with a few warm words and a wave of his hand. A few protests follow from the older, maybe-foreigners, but he deflects them, and they leave. 

Harry moves to follow, not wanting to stay any longer than he absolutely has to (he also wants a smoke. Can you blame him?) However, Dumbledore stops him. “Excuse me, Harry, would you mind?”

Harry turns, glimpsing the small smile on the old man’s face, his half-moon spectacles gleaming in the soft lamplight of the office as he gestures to the cushioned chair in front of his desk. He shrugs, his hands in the pockets of his hoodie as he walks back over to drop into it, propping his feet up on the desk. Dumbledore sits across from him, behind the desk. 

Princess trots up and lies next to Harry’s chair. 

“Harry, my boy.” The man sighs, lacing his hands together on the desk as he leans forwards. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“Again?” Harry frowns, crossing his arms. 

“Yes,” he nods, an odd twinkle in his eyes. “In fact, I knew your parents, too.”  

Princess shifts uneasily at Harry's side, letting out a soft whine. Harry glances down, his fingers brushing briefly through her fur before he stills himself, his jaw tightening as if he’s been caught doing something he didn’t mean to. Dumbledore watches this moment with quiet interest.

"You’re fine," Harry mutters. "Nothing’s going to happen."

"You and the dog seem inseparable," the old man remarks, leaning back in his chair, which creaks softly at the movement.

Harry’s gaze sharpens, his eyes narrowing at Dumbledore from behind his glasses. "What’s it to you?"

Princess stands and backs away slowly, making a low, uncomfortable sound.

Dumbledore’s gaze sharpens, settling on the dog. "Sirius," he says quietly, "it is time."

"Who’s Sirius?" Harry frowns. "Time for what?"

The dog stiffens.

For half a second, nothing happens. The pause stretches—just long enough to feel wrong—before bones begin to crack and fur gives way to skin. Harry stumbles back as the dog folds in on herself, reforming into a tall, gaunt man with dark hair and eyes that feel disturbingly familiar. 

Harry is out of the chair in an instant, stumbling away from this…being that used to be his dog. "What the hell!? What did you do to my dog!?" 

The man—Sirius?—shakes his head, his hands out in front of him. "Nothing—he didn’t do anything; that was me."

Harry scoffs, unable to believe it. "You?"

Sirius sighs, pacing as if this is stressful for him. He runs a hand through his hair, though the action seems difficult given its coarse nature. His voice is hoarse when he speaks. "I know. I—I know how it sounds, Harry. Trust me, I do."

"Sirius," Dumbledore says calmly, though his tone conveys a different story.

Sirius exhales sharply, shaking his head with a sour expression and a tight voice. "Stop. Whatever you’re about to say—don’t. He’s my godson."

"Godson?" Harry blinks, taken aback. "You can’t just—say that."

Sirius turns to him, his expression shifting and softening as he realises he’s overstepped. "I know, I’m sorry. I’m not trying to claim you like that."

"Good," Harry snaps. "Because I don’t know you."

"I know," Sirius replies quietly, as if that’s all he can say. "I just—I knew you when you were small. Before. Your parents were my best friends, and they named me your Godfather."

Harry shakes his head. "I don’t remember you."

"I wouldn’t expect you to." Sirius chuckles sadly, wringing his hands. “You were so little…just a baby, y’know. How could you remember?”

Harry exhales slowly, hands shaking. “You keep saying my parents.”

Sirius’s expression softens, grief cutting through the guilt. “Your mum was brilliant,” he says. “She wrote notes in the margins of everything she owned. Runes, charms—half of it looked like nonsense unless you knew how to read it.”

Harry’s breath catches, remembering the countless notebooks of hers he keeps in his room, reading them to feel close to her. As close as he could, with her being dead and all.

“And your dad,” Sirius adds, a small, pained smile tugging at his mouth, “never listened to anyone who thought rules mattered more than people.”

Harry huffs despite himself. “Sounds irresponsible.”

It's...strange to hear about his dad for once, so used to stories from Petunia about her and his mum's childhood. Harry can't help but think that it's a welcome change.

“Yeah. He was.” Sirius nods, laughing softly.

Harry licks his lips, his stance less tense than before. 

The old man steps in carefully. “Harry, there is an entire world your parents belonged to—”

Harry cuts him off, eyes never leaving Sirius. “I don’t know you,” he says flatly. “And I definitely don’t know him.”

Sirius nods. “Fair.”

Harry doesn’t say anything else.

The old man folds his hands. “You will need time.”

Harry finally looks at Dumbledore, eyes hard. “You don’t get to tell me what I need.”

Dumbledore smiles at the comment, stands, and winks at Harry for some reason before leaving. There's an awkwardly long silence after that as Sirius just looks at him, but he stares at the scar etching its way across Harry’s forehead, peeking out from beneath his hair, silvery-pink tendrils stretching from his hairline and down past his brow. It’s raised in some places, faded in others. The kind of scar no one would see unless they got close, or if Harry pushed his hair back. 

It makes Harry a little uncomfortable, Sirius staring at him so intently and acknowledging the scar. However, it does make him look insanely badass, but he’d never admit that, nor would he let it be shown, so Harry stares back. 

“You look just like him,” Sirius mumbles after a while, looking…pitiful. 

Harry frowns. “Who?”

“Your dad, James.” He sighs, dropping like a puppet with cut strings onto the chair Harry had previously occupied. “You've got your mum's temper, and you used to have her  eyes exactly, but...” 

Sirius shakes his head and sighs, “I’m sorry.” 

Harry doesn’t know what he’s apologising for, standing next to the desk awkwardly, though he hopes he seems calm and collected. Harry opens his mouth to speak, but no words form. 

He moves forward and hesitantly places his hand on Sirius’ shoulder, unsure of what else to do.